"Shit, shit, shit," Chris cursed, boots pounding against the stairs as he sprinted down to the back entrance near Sunghoon's dorm. The hollow thud of fists and claws raking against the door echoed through the hall, rattling the frame as if it could splinter at any second. He slammed a cabinet into place, shoving a desk up against it with all his weight until the groaning and scraping dulled to muffled snarls.
On the way back up, he snatched the first-aid kit from the supply shelf, tossing it hard to Mahiko the moment he burst into the room. "Patch her up! Do it fast—they're like dogs. They can smell that shit."Mahiko was already kneeling by Alaija, hands shaking as he ripped gauze from the kit. Blood still streaked her jaw and lip, and every second it wasn't covered made Chris's gut twist tighter. Chris didn't stay—he couldn't. He barreled down the hall to the dorm Sunghoon had dragged Nayeon into. His pulse hammered in his ears as he shoved the door open, finding Sunghoon crouched with strips of cloth, binding Nayeon's bleeding arm.
"The ones outside can't get in," Sunghoon muttered, voice clipped, but his eyes flicked to the ceiling. "It's the ones upstairs—the third floor—that should worry us."Chris's gaze darted up to the shadows above, the silence far too heavy, too unnatural. Every creak of the building made his heart stutter."All we've got are kitchen knives," he said, his voice low, tight, "and whatever's in the janitorial closets. One on this floor, one on mine. That's it."A dull thump echoed from the floor above. Then another. Slow. Heavy.And closer.
Then
—CRASH.
The building shook, dust raining from the ceiling.
The sound came from the end of the second floor—the barricaded hallway stuffed with towels, chairs, and desks. Something had slammed against it. Hard. And then came the second crash. Louder. The blockade groaned under the weight, wood splintering, metal scraping against tile. The dead had found them. They moved like a single animal—fast, loud, and deadly serious. The janitor's closets were emptied in a blur: broom and mop handles ripped free, metal dustpans and old buckets yanked down from their hooks. In seconds, the hall filled with the clatter of salvaged gear and the smell of tape and oil.
Hands flew: knives and cutlery were forced into the ends of poles and lashed tight with strips of cloth and duct tape until each crude shaft looked like a spear; forks and chopsticks were bundled into jagged clusters and bound to short handles to become stabbing tools; nails and shards of broken shelving were hammered and glued into places to give edges extra bite. Nothing was neat—everything was hurried and desperate, wrapped with whatever would hold for a few blows.
The girls armed themselves with hammers and kitchen blades, faces hard as flint. They smeared the blades with a foul-smelling solvent they'd scavenged from the storeroom—something sharp and chemical that stung the nose and would, they hoped, make a wound worse. Alaija crouched on the stairwell, working the lighter between her fingers until it sparked steadily, then tucked soaked rags into a small can as a crude firestarter—enough to throw a flare of heat at a moment's notice if they dared. No one spoke more than a word or two. Every movement was measured against the distant groans and the heavy thuds from the barricaded hallway. Their weapons were ugly, improvised, and uncertain—but they were something to hold when the door finally gave. Determination tightened every jaw; there was no time for fear to take root.
They moved like a single, desperate organism—bodies, voices, and makeshift weapons converging toward the barricaded hallway as the blockade shuddered again and again. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the cloying, damp rot that clung to every breath. Dust fell from the ceiling in fine gray snow; the smell of scorched fabric and spilled solvent stung the back of every throat. David was a steadier presence at the rear, ankles braced, jaw clenched. He kept his spear level, eyes sweeping for gaps, shouting short course corrections. When a smaller corpse pushed loose at the edge of a broken shutter, David met it with a clean, practiced strike. Minghao moved like a ghost through the chaos, calm in a way that made the others lean on him. He ducked and jabbed with a battered pole-knife, working to slow the tide where it swelled. Chris fought with the raw, frantic energy of someone who had been forced to grow up in a night. He drove forward, breath sharp, slashing with a taped spear that thudded home more than once. Mahiko was a wall. He guarded the flank, hammer swinging in wide, brutal arcs. His fury powered him—sister first, the rest second. He took hits that would have sent others crumpling and kept coming, the hammer rising again and again until the wood buckled in his hand.
When a hand snagged his sleeve, he didn't curse; he pulled the corpse in, slammed it into the floor, and kept moving. Alaija was a whirlwind of controlled violence—faster than her size suggested, elbows and knees driving into threats as they came. She moved through the throat of the crowd, seeking the biggest threats and throwing herself at them until they could be cleared. Her face was streaked with blood that wasn't all hers; she spat, wiped, and lunged again. Anyia fought like someone who had nothing left to lose because, in reality, she didn't have anything. There was raw cruelty to her strikes, a speed that surprised even those who knew her best. When she saw a friend stumble, she abandoned form and lunged in, dragging them back to safety—then turned immediately to face the next threat. Sunghoon moved with the steadiness of someone who counted on small, precise advantages that were the perks of being a nursing student.
He kept close to the door channels and shouted when the formation needed tightening. He was the voice that reminded the group to breathe, to stabilize, to rotate positions. His strikes were fewer, but when they came, they were surgical—aimed to disable and buy seconds. Felix stayed close to the center, the quiet anchor. He reloaded improvised spears, kept the supply of taped shafts moving, and drove forward when a gap opened. He was the one tying splintered handles, reinforcing blades with metal strips and glue, handing them off with a grunt and a look that said, Keep it together. Nayeon moved differently—less careful, more reckless. She fought out of panic as much as strategy, swiping widely, voice rising with each shove and grab. When one of the creatures slipped past a block, she dove, drawing it down with her, slamming it against the floor with a heave.
"Get her!" Alaija shrieked, barreling forward, nails raking, fists pounding into the mass. Mahiko followed, hammer swinging, sending skulls cracking. Anyia clawed at arms and shoulders, pulling at anything that held Nayeon. But there were too many. They caught only glimpses: Nayeon's face twisted in terror, her arm vanishing under the crush, her scream breaking into gasps, then muffled, then—Silence. The group staggered, shock slamming into their chests. David swore and stabbed wildly into the swarm, tears stinging his eyes. Chris lunged blindly, screaming her name.
Minghao's strikes faltered, his shoulders sagging. Alaija fought like she was breaking apart, her fists slick with blood, her screams ragged. Chan's voice cut through, cold and brutal: "Keep fighting! Move! Now!"They obeyed because they had to. If they stopped, if they gave in to grief, the dead would take them all. The air grew heavy with the stink of sweat, iron, and rot. Each breath was agony, each strike heavier than the last.
Hands blistered, shoulders shook, but they kept going until the pile of bodies stopped moving, until the hallway was clogged with the still, twisted shapes of the dead. Only then did they falter. Alaija collapsed against the wall, chest heaving, tears mixing with the blood on her face. Mahiko's hammer slipped from his hand, his shoulders trembling as he pulled her into his arms. Anyia pressed her back to the door, sliding down until she was crouched, her hands shaking uncontrollably. Chris dropped his weapon and buried his face in his arms, rocking as if to block out the echoes of Nayeon's scream. The silence pressed heavily—broken only by groans from outside, muffled through boarded windows . Chan stood over the bodies, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt. He looked at each of them, then forced the words out, steady and unyielding. "No matter what we feel, no matter how sick it makes us—we take them out back and burn them. Tonight."Nobody argued. Nobody had the strength. Sunghoon wiped his face, hands smeared red, and nodded once. Felix sat heavily on the floor, staring at his raw palms, whispering, "She's gone... she's really gone."Minghao didn't speak at all. The group rose slowly, shakily, every joint aching, every heart heavier than before. They had survived—but the cost hung in the air like smoke, clinging to their lung. And none of them would ever forget the sound of Nayeon's scream.
"It's night, while they're idle, we'll kill the rest and burn the bodies outside, grab Nayeon's last," Chris instructed.