Date: 9/22/25
Time: 12:12 AM
We'll pan slowly down a dimly lit street, the faint sound of distant growls carried on the night breeze. Emerging from the shadows, the group of goggled survivors walks cautiously, with Jason, Elijah, and Winston leading the way. Bliss, Winston's horse, walks steadily beside him, its hooves clicking softly against the cracked pavement.
In the background, Winston chats quietly with his son William. Their voices blend into the tense air.
"When we get to this museum, I need you to scope the place out. Make sure it's really fucking secured," Jason said, his tone clipped, his eyes scanning every shadow for movement.
Elijah glanced at him, concern etched into his face. "At least stay the night, Jason. We've been pushing too hard."
Jason shook his head, the determination in his voice cutting through the dark. "No. The plan's the plan. I'm going back out to find the rest of them."
Elijah sighed but didn't argue further. The weight of Jason's resolve was clear.
The group continued onward until, suddenly, a blinding beam of light pierced the darkness. It swept across the street, locking onto them. Jason and Elijah instinctively shielded their eyes, temporarily disoriented.
"Hold up!" a voice boomed from the wooden watchtower above, silhouetted against the sky.
Jason squinted, the afterimage of the light still burning in his vision. The source of the beam became clearer: a towering structure of weathered wood, with figures perched atop, aiming rifles and holding spotlights. Surrounding the museum in the distance were rows of sharpened wooden stakes, forming a defensive barrier.
William turned back to Jason and Elijah, a smirk playing on his lips. Stretching his arms lazily, he gestured to the looming structure. "Well, welcome to Forsaken Gallery," he said with a note of pride in his voice.
Jason and Elijah exchanged wary glances as the gates of the barricade creaked open.
The screen flashes abruptly, cutting to the sound of a heavy door slamming shut. Brayden leans against the steel frame, breathing hard as he bolts it tight. The hollow echo of growls from the horde outside grows fainter, but tension still lingers in the air.
Abdula collapses against a nearby steel table, clutching his mangled left hand. Blood oozes between his fingers, staining his clothes and the floor beneath him. His face contorts in agony as he tries to suppress his cries.
The goggled man strides forward, his face calm but determined. He grabs Abdula's arm with one hand while pulling a machete from his belt with the other.
"What the hell are you doing?!" Brayden shouts, stepping forward with his fists clenched.
Abdula's wide, panicked eyes dart between the goggled man and Brayden. "I—he's not—no, no! You can't!" Abdula stammers, his voice breaking.
The goggled man remains silent, his grip firm as he yanks Abdula's arm onto the steel table. He rolls up Abdula's sleeve, exposing the infected hand and the veins above it. Already, the dark tendrils of infection are snaking up his arm like spilled ink.
"This is the only way," the goggled man says firmly, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
Abdula thrashes weakly, his strength fading from blood loss. "Please! Don't—"
The machete rises.
"No!" Brayden shouts, lunging forward, but the goggled man shoots him a sharp look that freezes him in place.
"Do you want him to live? Then stay back!" the goggled man snaps.
Abdula's eyes meet Brayden's for a fleeting moment, pleading, desperate. Then, with a single clean motion, the machete slices down.
The sound is visceral—metal on flesh, bone, and steel. Blood splatters across the table and sprays onto the wall, painting it in streaks of red. Abdula screams, a raw, primal sound that reverberates through the empty warehouse.
Brayden stumbles back, his face pale. "Jesus Christ..." he mutters under his breath, barely able to watch.
The goggled man grabs a dirty towel from his pack and presses it against the stump, tying it tightly to stem the bleeding. "Hold him down," he barks at Brayden, who hesitates before rushing over to help.
Abdula writhes in pain, his screams subsiding into choked sobs. The goggled man, unfazed, digs into his pack, retrieving a small bottle of alcohol and a lighter. He drenches the stump in alcohol, eliciting another howl from Abdula.
"Brace him!" the goggled man commands.
Brayden locks eyes with Abdula, holding him steady. "It's gonna be okay. Just hold on," Brayden whispers, his voice trembling.
With practiced efficiency, the goggled man flicks the lighter, bringing the flame close to the wound. The flesh sizzles as he cauterizes it, the acrid smell of burning flesh filling the room. Abdula's body jerks, but Brayden keeps him pinned.
Finally, the goggled man steps back, wiping the blood from his hands onto his pants. "He'll live," he says gruffly, though his eyes betray a glimmer of sympathy.
Abdula collapses against the table, his face pale and drenched in sweat. His breathing is shallow but steady.
Brayden lets out a shaky breath, glancing at the goggled man. "Who the hell are you?"
The goggled man slowly reaches up and pulls his foggy goggles off, revealing sharp, steely eyes beneath a face weathered by the apocalypse. His expression is firm but not without a trace of weariness.
"My name's Isaac," he says, his voice low and deliberate. "And you should thank me for saving your friend's life."
Brayden locks eyes with him, his own gaze a mixture of suspicion and begrudging gratitude. He glances down at Abdula, now unconscious on the steel table, his chest rising and falling in shallow but steady breaths. The crude bandage wrapped around the stump of his arm is already soaked through with blood, but it holds for now.
Brayden shifts uncomfortably, his hands trembling as the adrenaline begins to wear off. "You think cutting off his hand justifies whatever the hell you're doing out here?"
Isaac smirks faintly, shaking his head as he wipes the blade of his machete clean with a tattered cloth. "If I hadn't done it, he'd be dead within a minute. I've seen what happens when you don't act fast."
Brayden leans heavily against the wall, letting out a shaky breath. His eyes dart between Isaac and Abdula, conflicted. "What makes you so sure he'll even survive this? You could've just put him through all that for nothing."
Isaac slides the machete back into its sheath with a soft click. "If he's strong, he'll make it. If he's not, then at least he won't turn into one of them," he replies, gesturing vaguely toward the door where the sound of the undead clawing and growling persists.
Brayden stares at the door for a long moment, the faint scratching and muffled moans sending chills down his spine. He looks back at Isaac, his voice softer now. "You're damn confident for someone I've never met."
Isaac leans against the table, crossing his arms. "Confidence has nothing to do with it. Experience does. And trust me, you don't survive out here as long as I have by second-guessing every decision."
Brayden exhales heavily, running a hand through his hair. He glances at Abdula again, his brow furrowing. "He's all I've got left right now," he mutters under his breath.
Isaac hears him and softens slightly. "Then I suggest you make sure he gets through this. We're not out of this yet, and if you want him to survive, you're going to need to pull your weight."
Brayden straightens up, his jaw tightening. "Don't think I won't."
Isaac nods, his faint smirk returning. "Good. Now, let's figure out how to get the hell out of here before that horde breaks through. Your friend's not safe yet."
Inside the museum, the large, dimly lit lobby welcomed Jason, Elijah, William, and Winston with an eerie stillness. Jason's eyes scanned the balcony above, where shadows loomed and shifted in the faint light of lanterns. Elijah's attention was drawn to a table lined with weapons, his gaze locking onto a striking replica of Mjölnir. His fingers twitched as though tempted to reach out and lift it, but he restrained himself.
William turned and called over to a man sitting in the far corner of the room. "Gareth!" he shouted.
The man, leaning back in his chair and absently flipping a knife between his fingers, looked up. His sharp eyes met William's, and with a quiet sigh, he got to his feet and walked toward the group. Gareth's presence carried an air of controlled menace, his movements calculated, his expression unreadable.
"Can you take these two to an open room?" William asked, gesturing toward Jason and Elijah.
Gareth nodded silently, his gaze briefly sizing up the newcomers. "Sure. Follow me," he said, his voice low and even.
William turned to Jason and Elijah. "My dad and I have something to take care of. Make yourselves comfortable."
As Gareth started toward a staircase, Jason leaned in close to Elijah, speaking in a hushed tone. "Keep that shotgun ready," he said, his eyes darting warily around the lobby. "We don't know these people. Anything can happen."
Elijah gave a subtle nod, tightening his grip on the weapon as they followed Gareth up the creaking stairs.
Meanwhile, William pulled Winston aside near the edge of the lobby. "Joshua hasn't eaten in days," William said quietly, his tone heavy with concern. "He's been starving himself, shutting everyone out."
Winston scoffed, his brows furrowing. "That boy's always been stubborn. But now that I'm here, he'll eat. I'll make sure of it son," he said, his voice gruff but laced with a father's unyielding determination.
Without another word, Winston strode off down a hallway, his boots echoing against the cold museum floors. William stood in place for a moment, exhaling deeply as though steadying himself, before he followed his father into the shadows of the dimly lit corridor.
"I stay at a museum. It's secure, and we've got plenty of people. You and your friend here can stay if you want," Isaac said, his voice calm but firm.
The scene shifted to the dimly lit warehouse, where Isaac and Brayden carried an unconscious Abdula between them. Isaac held Abdula under one arm while Brayden shone a flashlight ahead, its narrow beam cutting through the shadows.
"Thanks, but I'm looking for my friends," Brayden replied, his tone resolute. "We got separated, and I can't stop until I find them."
Isaac glanced at him but kept moving. "Suit yourself, man. But your friend here needs help. That arm might get infected from the amputation, and we've got a good doctor back at the museum."
Brayden hesitated, his steps slowing. He didn't like the idea of letting Abdula go alone, but staying at the museum felt like delaying his mission. After a pause, he muttered, "Maybe. Maybe I'll stay for a little while."
As they continued walking, the warehouse grew darker, the silence interrupted only by their footsteps. Brayden's flashlight beam swept across the ground and stopped abruptly on a small, glistening blood trail.
"Wait," Brayden said, his voice low but sharp.
Isaac stopped, looking at him quizzically. "What?"
Brayden didn't respond immediately, his eyes fixed on the blood smeared across the concrete. Isaac followed Brayden's gaze, noticing the crimson trail.
"The hell?" Isaac muttered, his voice quieter now.
Brayden tilted the flashlight forward, following the trail further into the shadows. His hand tightened around the flashlight as the beam landed on a galvanized metal gate. Behind it, a group of zombies slammed their decaying bodies against the bars, their growls echoing in the vast emptiness of the warehouse.
The light illuminated their faces—horrifically disfigured, their eyes an unsettling bloody red, as if weeping rivers of crimson. The floor near the gate was littered with the half-eaten remains of rats, their corpses a grim testament to the zombies' desperation.
The sudden noise made Abdula stir. His eyelids fluttered as he groaned, his words slurred. "Where...where am I?"
Isaac and Brayden exchanged glances before looking down at Abdula.
Abdula's eyes snapped open completely, locking onto the growling zombies. Fear shot through him like lightning, and he jerked himself free from their grip, stumbling backward as he yelped in panic.
Isaac steadied himself, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the creatures clawing at the gate. Brayden, however, allowed himself the faintest smirk, his expression tinged with both relief and irony.
"Welcome back to the land of the living," Brayden muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he turned his attention back to the restless horde behind the gate.
The tension thick in the air, the zombies' guttural growls creating a grim soundtrack to their situation.
Back at the museum, Winston approached a small janitor's door, his hand hesitating on the handle for a moment before he opened it. Inside, the dim light revealed Joshua, his youngest son, sitting cross-legged on a worn mattress. He was engrossed in a tattered book, the room silent except for the faint rustle of the pages.
William stood behind Winston, watching as his father surveyed the scene. Winston leaned back and whispered, "I got this."
William hesitated but gave a brief nod. Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Winston to step into the cramped room. Winston sighed heavily as he lowered himself to sit beside Joshua, his back against the cold wall.
Joshua's expression tightened, and with an annoyed snap, he shut his book and tossed it onto a nearby shelf. He stood abruptly, glaring down at his father.
"You have no idea how easy you have it right now, son," Winston said, his voice calm but with an edge of frustration.
Joshua scoffed, shaking his head. "Easy? Me? You think I have it easy, Dad?" His voice was thick with bitterness.
Winston exhaled, pushing himself to his feet. "There are people out there who've lost worse. Way worse. I've seen folks who look like walking skeletons, barely holding on boy. You've got food, a roof, and a community. Don't take that for granted."
Joshua's jaw clenched. His voice rose as he pointed a finger at Winston. "If you were here when it all started, maybe Mom would still be alive!"
Winston's face hardened, his voice rising to match Joshua's. "Your mother was a goddamn junkie. She took anything she could get her hands on. Hell, I could've handed her a marble rock, and she would've crushed it, thinking it was crack. It wasn't the dead that got to her—she overdosed, son. That's the truth."
Joshua's voice cracked as he shot back, "She only took those drugs because of you! You were always out drinking, gone half the time!"
Winston stepped closer, his voice a thunderous roar now. "Ohh that's a load of horse shit! She was using before I even met her. Hell, when she was pregnant with William, she was snorting anything she could fucking find. I had to drag her ass into rehab just to keep Will healthy! Don't you dare pin this on me boy."
Joshua's face contorted with anger, his eyes glossy. "You don't care about me. You don't care about William. You don't care about anyone!"
Winston's voice softened, though his tone was firm. "I care more than you'll ever know. About you, about William. Everything I've done, I've done for you boys. But you don't want to see that, do you?"
Joshua turned away, crossing his arms. "Just get out."
Winston stood there for a moment, his fists clenching at his sides. He took a step toward the door but paused in the doorway when Joshua muttered under his breath, "Go ahead. Go fuck that whore Rebecca too."
The words hung in the air like a slap. Winston froze, his broad shoulders stiffening. He didn't turn around as he spoke, his voice low and cutting.
"I love you, son. More than anything or anyone in this world. But you'd better watch your tone."
Joshua stayed silent, stunned by the weight of Winston's words. His father didn't linger, walking out of the room without another glance.
As the door clicked shut, Joshua paced the room, the tension still crackling in the air. Finally, with a sharp exhale, he slammed the door, the sound echoing in the small space.
We'll pan down a dimly lit hallway, its walls lined with faded posters and the faint hum of flickering lights above. Gareth walks briskly ahead, Jason and Elijah trailing behind him. He stops at a small janitor's door, pulling it open to reveal a sparse room with a thin mattress sprawled on the floor.
"Ain't much," Gareth said, glancing over his shoulder, "but it'll do."
Jason stepped inside first, scanning the cramped space while Elijah lingered in the doorway.
Before either could speak, Gareth added, "We've got another room, though. You don't have to share if you don't want to."
Jason shook his head. "This'll be fine."
Gareth gave a small shrug and stepped back. "Suit yourselves." He pulled the door shut behind him, leaving Jason and Elijah alone in the silence of the room.
Jason wasted no time. "I'm heading out now," he said, his voice steady but firm as he slung his backpack over his shoulder.
Elijah frowned, crossing his arms. "Heading out? Jason, it's late. You're not thinking straight. We should at least stay the night."
Jason shot him a sharp look. "Stay the night? Every second we're sitting here, they could be out there dying. I'm not wasting any more time."
Elijah stepped closer, his tone growing urgent. "Then let me come with you. I'm not just gonna sit here while you go out there alone."
Jason shook his head. "No. One of us needs to stay behind, and it's not gonna be me. If I don't come back, someone needs to keep things moving."
Elijah's voice hardened. "This isn't just your call, Jason. We're in this together. You can't just storm off like some lone hero nigga."
Jason's eyes narrowed. "I'm not asking for fucking permission, Elijah. I need to do this. Alone."
The two stared each other down, tension crackling in the small room. Finally, Jason turned and stormed to the door, yanking it open.
"You're gonna get yourself killed," Elijah said, his voice quieter but laced with frustration.
Jason paused in the doorway, his hand gripping the handle. Without looking back, he muttered, "Better me than them."
He slammed the door shut behind him, leaving Elijah standing in the dim light, fists clenched and jaw tight as the echo of the door reverberated in the small space.
A faint moonlight spilled over the dark street as Brayden, Abdula, and Isaac trudged forward, their shadows stretching long across the cracked pavement. Abdula clutched his bandaged left arm, his face pale and strained.
"It still feels like it's there," Abdula muttered, wincing. "But it hurts."
Isaac glanced at him and nodded knowingly. "That's phantom pain," he said, his voice steady. "Your brain's still wired to think the hand's there, even when it's not."
Brayden walked slightly ahead, his flashlight sweeping the path. "How'd you even know cutting his hand off would stop the infection?" he asked, his tone skeptical but curious.
Isaac smirked, his machete resting on his shoulder. "I don't know the science behind it," he admitted. "All I know is, it works. Infection spreads fast in the bloodstream. Cut it off early enough, and it can't go any further. Simple as that."
They continued walking, the silence between their words broken only by the occasional crunch of debris underfoot.
Brayden glanced over his shoulder. "I'm only staying the night at this museum of yours. After that, I'm heading out to find my friends."
Isaac shrugged, his expression indifferent. "Suit yourself," he said. "No one's holding you hostage."
"I'm going with you," Abdula interjected, his voice firm despite the pain etched across his face.
Brayden stopped in his tracks and turned to him, his brow furrowed. "Abdula, you need to stay at the museum. It's safer there. They've got people, supplies, a doctor. You'll have a better chance—"
"I'm going," Abdula interrupted, his tone resolute. "You're my friend. And friends stick together."
For a moment, Brayden stared at him, then exhaled in defeat. "Fine. But if you're coming, you better keep up. I'm not slowing down for you."
A faint smile tugged at Abdula's lips. "Deal."
Isaac, watching the exchange with mild amusement, gestured down the street with his machete. "If we're done with the heartfelt speeches, the museum's this way. Let's move."
The trio pressed on into the darkness.
Inside a dimly lit janitor's room in the museum, a long-haired redheaded woman sat before a mirror mounted on a table, brushing her fiery locks. Her movements were slow, almost methodical, as if she were lost in thought. The door creaked open behind her, and she turned to see Winston step in, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Her lips curved into a teasing smile. "Been a while since I saw you, baby."
Winston let out a low sigh, shrugging off his weathered brown cowboy jacket. "Thought I told you to stop callin' me that, woman," he replied, his voice carrying a mix of exasperation and warmth.
Setting his jacket on a nearby chair, Winston removed his cowboy hat and placed it neatly on the coat hanger.
The woman chuckled, turning back to the mirror briefly before standing to face him. "You and I both know the truth, Winston. We're not fooling anyone."
Winston stepped closer, his boots creaking softly on the floor. Before he could respond, she reached out, pulling him into a kiss. He hesitated for a heartbeat before his hands found her waist, and they melted into each other's embrace.
As they parted briefly, her eyes caught the bead bracelet on his wrist. A faint smile played on her lips as she ran her fingers over the small letters spelling out a name: Rebecca.
"You kept it," she murmured, her voice laced with nostalgia. "The gift I gave you."
Winston gave a small nod, his voice soft. "Couldn't forget your name even if I tried."
Rebecca laughed quietly, shaking her head before pulling him into another kiss. Their moment was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.
Winston groaned, breaking away reluctantly. "Hold on," he muttered, adjusting his shirt as he turned toward the door.
Rebecca stepped back, smoothing her hair as Winston reached for the handle and swung the door open. On the other side stood Elijah, his expression a mix of urgency and frustration.
"What is it, son?" Winston asked, his tone gruff but curious.
Elijah glanced past Winston into the room before speaking. "It's Jason. He's trying to leave, and I need your help to stop him."
Winston frowned, leaning against the doorframe. "Pretty sure this place doesn't keep folks captive, boy."
Elijah stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near-plead. "He's gonna get himself killed out there. Please. Just talk to him, get him to stay the night."
Winston rubbed a hand over his face and sighed deeply. "Fine. I'll see what I can do."
He turned back to Rebecca, his gaze lingering for a moment before he shook his head. "We'll finish this later," he said.
Rebecca offered a small smile, leaning against the table. "Go on, cowboy. Save the day."
Winston donned his jacket and hat, tipping it slightly toward Rebecca before stepping out of the room, shutting the door behind him with a quiet thud.
Brayden, Abdula, and Isaac trudged down a dimly lit street, their footsteps echoing against the silence of the deserted city. The faint sound of crickets was the only thing accompanying them until a sudden, piercing light beamed down from above, stopping them in their tracks.
Brayden shielded his eyes, squinting against the brightness. Abdula, still clutching his bandaged stump, flinched, momentarily thrown off balance.
"What the hell—?" Brayden muttered.
Isaac smirked as he gestured ahead. "Welcome to Forsaken Gallery," he said with a casual wave of his arm.
Through the blinding light, the silhouette of the museum emerged. The Forsaken Gallery loomed large in the distance, its entrance fortified by a wooden spiked fence, and a watchtower perched high above the grounds. The light faded slightly, revealing the structure's haunting grandeur against the night sky.
Brayden's eyes were drawn to the movement at the museum's gate. Two figures stepped into the light—Winston, his familiar cowboy hat catching a faint gleam, and Elijah walking beside him.
Brayden's heart skipped a beat as his gaze locked with Elijah's. For a moment, the noise of the night seemed to vanish.
Elijah froze mid-step, his expression shifting from disbelief to recognition. "Brayden," he said softly, his voice carrying a mixture of relief and amazement.
Brayden's face lit up with a genuine smile, a weight visibly lifting from his shoulders.
The two men stared at each other across the distance, an unspoken bond of relief and hope bridging the gap.
The scene opens on a close-up of Jason's boots, their soles scuffing softly against the cracked pavement. As we pan upward, the sound of his steady breaths fills the quiet night. He moves past a dilapidated fountain, its water long gone, replaced by dirt and leaves gathering at its base. Jason's Beretta is firmly gripped in his hand, his eyes scanning the desolate surroundings, alert yet heavy with fatigue.
Minutes pass, his footsteps echoing through the stillness. Jason finally comes to a halt, his gaze lifting. His breath catches as the familiar sight of the old Dave & Buster's looms before him.
The once-vibrant sign now hung crookedly, its colors faded and covered in rust. Thick vines twisted their way around the frame, nature's quiet reclamation of what had been lost. Jason took a shaky step back, his chest tightening as memories surged—laughter, camaraderie, and the innocence of a life that felt like a dream compared to the nightmare he lived now.
He turned sharply, forcing himself to move away. His path led him into an alley, the narrow walls casting deep shadows that seemed to press inward. But this wasn't just any alley—this was the alley.
Jason stopped dead, the air around him growing heavier. His eyes traced the cracked pavement until they landed on the spot where Mason had fallen. The space was empty now, no trace of the tragedy that had unfolded there, yet the memory was vivid.
A cold wave of guilt and grief washed over him, sending a shiver down his spine. He looked away, his gaze falling on a flash of blue peeking out from beneath a piece of tattered cardboard. His brow furrowed, and he cautiously nudged the cardboard aside with his boot.
There it was.
A blue teddy bear. The very same one Mason had won back at Dave & Buster's, a symbol of a simpler, brighter time now tainted by loss.
Jason's chest heaved, and he staggered backward. His body bent as he leaned against the wall, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the pavement. He wiped his mouth, trembling as he straightened.
With his head low, Jason turned to leave, his steps unsteady as he forced himself forward.
But before he could take another step, a sharp clang echoed through the alley.
The world spun as the shovel connected with the side of his head. Jason crumpled to the ground, his Beretta clattering out of his grip. His vision blurred and darkened as the last thing he saw was the faint outline of a figure looming above him.
Then, everything went black.
The End
Author: Theater Writers