The county road stretched ahead like an open vein, pale gravel glimmering in the headlights before vanishing into black. The truck's engine groaned under Gavin's foot, tires humming, exhaust roaring back into the night they'd ripped apart. Smoke still clung to their hair, their clothes, their skin. The taste of ash sat heavy on their tongues.
Madison sat slumped in the passenger seat, knife across his lap, chest heaving like a bellows. His beard glistened with sweat and spit, his shirt glued to his ribs with other people's blood. He stared out the window without blinking.
"They just kept coming," he muttered. "Like the whole damn basement was bottomless."
Gavin didn't answer. His knuckles whitened on the wheel. He knew if he spoke now, his voice might crack, and cracks were invitations. He couldn't afford to send one.
The road unspooled in silence broken only by the truck's laboring heart. The pecan groves gave way to open pasture, then patches of forest, shadows crowding closer the further they drove. The world felt empty, as though all life had fled and left only echoes behind.
At last Madison turned his head. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with a brightness that looked close to tears. "You lost it all, man."
"I lost it a long time ago," Gavin said, staring dead ahead.
"That house looked alive to me."
"It was a shell." He forced a breath. "Now it's proof."
"Proof of what?"
"That nothing we built matters when they start running."
The words landed like a brick. Madison leaned back, silence settling over him.
Minutes dragged. The night outside pressed heavier, thick with secrets. The fields glistened faintly with dew, broken only by the occasional fence post leaning like a tired sentinel. The air through the vents smelled faintly metallic, as though the road itself had bled.
Headlights carved a sudden figure into view.
A woman.
She stood in the center of the road, barefoot, clothes shredded, hair plastered to her face. Her arms hung limp at her sides. Blood streaked her thighs, but her eyes—her eyes were clear. Wide. Terrified.
"Stop!" Madison barked.
Gavin's foot twitched toward the brake, then froze. He'd seen traps before—cornerbacks baiting a throw, linemen feigning weakness, predators waiting for the snap.
The truck's beams lit her face. She lifted her arms slowly, palms out.
"Please," she mouthed.
No stumble. No tilt. No forward lean like the things that hunted them.
He braked hard. Gravel screamed. The truck fishtailed, steadied, stopped a dozen feet short of her.
The woman staggered forward, eyes brimming. "Help me," she rasped, voice raw from screaming.
"Keep the engine hot," Gavin told Madison. He pushed the door open, cleaver raised.
"Don't be stupid—" Madison started, but Gavin was already out.
The night air hit like ice, sharp with smoke and wet grass. Crickets had gone silent. Only her breathing filled the gap, quick and shallow.
"Show me your arms," Gavin ordered.
She hesitated, then lifted them. Scrapes, bruises, but no bites.
"Neck."
She tilted her head. Clean.
"What's your name?"
"Riley." Her voice cracked. "I—I was at the fundraiser downtown. They came through the doors. Everyone ran. I hid in the freezer until it got too cold to stay. I thought—I thought no one would come."
Madison leaned out the window. "She's lying. Look at her—still standing after all that? Nobody hides and walks away."
"She's not one of them." Gavin gestured. "In. Now."
Riley scrambled into the back seat, curling into herself as if trying to vanish. Gavin climbed back behind the wheel.
Madison glared. "You just doomed us."
"She's breathing. She talks. She bleeds the right way. That's enough for now."
Madison grunted but didn't argue further.
They rolled on.
Ten miles north, the first sign of civilization appeared—a gas station glowing like a tooth in the dark. Its lights flickered, buzzing like dying insects. A single car sat at pump three, door open, no driver. The sign still declared $3.09 in glowing red.
"Think we risk it?" Madison asked.
"We need fuel," Gavin said. "And water. Maybe food."
"What if it's crawling?"
"Then we don't crawl slower." Gavin eased the truck off the road, headlights slicing across cracked asphalt.
The station's glass doors were propped open. A faint chime rang with each whisper of wind. Inside, shelves stood crooked, half-stripped. A Slurpee machine hummed uselessly, light blinking refill bag.
"Stay sharp." Gavin cut the engine. The sudden silence was a gut punch.
They climbed out. Gravel crunched under their boots, loud as gunfire. Gavin led with the cleaver, Madison close behind, Riley hugging herself in the back seat.
The air smelled of gasoline and something spoiled.
Inside, the aisles loomed. Candy wrappers littered the tiles. A toppled rack of chips spilled like entrails. Behind the counter, the register hung open, its drawer ripped out and lying on the floor like a tongue.
"Empty," Madison muttered.
Gavin scanned the coolers. A few bottles of water still stood, fogged with condensation. He cracked one, sipped, then tossed it to Madison. The lineman gulped greedily, water running down his beard.
A faint scrape froze them.
From the back storage door came the sound again—a dragging step, then another.
Riley whimpered in the truck outside, sound carrying through broken glass.
The door shivered. Hinges squealed.
"Not empty," Gavin said.
The door burst open. A figure lunged, eyes pale, teeth snapping. It wore a clerk's vest, nametag still pinned sideways: Don.
Madison swung first. His knife slashed the thing's chest, ripping fabric, but it kept coming. Gavin stepped in, cleaver flashing. Steel sank into the skull. The body went limp, collapsing like wet laundry.
Breathing hard, Gavin wiped the blade on the corpse's vest.
"Grab what we can and move," he ordered. "This place isn't quiet anymore."
They stuffed bags with bottles, canned food, a half-crushed box of protein bars. Madison tore an entire rack of jerky free and shouldered it like a prize.
Back in the truck, Riley clutched the water Gavin handed her like it was holy.
"You saved me," she whispered.
"Don't thank me yet," Gavin said, firing up the engine.
The road stretched on, darker now, trees crowding close. Riley finally spoke from the back, voice thin but steady. "They don't hunt like animals. They don't hunt like people either. They only turn when you move. If you're still, they lose you."
"You sure?" Madison asked.
"I watched it. In the freezer. They ran past me when I didn't breathe. The moment I shifted, they slammed the door." Her eyes met Gavin's in the mirror. "You can outrun them in silence. Not in speed."
Gavin tightened his grip on the wheel.
Ahead, the horizon glowed faintly red—distant fires licking at the city skyline.
He didn't know where the road ended. Maybe it didn't.
But he knew one thing:They weren't running fast enough.