The cabin held through the night.
Jimmy stayed awake until the first pale light crept through the dusty windows, the 9mm never leaving his lap. The moans had circled like wolves, close enough to raise the hair on his arms, distant enough to keep hope alive. He'd watched the tree line for hours, searching for the shape he'd seen in the moonlight. It never reappeared. By dawn, the moans faded into nothing.
He woke Nick for watch and slept for two hours. Two dreamless hours, thank god, then they were moving again.
The Suburban rumbled back onto the highway as the sun cleared the treeline, painting the world in shades of gold and amber. Mist rose from the fields, burning off in the morning light. Another beautiful day in hell.
Ashley had changed into fresh clothes from the supplies. Jeans and a sweatshirt, finally out of those bloodstained scrubs. She'd found them in the dark, by feel, not caring what they looked like. The sweatshirt was too big, swallowing her frame, but she'd pulled the hood up and curled into herself like a turtle retreating into its shell. Her face was still pale, dark circles under her eyes from too little sleep and too much fear, but she was alive. That was all that mattered.
"You okay?" Jimmy asked.
"I'm alive." She pulled the hood tighter around her face. "Just tired. And scared. But I'm okay."
He nodded. That was all he needed to hear.
They made good time through the morning, pushing south on back roads that wound through farmland and forest. The leaves had turned here, crimson maples, golden oaks, the occasional flash of orange from a sugar maple. They should have been on a scenic drive, windows down, music playing, the world spread out before them like a postcard.
Instead, they were running from the dead.
The towns got smaller, the distances between them longer. Fewer cars, fewer bodies, fewer of those shambling figures with their dead eyes and reaching hands.
But not none.
Around noon, they passed through a village called pine Grove. Population 300, if the sign could be believed. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone, where the biggest event of the year was the fall harvest festival, where the leaves turned crimson and gold and the air smelled of wood smoke and apples.
The main street was lined with small businesses. A hardware store, a pharmacy, a diner, and at the far end, a McDonald's with its golden arches standing tall against the autumn sky. The parking lot was littered with abandoned cars, some with doors open, some with bodies slumped inside.
Ashley looked at the McDonald's and let out a small, unexpected laugh.
"What?" Nick asked.
"I don't know." She shook her head. "It's stupid. But I was just thinking... I could really go for some fries right now. Like, really fucking go for some fries."
Nick snorted. "Fries? Out of everything in that place, you want fries?"
"They're warm. They're salty. They're normal." She shrugged. "I miss normal."
Jimmy was about to agree when something clicked in his brain. Fries. Grease. Fryer grease.
"Shit," he said.
"What?"
He looked at the fuel gauge. Still three-quarters full, plenty to get them through the day. But that wouldn't last forever. Eventually, they'd run out. Eventually, they'd be stranded.
"The Suburban," he said. "I modified it years ago. It can run on vegetable oil. Used fryer grease."
Nick stared at him. "You're telling me this thing can run on McDonald's garbage?"
"If I process it right. Filter it, clean it, get the food particles out." Jimmy was already pulling off the road, parking behind the restaurant, out of sight from the main street. "We're not going to find diesel forever. But fast food restaurants? They're everywhere."
Ashley looked at the building. "Is it safe in there?"
"I'll check it out. Both of you stay here. keep the engine running."
He grabbed the 9mm and stepped out.
The back door of the McDonald's was propped open with a cinder block, swinging slightly in the breeze. Jimmy approached carefully, weapon raised, eyes scanning for movement. The smell hit him before he got through the door. Not the sweet-foul stench of the dead, but something worse. Old grease, rotting food, the sour smell of milk that had gone bad. It mixed with the copper tang of old blood, just faint enough to raise the hair on his arms.
He stepped inside.
The kitchen was dim, lit only by the light filtering through the grimy windows. Stainless steel counters gleamed dully, smeared with something dark near the fryers. A freezer door hung open, water pooled on the floor from melted ice, a trail of something red leading away from it. The fryers themselves sat in a row, their oil cold and congealed, a layer of dust settling on the surface.
Jimmy moved deeper in, flashlight beam sweeping corners, checking closets, checking the swinging doors that led to the dining area. The beam caught something on the floor. A shoe, still attached to a foot, the rest of the body hidden behind the counter. He stepped around it, saw the remains on a McDonald's uniform, the chest cavity hollowed out, rips exposed, spine visible through torn flesh. Flies crawled in the hollow spaces.
He forced himself to breathe through his mouth and kept moving.
The dining area was empty. Tables overturned,]k8i chairs scattered, a child's happy meal toy lying in a puddle of something dark. The front windows were boarded up from the inside, someone's desperate attempt at fortification that clearly hadn't worked. A trail of blood led back toward the kitchen.
To the fryers.
Jimmy turned, flashlight beam sweeping the space behind him.
Nothing.
He found buckets in the back, clean ones, still in their packaging. He found filters for the fryers too. He started siphoning the cold oil into the first bucket, working fast, one eye on the darkness, one hand on the 9mm.
The oil flowed slow, thick, and congealed. It would need filtering, heating processing, but it was fuel. It was survival.
He was halfway through the first fryer when a shadow moved above him.
Not on the floor. On the ceiling.
Jimmy looked up.
The ceiling was lined with aluminum ductwork, wide enough for a person to crawl through. One of the vent covers was loose, hanging by a single screw. And pressed against it, from the inside, was a face.
Pale. Filmed eyes. Mouth open, tongue pressing against the metal slats.
It had been watching him. Waiting.
Jimmy's blood turned to ice.
The vent cover exploded outward.
The thing dropped from the ceiling, landing on the stainless steel counter with a crash that sent trays flying. It had been a man at one point in time. Tall, broad-shouldered, maybe in his thirties. Now its skin was the color of spoiled meat, mottled with purple and black. Its eyes were filmed over, dead, but fixed on him with an intensity that made his breath catch. Its mouth hung open, a thick rope of saliva stretching from its lower lip to its chest.He wore a McDonald's uniform. Manager's shirt, the name tag still pinned: KEVIN.
Kevin launched himself off the counter, body flying through the air, arms outstretched. Jimmy drove sideways, hit the floor hard, felt the things fingers graze his back as it sailed past. It crashed into the fryers, metal groaning, oil sloshing across the floor. The buckets tipped, spilling their contents in a thick wave.
Jimmy scrambled to his feet, brought the 9mm up. Kevin was already turning, already coming, faster than anything that size should move. His hands hit Jimmy's chest, and drove him back against the wall. The gun went flying, skittering across the greasy floor.
Kevin's teeth snapped inches from his face. The smell was overwhelming. It smelled like rot, blood and something sweet, like decaying meat. Jimmy brought his hands up, caught the thing's throat, and held its jaws at bay. Kevin's filmed eyes stared into his, empty and hungry and endless.
"Fuck," Jimmy gasped. "Get the fuck off me!"
Kevin's strength was inhuman. His jaw inched closer, teeth clicking together, saliva dripping onto Jimmy's cheek. Jimmy's arms burned, shook, gave way inch by inch.
His fingers slipped on the things throat. Its skin was slick, greasy and peeling away under his grip. Kevin's teeth grazed his cheek, close enough to almost draw blood but not breaking skin. Not yet.
Jimmy screamed, brought his knee up, catching the thing in the stomach. Nothing. It didn't even react.
His hand hit something on the floor beside him. The flashlight. Heavy. Metal.
He grabbed it, and swung it with everything he had.
The flashlight connected with the side of Kevin's head. A wet, crunching sound that echoed through the kitchen. The thing's head snapped sideways, its grip loosening for just a second. Jimmy shoved, scrambled, and got his feet under him.
Kevin came at him again. Jimmy swung again, catching him in the face this time. He felt bone crack, saw an eye burst. Blood sprayed across Jimmy's chest. Kevin staggered but didn't fall. Didn't even slow down.
Jimmy backed away, slipped in the oil, and went down hard. Kevin was on him in an instant, teeth snapping, hands clawing.
Jimmy grabbed the edge of a stainless steel counter, pulling himself forward, dragging Kevin with him. The things weight pressed him down, its teeth inches from his neck. He could feel its breath, cold and fetid, on his skin.
His hand found something on the floor. A heavy metal lid from one of the fryers.
He brought it up, and jammed it between them, using it to push Kevin's head back. The thing snapped at the metal, teeth clanging against it, leaving dents.
Jimmy reached for the 9mm. It was three feet away, just out of reach. Kevin's weight pinned him. He couldn't move.
Kevin's teeth found the metal lid, scraping against it, searching for flesh. Jimmy held the lid with one hand, reaching with the other, stretching, straining.
His fingers touched the grip. Pulled it closer. Wrapped around it.
Kevin's head twisted, those filmed eyes finding his again. The thing lunged.
Jimmy brought the gun up, pressed it against the thing's temple, and pulled the trigger.
The shot was deafening. Kevin's head snapped sideways, a spray of blood and bone painting the wall. The thing went limp, collapsing on top of him, its weight crushing.
Jimmy lay there, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling. Kevin's body twitched once, twice, then went still.
He shoved the corpse off, and crawled out from under it. His hands were shaking, his heart pounding, his whole body screaming with adrenaline. He checked his arms, chest and neck. No bites. No breaks in the skin. Just bruises and scratches and the memory of teeth too close to his throat.
"Fucking hell," he gasped. "Fucking shit."
He leaned against the counter, caught his breath, and forced his hands to stop shaking. Then he looked at the spilled oil, the overturned buckets, the mess covering the floor.
"Son of a bitch."
He found more buckets. Found the fryers still half-full. He started siphoning again.
Twenty minutes later, he emerged with four, five-gallon buckets of used fryer grease, the lids sealed tight. His jeans were torn and soaked with oil, his face was streaked with blood and sweat, and his whole body ached.
Ashley stared at him as he climbed back into the driver's seat. "What the hell happened in there?"
"Kevin happened." Jimmy started the engine, his voice flat. "Kevin was in the vents. Kevin tried to eat my face. Kevin lost."
Nick looked at the buckets, at Jimmy's torn clothes, at the blood drying on his skin. "Jesus Christ, amn. Are you okay?"
Jimmy looked at his hands. They were still shaking. They'd probably shake for a while.
"I'm alive," he said.
He pulled back onto the road.
They drove.