The crackle of the inferno was the only sound left in the world.
The heat was a physical weight, distorting the air until the buildings across the street looked like they were melting into oily patches of shadow. Noah and Claire slipped through the narrow mouth of the alley, emerging onto a street that was even more deathly silent than the one they'd left.
It looked like a corner of hell had been torn out and discarded into the mortal world.
Black smoke spiraled into the sky, twisting into grotesque, reaching fingers. The air was a toxic cocktail—the sharp tang of gasoline, the acrid bite of burning rubber, and a underlying, sickly-sweet rot that made Noah's stomach do a slow, nauseating roll.
They stepped around a corpse that had been chewed into something unrecognizable. Beside it, a handful of brass shell casings caught the flickering firelight, glinting like fool's gold.
Further down the block, staggering shapes wandered with a terrifying lack of purpose. They turned their stiff, necrotic necks with a wet, clicking sound, their clouded eyes searching for nothing and everything all at once.
Claire gripped her handgun with white-knuckled intensity, her footsteps ghosting over the pavement. "What happened here, Noah?" she whispered, her voice a fragile thread of confusion. "Those things... they aren't just sick. They're... dead."
Noah stopped, holding up a hand. He scanned the shadows, listening for the telltale shuffle of leather on concrete. Only after confirming the immediate area was clear did he look back at her.
His eyes were a calm, deep pool of focus—the kind of look he used when dissecting a difficult text or perfecting a strike. "Leon first," he said, his voice low and steady. "We survive the next ten minutes, then we worry about the 'why.' Finding Chris is the mission. Got it?"
Claire took a shaky breath and nodded. Noah's pragmatism was a cold splash of water, grounding her. "Right. Let's move."
They pushed forward, hugging the shadows of the brick facades. Halfway down the block, a neon sign flickered through the haze: GUN SHOP.
Claire's eyes widened. She grabbed Noah's sleeve, pointing urgently. "Noah, there! We can't have you walking around with nothing but a backpack and a prayer. Let's see what they've got left."
Noah didn't argue. In a world where the rule of law had been replaced by the rule of the fang, he needed more than his fists. They broke into a low crouch-run toward the storefront.
The door was glass, partially obscured by heavy display shelves. Noah reached for the handle, pushing gently. It gave way with a soft creak.
"Don't move!"
The shout was a jagged edge of pure panic. A stout, middle-aged man in a tactical vest stepped from behind a rack of hunting gear. He was leveled a custom crossbow at Noah's chest, his fingers trembling so violently the bolt danced in the air. His eyes were bloodshot, his face slick with a cold sweat.
Claire raised her hands immediately. "Easy! We're human. We're uninfected. Just put the bow down."
Noah stood perfectly still, his palms open and visible. He kept his gaze steady and non-threatening. "We're just passing through, friend. We don't want any trouble."
The man stared at them for five long seconds, his chest heaving. Slowly, the murderous tension drained from his shoulders. "Thank God..." he gasped, the crossbow dipping. "I thought... I thought they were coming back. Get inside. Fast."
He ushered them in and threw the deadbolt, peering through the glass with wide, frantic eyes before turning back to them.
"I don't know what the hell is going on," the man muttered, wiping his brow. "One minute I'm watching the game, the next, the street is a slaughterhouse. Screams, gunshots... then those things." He gave them a weary, jagged smile. "I'm Kendo. You're lucky. I've been keeping the lights low. Those monsters... they go for sound and light. Stay quiet, and they'll drift right past."
He gestured vaguely at the shelves. "Take what you can find. Strength in numbers, right? I'll keep watch."
"Appreciate it," Noah said.
Claire went straight for the gun racks, but her heart sank. The wall was a series of empty hooks and shadows. The R.P.D. or panicked survivors had picked the place clean. Shotguns, rifles, even the snub-nosed revolvers—all gone.
"Damn it," she hissed, kneeling behind the counter. She managed to find three boxes of 9mm rounds tucked away in a drawer. "Better than nothing," she muttered, stuffing them into her jacket.
Noah didn't bother with the empty racks. He knew his limits; he wasn't a marksman, and a gun he didn't know how to clear was a liability. He moved to the hardware section, his eyes scanning for something with weight.
In the corner, he found a bundle of construction rebar. He pulled out a meter-long rod, its surface ribbed and cold. He tested the weight, giving it a quick, sharp snap through the air.
Whoosh.
It was heavy, balanced, and indestructible. In the logic of Xingyi Quan, the weapon was just an extension of the arm. This rebar was a crushing tool, perfect for the "heavy sword" philosophy of his training. He felt a sudden, grounded sense of lethality.
CRASH.
A scream of pure, unadulterated agony ripped through the shop.
"Kendo!" Claire cried out.
They ran toward the front. The floor-to-ceiling window, which had been intact seconds ago, was now a jagged spiderweb of glass. At the center was a massive, gaping hole.
A dozen zombies were pouring through the breach like a grey tide, tumbling over one another in a frenzy of rotted limbs. Kendo was on the floor, pinned by three of the monsters. His crossbow lay useless feet away.
He had just enough time for one more choked cry before a bloody hand clamped over his mouth. The sounds that followed—the wet tearing of fabric and flesh—were deafening in the small shop.
"Move!" Noah grabbed Claire's arm, pivoting her toward the back exit. "We can't help him! Go!"
They slammed through the rear door, burst into a narrow, trash-choked alley. The air here was stagnant, smelling of sour refuse and old rain. They didn't slow down, weaving through piles of discarded boxes until they hit the next main road.
The scent of fresh blood hit them instantly.
A group of zombies was huddled in the center of the street, their backs to the newcomers. They were making a wet, grinding noise that Noah recognized as teeth on bone. A tattered blue police sleeve was visible in the mess.
Across the way, a female zombie in a shredded camisole wandered past a clothing store. Her skin was a bruised green, mottled with dark purple spots, but she still moved with a haunting, rhythmic grace—a echoes of the woman she had once been.
Noah paused, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed her gait. He was looking for the weakness—the way the virus affected the motor cortex, the shift in her center of gravity.
Suddenly, he felt a sharp pinch on his ear.
Claire was glaring at him, her eyes flashing with a mix of adrenaline and annoyance. "What are you doing? Staring at the undead girl's legs?" she hissed. "Let's move while they're busy eating!"
Noah blinked, a rare, sheepish look crossing his face. "Just... checking her movement patterns, Claire. Force of habit."
"Check them later! Move!"
They hugged the walls, ghosting past the feeding frenzy in the street. As they moved, Noah's eyes snagged on a shattered newsstand. He reached inside, clearing away a pile of bloody magazines to find what he was looking for: a city map.
He spread it out against a brick wall, his finger tracing the grid by the light of a nearby fire. "Here," he whispered. "We're on Ennerdale. The R.P.D. station is two blocks north."
The building loomed at the end of the street—a massive, Gothic stone fortress that looked more like a castle than a police precinct. The "R.P.D." logo sat high above the arched entrance, dark and imposing against the orange glow of the burning city.
"There it is," Claire whispered, her voice a mix of hope and dread. "The station."
Noah gripped his rebar, his eyes on the shadows surrounding the gates. "Let's go find Leon."