The old Ford's engine screamed, a metallic, rhythmic coughing sound echoing from under the hood.
Every time Noah buried the needle, the entire chassis shuddered like it was shedding its skin. It was a rust-bucket miracle, held together by spit and spite, yet it surged forward with a desperate, raw power under Noah's hands. He gripped the wheel until the leather groaned, his knuckles white, eyes locked onto the thin slivers of road carved out by his yellowing headlights.
The darkness pressing against the glass felt physical—a vast, hungry throat waiting to swallow the car whole.
An hour outside the city limits, a lone gas station had flickered in the gloom, a neon oasis in the middle of nowhere. Noah hadn't risked the stop until the fuel light started mocking him. As he'd pulled in, a massive silver tanker had been lumbering out, its heavy frame reflecting the fluorescent hum of the station.
Noah topped off the tank in record time, the pump clicking off just as he saw the tanker driver—a man with a face like a bulldog chewing a cigar—glaring down at him from his cab for cutting him off at the exit.
"Hey, kid!" the trucker barked, leaning out the window. "You in a hurry to see your mother or something?"
Noah had just offered a thin, sharp-edged smile as he slammed the Ford into gear. "Actually, I'm in a hurry to see your grandmother. Tell her I'll be late."
He'd floored it before the man could process the insult, leaving the trucker staring into the rearview mirror, mouth agape as his cigar ash tumbled onto his shirt.
Now, that petty bravado was gone, replaced by a cold, surgical focus.
The moment he crossed the Raccoon City line, the world changed. The air grew thick with the scent of copper and rot. Gunshots echoed in the distance—sharp, lonely cracks that did nothing to quell the rising chorus of groans.
Noah saw them ahead. Shuffling, grey shapes clotting the street like a bypass gone wrong.
He didn't lift his foot. He didn't even blink.
The Ford hit the pack at forty miles per hour. There were wet, sickening thuds as the bumper connected with dead weight. The car jolted violently, bone grinding against steel, but Noah kept the wheel straight. He leaned on the horn, the piercing blast scattering a few of the stragglers just enough to see the R.P.D. cruiser ahead.
He saw the girl in the red jacket. He saw the cop. They were surrounded, a heartbeat away from being torn open.
"Get in!" Noah roared over the engine's whine, swinging the Ford into a controlled, sliding stop that sent a spray of gravel and gore into the air.
Claire didn't hesitate. She yanked the passenger door open, diving inside with the frantic grace of a cornered animal. Behind her, the young cop scrambled into the backseat, his boots kicking the door shut just as a dozen rotting hands began to drum against the frame.
Claire froze, her breath hitching as she looked at the driver. "Noah?"
"Hey, honey," Noah said, his voice a jagged mix of relief and exhaustion. "Took you long enough to find a ride."
He didn't wait for a reply. He slammed the car into reverse, spinning the wheel to clear a path, then shoved it back into drive. The Ford groaned, tires spinning in a slick of black blood before catching pavement and launching them down the street.
The interior of the car felt like a sanctuary, however fragile. Claire sat back, her chest heaving, her eyes fixed on Noah's profile. He looked different—harder. There was a shadow of stubble on his jaw and a cold, calculating light in his eyes she'd never seen in the library.
Noah glanced at her, the corner of his mouth twitching into a ghost of a smile. "Check the glove box," he muttered. "There's a little something in there to take the edge off."
Claire popped the latch. Two bottles of bright yellow lemonade sat nestled against his registration papers. The familiar logo felt like a hallucination in the middle of a nightmare.
She cracked one open, the citrus scent cutting through the stench of death clinging to her clothes. She took a long, desperate swig. "God, Noah... you're a lifesaver." She leaned back, the sugar hitting her system. "But it's not cold."
Noah kept his eyes on the road, weaving around an overturned bus. "It's October, Claire. Ice is bad for the stomach when your adrenaline is this high. Medical 101."
Claire let out a small, breathless laugh, her eyes crinkling. "Typical. Fine, I'll take the warm stuff."
A dry, hacking cough came from the backseat.
"Don't mind me," Leon said, his voice laced with a weary, sarcastic bite. "I'm just the third wheel at the end of the world. But if you've got another one of those, I'd appreciate it. My heart's a little fragile right now."
Claire flushed, realizing they weren't alone. She handed the second bottle back. "Sorry. Noah, this is Leon. He's a cop. Leon, Noah—the guy who clearly has a thing for dramatic entrances."
Noah nodded toward the rearview mirror. "Medical student. She's the engineer." He spared a quick glance at Claire. "Maybe one day we'll build a battlefield medic bot together. Assuming we survive the night."
Leon took a massive gulp of the soda, leaning his head back against the seat. "I envy you two. Really." He looked out the window at the burning skyline, a bitter, lopsided grin on his face. "Today was my first day on the force. I expected a 'Welcome' sign and maybe a stale donut."
He gestured vaguely at a group of zombies tearing into a corpse on the sidewalk.
"Raccoon City really knows how to throw a party," Leon muttered. "They're so 'welcoming' it feels like they're trying to rip my damn heart out."