Date: 9/22/25
Time: 1:32 PM
The scene opens on Jason's lone boot, lying discarded near the edge of the broken fountain, dirt smeared across its worn leather. A hand reaches down, gripping the boot and lifting it. We'll pan up to reveal Elijah, his face a mix of worry and confusion.
Elijah straightens, holding the boot in one hand as the group gathers around him: Brayden, Abdula, William, Gareth, Winston, and Winston's horse, Bliss, all scattered in a loose circle. The atmosphere is tense, heavy with the unspoken questions swirling between them.
Brayden's eyes lock onto the boot, his jaw tightening. He shifts his gaze to Elijah, who looks back at him, their shared nervousness palpable. A flicker of something else—frustration or maybe fear—passes between them.
"Maybe it's a sign," Abdula finally says, breaking the silence, his voice steady despite the tension. "Your guy's friend might still be nearby."
Brayden glances at Abdula, then back at the boot. "Yeah, but why is it just his boot?" His voice carries a mix of skepticism and concern, the implication hanging in the air.
William speaks up, his tone casual but his words carrying weight. "Could've been running from zombies. Lost it in the rush."
Winston exhales a stream of cigar smoke, his expression calm but his eyes sharp as he interjects. "Or people."
The group falls silent, the weight of his words settling over them like a dark cloud. All eyes turn toward Winston, who meets their gazes with a knowing look.
"If you think the cannibals are the only threat out here, you're dead wrong," Winston continues, his voice low and gravelly. "People—living, breathing folks—they're the real danger in this world."
The uneasy tension deepens, the truth in Winston's words sending a chill through the group. Elijah looks down at Jason's boot again, his fingers tightening around it as if holding onto it might tether him to some semblance of hope.
Winston takes one last drag from his cigar before flicking the stub onto the ground, grinding it beneath his boot. "Let's head back. We've already combed through Area B." His tone is final, leaving no room for argument.
He shifts his gaze to Abdula, the corner of his mouth twitching in thought. "And Luna needs to take a look at that arm, son."
Abdula glances down at his bandaged stump, inhaling deeply, his face betraying a mix of pain and resignation.
Without another word, Winston swings back onto Bliss's saddle, the horse shifting slightly beneath him. The group begins to move, their footsteps echoing faintly as they turn away from the fountain.
Elijah lingers for a moment, staring at Jason's boot in his hand. The unease settles in his chest like a stone, but he clenches his jaw and follows the others, clutching the boot as if it were a lifeline.
We'll pan down a desolate street, focusing on a massive herd of zombies shuffling aimlessly. Their guttural groans echo in the eerie silence, their decaying forms swarming near the entrance of a crumbling hotel. Slowly, we'll pan inside of the hotel, its dimly lit lobby strewn with debris—overturned chairs, shattered glass, and faded remnants of its once-luxurious past.
The heavy door creaks open, and Jay stumbles in, his clothes drenched in drying zombie blood. He carefully shuts the door behind him, leaning his weight against it as he listens for any signs of movement. Silence. He exhales sharply, his relief almost palpable.
Surveying the lobby, Jay moves toward the back, his footsteps dragging across the cracked tile. He slumps behind the main desk, tossing his battered backpack to the floor and sliding down until his back meets the worn cabinets. Exhaustion pulls at him, his body aching from a night of navigating the herd outside.
Closing his eyes, Jay tries to steal a few moments of rest. His breathing slows, and for a brief second, the world feels quiet again.
But then—soft, shallow breathing. Not his own.
Jay's eyes snap open. His muscles tense as his hand instinctively moves to the Desert Eagle holstered at his side. In one fluid motion, he draws the gun and stands, aiming over the desk in the direction of the sound.
A figure emerges from the shadows—a woman, barely clothed in a grimy bra and tattered pants, her skin smeared with dirt and grime. She looks malnourished and desperate, her chest rising and falling as she struggles to breathe.
"Can… can you help me?" she pleads, her voice cracking, the words raw with desperation.
Jay's grip on the gun tightens for a moment, his piercing gaze locked on her. Slowly, he lowers the weapon, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. His tone, tinged with irritation, cuts through the still air. "Are we dead ass now?"
The scene opens in a makeshift nurse's station, its walls lined with old cabinets and repurposed medical supplies. Luna, the resident nurse, stands by a narrow bed where Abdula sits, his arm stump extended as she carefully rewraps the bandages. Her hands move with practiced precision, her voice calm but firm.
"You need to rest that arm," Luna advises, securing the final piece of gauze. "I'll get you antibiotics as soon as we have more in stock."
Abdula nods faintly. "Okay," he mutters, watching as she turns to the sink.
Luna pulls off her gloves and pours a bottle of water over her hands, scrubbing them clean above the makeshift basin. In the corner, Brayden leans casually against the wall, his arms crossed. He nudges Abdula lightly with his elbow, drawing his attention. When Abdula looks, Brayden tilts his head subtly in Luna's direction.
Following Brayden's gaze, Abdula notices the way Luna's scrubs hug her figure as she moves. He chuckles quietly, shaking his head. "Really?" he whispers before standing.
Brayden smirks but says nothing as Abdula exits into the hallway. A flicker of guilt crosses Brayden's face, and after a brief hesitation, he follows.
In the dimly lit corridor, Abdula strides ahead, his footsteps echoing faintly. Brayden catches up, calling out softly, "Hey, you good?"
Abdula stops and turns, his expression guarded. "No sir." he repeats, his voice carrying a sharp edge. "I've got a missing hand, man. 'Good' isn't exactly in my vocabulary right now." He pauses, letting the frustration settle in the silence before adding, "And it's Brayden, right? Not 'sir'? I've got to remember that."
Brayden exhales, taking a moment before speaking. "Look, I get it. Things are… awful right now. But you've got people around you. People who've got your back. That's worth something."
Abdula studies Brayden for a moment, his hard expression softening slightly. A faint smirk tugs at his lips. "Yeah, I know."
Without another word, Abdula turns and heads toward the staircase, his figure disappearing down the steps. Brayden lingers in the hallway for a moment, the faint hum of fluorescent lights filling the silence. He shakes his head and walks the opposite way, his thoughts weighing heavily on him.
We'll open with Elijah sitting cross-legged on the edge of a worn mattress in the janitor's room. The dim glow of a single light bulb casts long shadows on the walls, and the faint hum of its flicker is the only sound breaking the silence.
A knock at the door startles Elijah. He stands, brushing his hands against his jeans, and cautiously opens it. On the other side stands Isaac, his expression calm but inquisitive.
"How's the stay so far?" Isaac asks, leaning casually against the doorframe.
Elijah shrugs, his tone guarded. "It's alright. Would be better if I knew what happened to my friends."
Isaac tilts his head, considering Elijah's words. "You'll find them. Get some rest," he says, his voice steady, almost reassuring.
But Elijah's gaze narrows. "Why don't you help us? You've been out there. You know what it's like."
Isaac exhales slowly, stepping just inside the doorway. "The people here count on me. If I leave—and something happens to me—this place won't last. It's not just about me. It's about them."
Elijah studies Isaac's face, searching for cracks in his reasoning, but the man's resolve is impenetrable. Defeated, Elijah stays silent, his eyes dropping to the floor. He sniffs, almost absentmindedly, but then his nose wrinkles.
"Do you smell that?" Elijah asks, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
Isaac's brow furrows as he lifts his head, sniffing the air. A faint but unmistakable scent of gas wafts through the hallway.
"Yeah," Isaac replies, his tone suddenly sharp. "I smell it."
He turns on his heel, his posture shifting to urgency. "Stay here," he commands over his shoulder, already moving swiftly down the hallway.
Elijah watches Isaac disappear, the sound of his hurried footsteps fading into the distance. The flickering light above seems to buzz louder as the room grows eerily still, the faint scent of gas lingering in the air. Elijah closes the door, his mind racing as he sits back on the mattress, waiting for what might come next.
The scene opens in a dimly lit boiler room, the air thick with the sharp tang of gas and the metallic scent of rust. A burst of steam hisses violently from a ruptured pipe, filling the cramped space with a cacophony of rushing air and urgent shouts. In the background, men clad in protective goggles scurry about, their voices overlapping as they search for tools and assess the chaotic situation.
Near the center of the room, William stands hunched over a damaged pipe, his hands moving quickly as he secures it with makeshift supplies—duct tape, clamps, and patches scavenged from a nearby crate. Beads of sweat streak down his forehead, his shirt clinging to his back as he works against the clock.
The hiss of escaping gas begins to diminish. William straightens, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Suddenly, Isaac bursts into the room, his boots clanging against the grated floor. "Did you get it?!" he shouts, his voice cutting through the noise.
William nods, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Yeah, it's sealed—for now."
Isaac scans the pipe, then nods approvingly. "Good," he mutters, though his expression remains tense.
William steps closer, lowering his voice. "But this isn't a permanent fix. These leaks keep happening, and we're running out of supplies. If this keeps up, we're gonna have a real disaster on our hands."
Isaac crosses his arms, his jaw tightening. "I know, but we don't have the manpower or weapons to handle another supply run right now. We need to wait, maybe two months tops, and then hit that warehouse we talked about."
William's face falls, frustration flickering in his eyes. "Two months? We might not have that long, Isaac."
Isaac places a firm hand on William's shoulder, his tone measured but resolute. "We don't have a choice. This place holds because of planning, not panic. We'll make it work."
Reluctantly, William nods, though the tension in his posture doesn't ease. As Isaac turns and walks away, the goggled men in the room break into a smattering of applause, their cheers echoing off the metal walls.
Isaac glances over his shoulder, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He acknowledges their praise with a slight nod but doesn't slow his stride. William watches him leave, his expression a mix of admiration and simmering doubt.
We'll linger on William as the noise fades, the weight of responsibility etched into his features. The flicker of a dim, swinging light bulb overhead punctuates the uncertainty that hangs heavy in the room.
Back in the dimly lit hotel lobby, Jay shrugs off his jacket, its fabric stiff and darkened from layers of dried zombie blood. He holds it out toward the woman, his expression unreadable but firm. "Here. You're gonna need this," he says gruffly.
The woman hesitates, eyeing the jacket with a mix of disgust and confusion before finally taking it. "Thank you," she murmurs, her voice soft but steady. She pulls the jacket on, wincing slightly as the cold, sticky fabric brushes her skin. "My name's Rose, by the way."
Jay gives a curt nod, not meeting her gaze. "Nice to meet you, Rose. Now listen the hell up." He gestures toward the far end of the lobby, where a staircase leads deeper into the building. "We're gonna take out another zombie in this place."
Rose blinks, startled. "Another one? Why?"
Jay finally looks her in the eye, his tone clipped but not unkind. "Because I need its blood."
Rose recoils slightly, confusion flickering across her face. "You want more zombie blood on you?"
Jay crosses his arms, his patience fraying. "Yeah I fucking do. It's the best camouflage out there. Zombies can't tell the difference between one of their own and someone covered in their filth. Keeps them from sniffing you out and turning you into dinner."
Realization dawns on Rose, and she exhales sharply. "Oh. That's... disgusting."
"Disgusting doesn't matter when it keeps you alive nigga," Jay mutters. Without waiting for further questions, he steps closer, gripping her arm gently but firmly. "C'mon. Stay close and don't make any noise or get in my way."
Rose nods, swallowing her unease, and lets him guide her toward the staircase. The pair moves cautiously, their footsteps muted on the dusty tile floor. The tension between them is palpable—Rose's fear and Jay's grim determination hanging in the air like a heavy fog.
Lingering on the staircase as they ascend, the dim light casting long shadows on the walls. Somewhere above, the faint groan of a zombie echoes.
Jay and Rose continued their cautious ascent up the narrow stairwell, the air heavy with tension. At the top of the stairs, a zombie stumbled through a creaking door, its grotesque frame twisting unnaturally, bones cracking with every shuddering movement. Its guttural growls echoed down the stairwell, sending chills through Rose.
Jay tightened his grip on the Desert Eagle in his hand. "Don't get in my way," he muttered over his shoulder. Rose nodded, trailing just behind him as they advanced.
The zombie lunged forward, and Jay didn't hesitate. He aimed and fired a single, thunderous shot. The bullet tore through the creature's skull, sending it crumpling to the ground in a convulsive spasm before falling still. Jay stepped over the corpse, examining it as Rose hesitantly approached.
"You don't have a knife, do you?" Jay asked without looking at her.
Rose shook her head. "No, I don't."
Jay sighed in frustration, placing the gun on the ground beside him as he knelt by the body. "Great. Guess I'm doing this the hard way." He grabbed the zombie's tattered button-up shirt and began tearing it open. The smell of decay hit them both like a wall, and Rose recoiled in disgust—though her expression carried a flicker of something else, an unsettling mix of intrigue and unease.
Before Jay could proceed, a sudden blur burst from the doorway above them. Another zombie barreled toward Rose, its guttural snarl echoing in the stairwell.
Rose turned with a scream, her voice sharp and panicked. Jay's head snapped up, and in one swift motion, he surged to his feet, delivering a devastating right hook to the zombie's jaw. The impact sent them both tumbling down the stairs.
Jay landed hard, his left thigh slamming into the edge of a step with a sickening pop. A cry of pain ripped from his throat as the zombie clawed its way on top of him, snarling inches from his face. Jay gritted his teeth, straining to keep the creature's snapping jaws at bay with both hands locked around its throat.
"ROSE!" he bellowed, his voice raw with desperation.
Rose's wide eyes darted around frantically until they locked onto the Desert Eagle lying discarded on the floor. She snatched it up and dashed down the stairs, her hands trembling as she raised the gun.
The zombie growled and lunged closer to Jay, blackened blood dripping onto his cheek. "SHOOT IT!" he shouted, his strength beginning to falter.
The first shot rang out, striking the zombie in its back, but it barely flinched. The second shot followed a split second later, piercing through the skull. The zombie fell limp, its weight collapsing onto Jay.
Jay groaned as he shoved the lifeless body off him, leaning heavily against the wall to haul himself to his feet. Every movement sent pain shooting through his injured leg.
Meanwhile, Rose stood there, wide-eyed and exhilarated. "I did it!" she exclaimed, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I shot my first zombie! Did you see that? I—"
"Shut that shit up," Jay snapped, his patience worn thin.
But before he could say more, Rose suddenly leaned in and pressed her lips to his. Jay froze, startled, as her hands boldly wandered to his chest and then lower. He immediately pushed her back, his expression a mix of shock and irritation.
"What the actual fuck is wrong with you?" he barked, his voice echoing in the stairwell.
Rose's face turned red, and she stepped back. "I'm sorry. I—I don't know what came over me," she stammered.
The tension hung heavy in the air, neither of them speaking. Then Jay sighed, muttering to himself, "Fuck it."
Without warning, he stepped forward, grabbing Rose's neck with one hand and her waist with the other. This time, the kiss was mutual—intense and reckless, born of adrenaline and the raw chaos of survival.
Back in the dimly lit hotel lobby, Jay and Rose stood side by side, both drenched in the grotesque mixture of zombie guts and blood. Jay adjusted the jacket covering his shoulders, his expression hard as stone.
"Stay close," he said coldly, his voice cutting through the uneasy silence. "If you get lost, I'm not fucking coming back for you."
Rose, trailing behind him, hesitated for a moment before speaking. "What if… what if I got pregnant?" she asked cautiously, her voice trembling with an odd mix of fear and hope. "Would you leave your own child behind?"
Jay froze mid-step, his jaw tightening as he slowly turned to glare at her. "If you were pregnant, I'd kill you myself," he growled, his tone flat and devoid of hesitation. "I'm not taking care of some damn kid in this world."
The weight of his words sank into Rose, and she lowered her head, silent as Jay turned back to the door. He cracked it open, peering out into the sea of undead shambling through the street. With a final glance back at Rose, he stepped outside, gesturing for her to follow.
The two cautiously merged into the writhing herd of zombies, the air thick with the rancid stench of decay. Jay's grip on his Desert Eagle tightened, his eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of danger. Rose, meanwhile, clung to him nervously, her eyes darting to every snarling face that turned her way.
Her soft whimpers began to break through the guttural moans of the horde. Jay shot her a warning glance, but Rose only held onto his arm tighter, her fear escalating.
"Stop bitch," Jay hissed under his breath.
But Rose couldn't stop. Her trembling grew worse, her quiet noises now attracting the attention of the zombies closest to them. Their bloody, dead eyes focused, heads snapping toward the pair.
A few zombies started moving closer, their growls growing louder as they sniffed at the air around them. Jay clenched his jaw, glancing back over his shoulder. His heart pounded as the undead pressed in closer.
One zombie stopped directly in front of him, its rotten face inches away from his. It tilted its head, letting out a low, guttural growl that sent chills down Jay's spine. For a moment, it lingered—its putrid breath hot on his face—before shambling away, its attention diverted.
Jay exhaled slowly, his body rigid with tension. Under his breath, he muttered, "You stupid bitch."
With a calculated motion, he shifted the Desert Eagle from his right hand to his left. Then, without warning, he fired a single, deafening shot into Rose's left thigh.
Rose let out a piercing scream, her voice carrying above the cacophony of the horde. Jay shoved her away, her cries cutting through the eerie symphony of growls and moans.
The zombies descended on her instantly. Their decomposing hands clawed and grabbed, dragging her to the ground as she screamed and writhed in terror. Jay didn't look back as he limped through the crowd, the undead surging toward the chaos behind him.
Panning downward to Rose, now surrounded by a frenzy of gnashing teeth and tearing hands. Her screams turned into gurgles as two zombies sank their teeth into her throat, blood spurting in sickening arcs. Her torso was ripped open, her innards yanked and tossed aside like scraps. A zombie tore out her kidney with a savage pull, while others feasted on her exposed organs.
Her brutal cries faded into choking gasps, her mouth filling with blood as the life drained from her eyes. The carnage intensified until her movements ceased, and the screen cut to black.
Two Months Later
Date: 11/24/25
Time: 4:03 PM
In the dimly lit museum lobby, the group was preparing for their next run. Brayden secured his Glock 19X in his belt, the weight of the weapon a familiar reassurance. Elijah stood nearby, his knuckles white as he gripped his 12-gauge shotgun, his jaw set with quiet determination. Abdula held a Glock 17 in his hand, his grip slightly shaky as he adjusted to the unfamiliar weight of the firearm.
William leaned casually against a pillar, his own Glock 17 resting in his hand, a practiced ease in his stance. In the corner, Gareth sat slouched in a chair, spinning the cylinder of a revolver in silent contemplation.
Brayden crossed the room to William, his steps measured but purposeful. "We're just about ready for this run now," he said, his tone calm but carrying an edge of urgency.
William glanced up, giving a slow nod. "Dad's on his way," he replied. "He'll be down in a minute."
The room fell into a tense silence as the group made their final preparations. The air was thick with anticipation, each member lost in their thoughts, their weapons a grim reminder of the dangers that awaited them outside.
Inside the small janitor's room, Rebecca sat before a cracked mirror, the dim light casting a warm glow on her long, fiery red hair as she brushed it with deliberate strokes. Her expression was serene, her focus on the rhythmic motion of the brush.
The door creaked open, and Winston stepped inside, his boots heavy against the tiled floor. He adjusted his cowboy hat and let out a resigned sigh. "I gotta head out, lady. They're calling this run important," he said, his gravelly voice tinged with reluctance.
Rebecca set her brush down gently on the table and turned to him, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "Alright, my cowboy," she said, her voice soft and warm. She walked over to him, the faint scent of lavender trailing behind her.
Winston wrapped an arm around her waist as she leaned in. Their kiss was brief but tender, a shared moment of solace in an otherwise chaotic world.
Pulling back, Winston adjusted his jacket and gave her a small nod. "Be good while I'm gone," he muttered with a faint smirk.
Rebecca chuckled lightly. "Always."
As Winston left, the door closing softly behind him, Rebecca returned to her seat in front of the mirror. Picking up her brush, she resumed tending to her hair, the room now filled with a quiet stillness.
In the dimly lit janitor's room, Joshua sat hunched over in a worn chair, the quiet sound of pages turning filling the otherwise silent space. His book rested comfortably in his hands, its words offering a brief escape from the weight of the world outside.
The door creaked open, breaking the stillness. Winston stepped inside, his boots echoing faintly against the tiled floor. He tipped his hat back slightly, his rugged face softened by a rare flicker of vulnerability. "Hey, son," he said, his voice low but warm.
Joshua sighed, barely glancing up from his book. "Hey, Dad."
Winston shifted uncomfortably, then cleared his throat. "I'm heading out on a run with your brother. Thought I'd let you know."
Joshua nodded, keeping his eyes on the page. "Alright," he replied, his tone even.
Winston hesitated, then took a step closer. "Listen... I've been rough on you, boy. Too rough. And I'm sorry for that."
The apology caught Joshua off guard. He blinked, then slowly set the book down on the side table. For the first time in days, he looked directly at his father. "I know you're just trying to make me stronger. I guess... I'm sorry too—for being stubborn."
The tension between them eased as Winston extended a hand. Joshua ignored it and stood up, pulling his father into a firm, unspoken hug.
Winston clapped him on the back before stepping away. "You stay safe, alright? I'll be back before you know it."
Joshua gave a small nod. "You too."
With a final glance, Winston left the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
Joshua lingered for a moment, then returned to his chair. Picking up his book again, he opened to the page he had been reading, the world fading back into the quiet solace of the written word.
Back in the museum lobby, the air buzzed with quiet anticipation. Winston strode purposefully to the weapons table, his hand reaching for his trusted lever-action cowboy rifle. He slung it over his shoulder, the metallic glint catching the low light. "Let's move out, folks," he said, his voice steady but commanding.
Gareth rose from his chair with a groan, stretching his stiff limbs. Brayden and Abdula followed Winston toward the exit, their steps echoing faintly against the stone floor. William, still leaning against a column, let out a yawn and stretched his arms wide before falling in line.
Elijah lingered, his gaze drawn to the weapon rack. Among the array of tools for survival, one stood out: a gleaming Mjölnir replica. It rested untouched, its surface almost pristine, a relic of a time when heroes were born in stories, not through grim necessity.
William noticed Elijah's fixation and strolled over, smirking. "Got your eye on something fancy there?" he asked, his tone light but curious.
Elijah nodded, his eyes never leaving the hammer. "Yeah. It looks... powerful. And I've noticed no one's used it since I've been here."
William chuckled softly, giving Elijah a pat on the shoulder. "I'll talk to Harley about it, see what strings I can pull. Don't get your hopes up, though—she's picky about her inventory."
A small grin flickered across Elijah's face. "Thanks, man. I appreciate it."
"Don't mention it."
With that, the two men stepped away from the table, joining the others outside the museum. The door creaked shut behind them, leaving the weapons table and its mysterious treasures behind, waiting for another day.
Silhouettes emerged against the fiery hues of the setting sun—Brayden, Elijah, Abdula, Gareth, and William walking side by side, their figures framed by the golden light. Winston rode slightly ahead, the rhythmic clop of Bliss's hooves blending with the soft crunch of boots on gravel. The horse's mane glinted in the fading sunlight, adding a touch of quiet majesty to the moment.
They moved as one down a tree-lined country road, the branches arching overhead like a natural cathedral. The warm glow of the horizon stretched across the sky, painting the road in tones of amber and crimson. Shadows danced beneath their feet, flickering with each step, as the group pressed forward.
Inside the dimly lit warehouse, the heavy creak of a metal door opening echoed through the vast space. Winston entered first, his lever-action rifle at the ready, eyes scanning for movement. Behind him came Gareth, Brayden, Abdula, Elijah, and finally William, who carefully and quietly shut the door behind them.
Brayden's gaze swept the familiar surroundings, his expression cautious. "Stay sharp," he murmured. "Abdula and I were here with Isaac before. This place had its share of zombies."
Winston gave a curt nod and gestured for everyone to gather close. "Alright, we're splitting into pairs. William, you're with me. Brayden, you take Elijah. Abdula, you're with Gareth." He pointed to each group, ensuring everyone understood.
Abdula glanced at Brayden, his expression uncertain. Brayden gave him a reassuring nod before the groups dispersed, each pair moving cautiously through the warehouse aisles.
Winston led his son through a narrow aisle, the dim beams of their flashlights catching glimpses of old crates and discarded supplies. As they moved, Winston spoke in a low voice. "I talked to Joshua before we left. Apologized for being hard on him."
William raised an eyebrow, his tone calm but firm. "You didn't need to. This world doesn't have time for apologies, Dad. Joshua has to adapt, just like the rest of us."
Winston sighed, his grip tightening on his rifle. "I know, but sometimes... I worry I pushed too hard."
William didn't reply, instead signaling his father to focus as they moved further into the dark maze.
Brayden and Elijah moved silently, their flashlights illuminating stacks of crates as they scanned for supplies. Elijah broke the silence, his voice tinged with hope. "Do you think we'll ever find Jason again?"
Brayden hesitated, then spoke softly. "Yeah. We'll find him. Somehow."
As they rounded a corner, Brayden suddenly froze. Elijah, caught off guard, bumped into him. "What is it?" Elijah whispered.
Brayden pointed ahead, his flashlight revealing the torn remains of a gated fence. The chain-link barrier that once held back a horde of zombies was destroyed, and the area beyond was eerily empty.
"This isn't right," Brayden muttered, his unease growing.
Gareth and Abdula moved carefully, their footsteps echoing in the silence. Gareth's flashlight caught a glint of glass beneath a stack of boxes. "Liquor," he muttered. "Hang on." He knelt and began shifting the boxes to free the pack.
Meanwhile, Abdula's flashlight beam landed on a dark streak smeared across a nearby crate. Fresh blood. His stomach churned as he stepped closer, inspecting the crimson trail. A single drop of blood landed on his head.
Abdula froze, slowly raising his hand to his hair. His fingers came away wet and red. His flashlight trembled as he tilted it upward, revealing a grotesque zombie perched high on a shelf, its lifeless eyes locked on him.
The zombie emitted a guttural growl before leaping down, its weight slamming into Abdula and knocking him to the ground. Abdula let out a startled yell, drawing Gareth's attention.
"Hold on!" Gareth shouted, turning back to wrestle the liquor free.
Abdula kicked the zombie off him and scrambled backward, his back hitting another crate. He drew his Glock 17 with a shaking hand and stood, aiming at the creature.
Before he could fire, a second zombie dropped from behind, wrapping its decayed arms around his neck. Abdula fired over his shoulder, the bullet piercing the zombie's skull and sending it crumpling to the floor.
The first zombie lunged at him again. Abdula fired repeatedly, one shot ripping through the zombie's torso and striking the crate labeled with bright warning tape: TNT.
The explosion ripped through the warehouse in a deafening roar, a flash of fire and light consuming everything in its path.
We'll pan to Isaac seated at his cluttered desk, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the room. He leans back in his worn-out chair, its creak breaking the heavy silence. His weary eyes close, and for a brief, tortured moment, the screams of his old friend, Harris, fill his mind. Her voice echoes—desperate, broken—as she cries his name, only to be drowned out by the guttural sounds of her gruesome end.
The guilt, relentless and suffocating, consumes him. Isaac's trembling hand reaches for the Glock 17 resting on his desk. Slowly, he raises the cold steel to his temple, the barrel pressing firmly against his skin. His finger hovers over the trigger.
Before he can squeeze, the faint, acrid scent of gas wafts into his nostrils. Isaac freezes, his breath catching. A heavy sigh escapes him as he lowers the gun, placing it gently back on the desk. For a moment, he stares at it, his reflection faintly visible on its polished surface.
Resolute, Isaac rises from his chair. His movements are slow, deliberate. He steps toward the door, his hand gripping the worn brass doorknob. But instead of turning it, he pauses, his gaze lifting to the rusted light switch on the wall nearby.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, the words barely audible but laden with regret and resignation.
In a sudden burst of motion, he releases the doorknob and strides toward the switch. His hand trembles as it hovers over the lever. For a brief second, time seems to stand still. Then, with a resolute push, he flips it down.
Flames erupt instantly, consuming the office with a deafening roar. The inferno engulfs Isaac, the heat peeling away layers of his skin in blistering waves. His face contorted in agony, the flesh melting and tearing as the fire ravages him. His eyeballs bubble and burst, streams of liquefied tissue spilling down his charred cheeks.
We'll fade to black, leaving only the crackle of the flames and the weight of his final act hanging in the air.
We'll fade back to the warehouse interior, chaos unfolding in the aftermath of the explosion. Flames dance across crates, licking up to the ceiling as the fire spreads uncontrollably. The acrid stench of smoke fills the air. Brayden, Elijah, William, and Winston rush through the fiery maze, leaping over burning debris.
"ABDULA!" Brayden shouts, his voice echoing desperately through the crackling inferno.
In the distance, William yells, "I found Gareth!" The group pivots toward his voice.
As we pan over to William, we see Gareth sprawled unconscious on the floor, his face marred with burns and streaked with blood. William crouches beside him, inspecting the severity of his injuries.
"William, Elijah, take this goddamn fool outside now!" Winston commands, his voice cutting through the chaos.
William and Elijah hoist Gareth between them and begin hauling him toward the exit. Meanwhile, Brayden resumes his frantic search. "ABDULA!" he calls again, his voice laced with growing panic.
A faint, strained response comes from the distance: "SIR!" Brayden's head snaps toward the sound, and he sprints forward, with Winston close behind.
Shifting to reveal Abdula, pinned under a shattered crate, his clothes scorched and his body bloodied. Brayden skids to a halt beside him, kneeling to assess the situation.
"What happened?!" Brayden asks, his voice tight with urgency.
"It's my fault," Abdula gasps, his breaths labored. "I was attacked... I panicked... I shot a crate with TNT."
Brayden pushes the remnants of the crate off Abdula, revealing the grotesque sight of his mangled legs. His stomach churns as he tries not to focus on the torn flesh and pooling blood. Abdula glances at his legs, his face twisted with pain and despair.
Low, guttural growls echo in the distance, growing louder.
"We gotta move now," Winston says, scanning the area as he tightens his grip on his rifle.
Brayden slips an arm under Abdula to lift him. "I'm not leaving you behind," he mutters as he heaves Abdula upright. In the rush, his Glock 19X clatters to the ground, unnoticed.
Winston takes the lead, his rifle at the ready, as the group makes their way toward the entrance. Their path is blocked—zombies swarm the door, their decayed forms illuminated by the flickering flames.
"Son of a bitch," Winston curses under his breath.
Abdula, his voice shaky, says, "Leave me here. I can be a distraction. My legs… I can't live like this."
"Not a chance," Brayden snaps, his tone resolute.
Winston starts stacking wire shelves around them, creating a makeshift barrier.
"What are you doing?" Brayden asks, watching as Winston reinforces their position.
"We need a goddamn buffer!" Winston barks, setting his rifle against a shelf and opening fire on the zombies crowding the door.
Brayden lays Abdula down carefully and steadies the wobbling shelves, using his body as a brace. More zombies slam into the barrier, their weight threatening to bring it down.
From the ground, Abdula's eyes dart around. His breathing quickens as he spots movement beneath the shelves. A crawling zombie snakes its way through the gap and lunges onto him. Abdula's scream pierces the air.
"Abdula!" Brayden shouts, rushing to his side. He grabs the zombie by its tattered shirt, slamming its head against the fence until it goes limp.
Winston fires steadily, clearing a narrow path, but the flames only drive more zombies toward them. One fiery zombie grabs Brayden's arm through the collapsing barrier. Brayden howls in agony as the burning hand sears his skin, and then the zombie's teeth sink into his forearm, ripping away flesh.
Brayden stumbles backward, clutching his bleeding arm. Abdula, despite his injuries, forces himself upright, grabbing Brayden and pulling him free. Zombies swarm closer, and Abdula slams the shelves shut, trapping the flaming undead within.
The barricade bursts open. A fiery zombie lunges at Abdula, grabbing him by the neck and sinking its teeth into the side. Abdula cries out, blood spurting from the wound.
"RUN!" Abdula screams, his voice breaking as the fiery horde descends upon him.
Winston grabs Brayden and drags him toward the exit. Brayden struggles, yelling, "We can't leave him!"
"He's gone!" Winston shouts, forcing Brayden outside just as the shelves collapse.
We'll linger on Abdula as fiery zombies swarm him, his screams fading into the chaos. Blood and fire fill the screen as the door slams shut, leaving only the muffled growls and crackling flames behind.
Outside the warehouse, the parking lot is steeped in the muted hues of the blue hour. The soft light casts long shadows, painting the scene with an eerie calm that contrasts with the chaos inside. William and Elijah stand near the horse, Bliss. Gareth remains unconscious, draped over the horse's back, his burned and bloodied body eerily still.
The warehouse door bursts open with a deafening crash. Winston barrels out, half-dragging Brayden behind him. He slams the door shut with a force that echoes across the lot. Brayden collapses to his knees, his mangled forearm dripping a steady stream of blood onto the cracked pavement.
William and Elijah spin toward the commotion. Elijah's eyes widen in shock. "What the hell happened?!" he yells, his voice cracking with disbelief.
Winston eases Brayden to the ground, carefully laying out the ruined arm for all to see. "Abdula, that boys gone," Winston growls, his voice raw with anger and grief. "And Brayden—he's been bitten!"
Brayden's face contorts with despair, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Winston looks up at William, his expression hard and resolute. "William! Bring me that goddamn machete!"
William hesitates for the briefest moment, then pulls the blade from its sheath, its steel glinting in the faint light. Brayden's tears spill freely now, his body trembling as he lets out a soft whimper.
Winston crouches beside him, unbuckling his belt with practiced urgency. He wraps it tightly above the bite, pulling it taut until the flesh bulges around it. "You know what's gotta happen, son," Winston says, his voice gentler now but still firm. "This is gonna hurt like hell."
Brayden nods weakly, biting back a sob. Winston stuffs a rag into Brayden's mouth. "Bite down hard," he instructs. "You'll need it."
With the machete in hand, Winston stands, his shadow looming over Brayden. Elijah clenches his fists, turning his face away as his jaw tightens. Even William, usually composed, seems pale under the faint light.
Winston raises the machete high, his face set like stone. Brayden screws his eyes shut, his muffled cries growing louder, his body tense with anticipation.
The machete comes down in a clean, brutal arc. The sickening crunch of severed bone and the muffled scream of agony pierce the quiet of the parking lot. Blood splatters across the ground, pooling beneath Brayden's severed forearm.
Brayden convulses in pain, his screams muted by the rag.
Cutting to black.
We'll open on the same tree-lined country road, now bathed in the soft, muted hues of nautical twilight. Shadows stretch long across the gravel path, mingling with the faint mist curling at their feet. Elijah and Winston lead the way, their boots crunching against the road's uneven surface. Behind them, Bliss plods along, carrying Gareth's body slumped forward and Brayden, pale and drenched in sweat, teetering on the edge of consciousness. The faint clip-clop of hooves mingles with Brayden's shallow breaths.
William holds Bliss's reins, his gaze flickering between Brayden and Gareth. Elijah glances back toward the group. "You think they're gonna make it?" he asks, his voice low but strained.
Winston shakes his head, his expression unreadable in the twilight. "I don't know about the boy with the amputation," he mutters, glancing briefly at Brayden. "But Gareth… just maybe."
Elijah shakes his head but says nothing. William, walking beside Bliss, suddenly notices something off. The faint white vapor of their breath in the cool air isn't visible from Gareth. Concern flashes across his face. He reaches out, pressing two fingers to Gareth's neck.
"No pulse," William murmurs, stopping dead in his tracks. "Wait!" he calls out, pulling on Bliss's reins.
Winston and Elijah turn back, their faces shadowed in the fading light. William steps forward, his voice taut. "Gareth's gone."
Elijah's eyes widen. "What? I thought he was good."
William exhales sharply, his fingers curling into fists. "Could've been internal. The blast back there might've ruptured something. He wasn't bitten—I checked."
Winston's jaw tightens, and his gaze shifts to Brayden, who sways precariously atop Bliss. "If Gareth's gone, we need to think fast," he says, his voice thick with urgency. "I'll ride Bliss back to the museum, get Nurse Luna, and bring her here to treat Brayden. It's faster than all of us walking."
Elijah shakes his head vehemently. "That's a terrible idea. You can't leave us here."
"It's the best chance we've got!" Winston barks back, his voice rising. "And I don't take orders from—" He pauses, his words heavy with venom. "—your kind."
Elijah stiffens, his eyes narrowing. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
"You know damn well what I mean, boy."
The tension explodes between them, their voices climbing over each other in heated argument. William steps between them, trying to calm the rising storm. "We don't have time for this!" he snaps.
Suddenly, Gareth's body jolts upright on Bliss. His head snaps side to side, a guttural snarl escaping his lips. Bliss lets out a panicked neigh, rearing up as Gareth's zombified jaws clamp down on the horse's femur.
"Damn it!" Winston yells, rushing toward the chaos. Bliss bucks violently, sending Brayden tumbling to the ground with a sickening thud. Elijah rushes to Brayden's side as Winston and William struggle to control Bliss.
Gareth, now fully zombified, launches himself at William, pinning him face-first to the ground. William screams in pain as Gareth's teeth sink into the back of his neck.
"NO!" Winston roars, raising his rifle and firing. The shot echoes through the still air, Gareth's head snapping back as the bullet tears through his skull. His body slumps to the side, once again still.
Bliss, bleeding profusely from the bite, stumbles a few steps before collapsing in the dirt. Elijah looks over, horror etched on his face as he spots the bite on the horse's leg.
Winston stares at William, his face pale and frozen in disbelief. William slowly pushes himself up, his fingers trembling as they touch the back of his neck. When he pulls them away, his hand is slick with blood.
"He wasn't bitten," William murmurs, his voice cracking. His gaze shifts from the lifeless Gareth to his father.
He pulls the machete from his side and tosses it at Winston's feet. "You know what you have to do," William says, his voice heavy with resignation.
Winston stands motionless, his hands clenching the rifle. Tears stream down his face as he fights the rising tide of anguish.
William's body begins to convulse, his veins darkening and his eyes flooding with red. He collapses to his knees, his voice breaking as he screams, "Fucking do it! Take Brayden back and toughen up Joshua—do it for them!"
Winston lets out a choked sob, kicking the machete aside in frustration. As William's body contorts, bones cracking audibly, he rises to his feet, blood streaming from his nose and eyes.
"Dad…" William's voice is guttural, almost unrecognizable. He lunges forward, his zombified form snarling.
Winston takes aim, his hands trembling violently. With a final, heart-wrenching cry, he pulls the trigger. The bullet strikes William dead center in the forehead. His body crumples to the ground, lifeless once more.
Elijah, cradling Brayden, calls out to Winston, his voice soft and steady. "I'm sorry. But we need to go."
Winston wipes his tears away with his sleeve, his face hardening. Without a word, he slings the rifle over his back and moves to help Elijah lift Brayden.
The three figures, silhouetted against the dim glow of twilight, begin their slow march forward, leaving behind the chaos and heartbreak.
The scene transitions seamlessly to the moon, now climbing high in the night sky, its pale light spilling over the desolate road. Ashes swirl faintly in the cool air, carried by a gentle breeze. We'll pan down, revealing Winston and Elijah trudging onward, Brayden draped between them. His arms rest limply across their shoulders, his pale face glistening with sweat.
"It doesn't make sense," Elijah mutters, breaking the silence. "Gareth wasn't bitten. I was there when William checked him." His voice falters as he glances at Winston. "I don't know how he turned."
Winston remains silent, his jaw clenched and eyes fixed ahead, unreadable. The sound of their footsteps fills the void.
Brayden stirs, his eyelids fluttering open. His voice is faint, trembling. "Where… where are we going?"
Elijah glances down at him, forcing a small, reassuring smile. "Don't worry. You're gonna make it."
Suddenly, glowing embers rise into the night sky ahead, carried aloft by the breeze. Winston's eyes narrow, his heart dropping into his stomach. Elijah stops mid-step, staring at the floating ashes.
"What the hell is that?" Elijah says, his voice tight with dread.
Winston doesn't answer. Instead, he adjusts his grip on Brayden, quickening his pace. Elijah matches his stride, urgency bleeding into their movements.
The scene shifts, pulling us closer to their destination. The museum looms in the distance, but it's engulfed in flames. The structure crackles and groans as fire licks up its walls, devouring wood and stone alike. A section of the roof collapses, sending a cascade of debris tumbling to the ground.
The chaos spills outward. Figures in makeshift goggles and gear fight desperately to hold off an advancing horde of zombies. Their shouts are almost drowned out by the guttural growls and crackling flames. The fire has become a beacon, drawing more undead from every direction.
Winston and Elijah arrive at the scene, dragging Brayden forward. His head tilts weakly as he catches a glimpse of the inferno, his lips parting in a faint whisper before he slips back into unconsciousness.
Winston and Elijah stand frozen, their faces lit by the searing orange glow of the flames. Their wide eyes take in the destruction—the museum, their refuge, reduced to rubble and fire. The screams of the living mingle with the growls of the dead, a cacophony of despair.
Panning back, framing the trio against the burning museum. Their outlines stand stark and solitary against the chaos, their figures bathed in flickering firelight as the world around them crumbles into ashes.
The End
Author: Theater Writers