The road stretched south endlessly, a gray ribbon through dying autumn colors. Jimmy's hands were steady on the wheel, but his eyes kept drifting to the fuel gauge. Three-quarters of a tank. Enough for now, but not forever. The buckets of grease in the back were a lifeline, but they'd need processing before they could be used. They needed filtering, heating, and settling. That took time. Time they didn't always have.
Ashley shifted in the passenger seat, her eyes on the map. "There's a town coming up. Jackson Creek. Population twelve hundred. Looks like it's got a main street,, some shops, a gas station."
"We need supplies," Nick said from the back. "Food, water, medical. We're burning through stuff faster than I thought."
Jimmy nodded. "We also need to find a place to process the grease. Somewhere with power, or at least a generator."
"And somewhere safe," Ashley added. "Somewhere we're not going to get jumped by those things while we're working."
Jimmy thought about Kevin. About the way he'd dropped from the ceiling, silent and sudden and hungry. About how close those teeth had come to his throat. His hand drifted to the AR-15 case in the back. He'd loaded a dozen different guns back at the shop, and after that close call, he was done with just a pistol. Too many situations where range mattered. Where stopping power mattered.
"We clear every place like a tactical team from now on," he said. "No more going in alone. No more assumptions. We go in together, we clear room by room, and we don't stop until we're sure."
Nick racked the shotgun. "About fucking time."
Jackson Creek appeared on the horizon like a photograph developing in slow motion. Main street was quiet... too quiet. Cars sat abandoned at odd angles, doors open, some still running, their exhaust plumes long since faded to nothing. Bodies lay in the street, some still, some not. The ones that weren't still were moving in slow circuits, their dead eyes fixed on nothing.
Jimmy slowed the Suburban to a crawl, scanning left and right. "Ash, you're on the left. Nick, right. I'm driving. Call out anything that moves."
They rolled past a hardware store with its front windows smashed in, the contents spilling onto the sidewalk. A figure in coveralls stood in the doorway, its filmed eyes tracking the truck as it passed. It took a step toward the, then another, its gait stiff and mechanical.
"Slow one," Nick said. "Just one."
Jimmy kept moving. The figure fell behind, still reaching, still hungering.
The gas station sat at the far end of town, a two-pump relic with a small convenience store attached. No cars at the pumps. No figures in sight. But the door to the store hung open, swinging slightly in the breeze. A smear of blood ran down the doorframe, still wet, still fresh. A trail of it led inside, dark and glistening.
"Someone's been here recently," Ashley stared. "Or something."
Jimmy pulled the Suburban around back, out of sight from the main street. He killed the engine and reached behind his seat, pulling out the AR-14, and checked the magazine. Thirty rounds of 5.56. Enough to make a statement.
"Alright," he said. "New rule. I take the rifle for range. Nick, you've got the shotgun for close work. Ash, you're on my six with the crowbar and the 9mm if things go sideways. We clear the building room by room, and we don't stop until we're sure it's empty."
"And if it's not empty?" Ashley asked.
Jimmy chambered a round. "Then we make it empty."
They moved toward the back door, Nick leading with the shotgun, Jimmy behind him with the AR-15, Ashley bringing up the rear with a crowbar in one hand and the 9mm in the other. The door was metal, heavy, propped open with a chunk of concrete. Fresh blood on the concrete. Still wet. Still red.
Nick went through low and fast, shotgun sweeping left, then right. "Clear."
Jimmy followed, rifle up, scanning the corners. "Clear."
Ashley stepped through, weapons ready. "Clear."
They moved into the store, a cramped space filled with shelves and coolers and the smell of rotting food and something else. Something copper-sweet and foul, the smell they were starting to recognize everywhere. The lights were dead, the only illumination coming from the grimy windows at the front. Dust mites danced in the pale light, swirling in the disturbed air.
Nick pointed left. Jimmy nodded. They moved.
The first aisle held chips and snacks, bags torn open, contents scattered across the floor. Something had fed here recently. The crumbs were fresh, the packaging still bright, and a trail of blood led from the aisles toward the back. Dark footprints marked the linoleum, smeared and wet. Jimmy stepped over a pile of broken potato chips, his eyes on the shadows at the end of the aisle, the AR-15's muzzle tracking every movement.
Clear.
Second aisle: canned goods, mostly untouched. Ashley grabbed a bag from her pocket and started filling it with beans, soup, vegetables, anything that would keep. She worked fast, quiet, her eyes darting to the darkness beyond the shelves. Cans clinked softly as she dropped them in.
Third aisle: cleaning supplies, paper towels, toilet paper. Nick let out a low whistle. "Jackpot."
Jimmy almost smiled. "Grab what you can. Quick."
They worked in silence, filling bags and backpacks, moving down the aisle toward the back. The coolers loomed ahead, their glass doors dark, their contents spoiled and foul. The smell grew stronger as they approached. It smelled of sour milk, rotten meat, and something wrong underneath. Flies buzzed against the glass, trapped inside, a black carpet of them crawling over forgotten hamburger patties and chicken wings.
Nick reached the end of the aisle and stopped, holding up a fist.
Jimmy froze. Ashley stopped breathing.
Nick pointed at the floor. At the trail of blood leading from the coolers to the back room. Fresh. Wet. Still glistening. And leading away from it... a second trail, smaller, and smeared, like someone had been dragged. Fingernail marks scored the linoleum where they'd tried to hold on.
Jimmy moved up beside him, and peered around the corner. The back room door hung open, darkness beyond. The blood trail led inside. From within, a sound. A soft, rhythmic sound, like someone crying.
He held up three fingers. Pointed at himself, then Nick, then the door. Nick nodded. Ashley moved back, crowbar raised, covering their rear.
They went through fast. Jimmy first, low and left with the rifle, Nick second, high and right with the shotgun. The AR-15's integrated light cut through the darkness, revealing a small office space. Desk. Chair. Filing cabinets. And in the corner, a figure.
It was a woman, young, maybe mid-twenties. She was curled up against the wall, her knees drawn to her chest, her face buried in her arms. She was shaking. Sobbing. Alive. Her clothes were torn, her shirt ripped open at the collar, a glimpse of bare skin visible where the fabric had pulled away. Dried blood caked her hands, her arms, her face. Not hers, someone else's blood. Her jeans were stained dark from sitting in it.
"Jesus Christ," Nick breathed.
Jimmy lowered the rifle. "Ma'am? Ma'am, we're not going to hurt you."
The woman looked up. Her face was streaked with tears and blood, her eyes wild, terrified, but human. So human. She stared at them like they were ghosts, like she couldn't believe what she was seeing.
"They're everywhere," she whispered. Her voice cracked, raw from screaming. "They came out of nowhere. My husband... he tried to fight them, but they just kept coming. They tore him apart. They ate him right in front of me. I could hear him screaming. I could hear his bones breaking. I could hear them chewing."
Ashley moved past Jimmy and crouched beside the woman. "What's your name?"
"Jenna."
"Jenna, I'm Ashley. We're going to get you out of here, okay? But we need you to stay calm and stay quiet. Can you do that?"
Jenna nodded, her whole body shaking uncontrollably. "There's more of them. In the store. I saw them through the window. They're everywhere. They just keep coming. They don't stop. They never fucking stop."
Jimmy's blood ran cold. He moved to the office door, and peered through the gap toward the front of the store. The figures were there, shambling into the main aisle, drawn by the sound, by the light, by the smell of living flesh. Slow ones, mostly, their stiff gait eating up the distance with relentless patience. A man in a blood-soaked flannel shirt, his jaw hanging loose, one arm missing below the elbow. A woman in a torn nightgown, her bare feet leaving bloody prints on the linoleum. A teenage boy in a football jersey, his head twisted at an impossible angle, his filmed eyes fixed on the back room.
But behind them, something else moved. Faster. Lower.
Runners.
Three of them, maybe more, weaving between the slow ones, their bodies low to the ground, their movement fluid and predatory. One of them, a woman in yoga pants, her skin gray, her eyes filmed. She stopped and sniffed the air. Her head turned toward the back room. Toward them.
"Fuck," Jimmy breathed. "We've got company. Lots of it. At least twenty, maybe more. And runners. I see at least three, maybe four."
Nick racked the shotgun. The sound was loud in the small space. "How do we play this?"
Jimmy's mind raced. The back door was twenty feet away. The Suburban was another fifty beyond that. Between them and the truck, God knew how many of those things. And now they had Jenna. Another person to protect, another life in their hands.
"Ash, get Jenna ready to move. Nick, you're with me. We go out shooting, we go out fast, and we don't stop for anything. For nothing. You hear me?"
Nick nodded, his jaw tight. "Let's do this."
Ashley helped Jenna to her feet. The woman was shaky, barely able to stand, but she was trying. Her torn shirt gasped open, exposing more skin, but she didn't seem to notice. Didn't care. She grabbed Ashley's arm like a lifeline.
Jimmy moved to the door, rifle up. "On my count. Three, two, one-"
They went.
Nick kicked the back door making it burst open, and they were running. Nick in the lead, shotgun roaring, dropping a slow one that had wandered too close. Its head exploded, blood and brain spraying across the concrete, the body crumpling. Jimmy was behind him, AR-15 spitting fire, taking down another that lunged from the side. The 5.56 round caught one in the chest, spun it, but it didn't go down. He put a second round in its head, and it dropped like a sac of meat.
Ashley half-carrying Jenna, crowbar swinging, keeping them moving. Jenna was screaming now, a high, keening wail that drew more of them, always more. Her bare feet slapped against the pavement, bloody and torn.
The Suburban was forty feet away. Thirty. Twenty.
A runner came from nowhere, slamming into Nick's side, driving him to the ground. The shotgun skittered away. The thing's teeth snapped at his face, its filmed eyes wild with hunger. Its hands clawed at his chest, tearing through fabric, drawing blood. Nick screamed, shoved, but the thing was too strong.
Jimmy didn't think. He just moved.
He grabbed the thing by the back of its shirt, hauling it off Nick. It twisted in his grip, those dead eyes finding him, its mouth opening wide, rows of broken teeth gleamed with saliva. He couldn't get the rifle up, the thing was too close, the barrel would hit Nick. He dropped it, and grabbed his 9mm from its holster, put it against the things temple and pulled the trigger.
The shot was deafening. Blood and brain sprayed across his face, hot and wet, dripping down his face. The thing went limp, its weight sagging against him. He shoved it aside.
Nick was already up, already grabbing the shotgun, already firing again. "Go, go, go?"
They ran.
Ashley shoved Jenna into the Suburban's back seat, and dove in after her. Nick piled in, racking another shell. Jimmy grabbed the AR-15 from where he'd dropped it, slid behind the wheel, fired it up, and floored it.
The figures were everywhere now. Slow ones, runners, all of them reaching, all of them hungering. They bounced off the reinforced grille, bones crunching, bodies folding under the wheels. A runner made it onto the hood, its face pressed against the windshield, its filmed eyes staring at Jimmy through the glass. It clawed at the glass, nails scratching, leaving thin white lines. Its mouth worked, that wet rattling moan muffled by the barrier.Jimmy hit the brakes hard. The thing flew forward, cracking the windshield. It left a smear of blood and matter, then slid off.
He floored it again, running the thing over.
Jenna was crying in the back seat, her whole body shaking. Ashley held her, whispering to her, trying to keep her calm. The front of Ashley's shirt was wet with blood. Someone else's blood. The fabric clung to her, outlining the curve of her chest, and where the collar had pulled during the run, a hint of cleavage was visible above the stained cotton. She didn't care.
Nick stared out the window, his shotgun across his lap, his knuckles white. A deep scratch ran across his chest where the runner's nail had caught him, blood welled up and dripped down the torn remains of his shirt. He'd need stitches, eventually. For now, he pressed a rag to it and held on.
Jimmy drove.
Twenty minutes later, when the town was long behind them and the road had narrowed to a two-lane through dense forest, he finally pulled over. Killed the engine. Let the silence rush in.
No one spoke for a long time.
Then Jenna, her voice raw and small: "They ate him. They just... ate him. While he was still screaming. I could hear his bones breaking. I could hear them chewing. And then he stopped screaming, and I knew he was gone, and I just ran. I ran and I hid and I didn't even... I didn't even..."
She broke down sobbing. Ashley pulled her closer, and held her tight.
Jimmy looked at Nick. Nick looked back. There was nothing to say.
"We need to find someplace to hole up," Jimmy said finally. "Somewhere safe. Somewhere we can process the grease and figure out what's next. Jenna needs rest. We all do."
"There's a farmhouse about ten miles from here," Nick said, pulling out the map. His hands were shaking. A drop of blood fell from his chest onto the paper. "Off the main road, surrounded by fields. Should be able to see them coming."
Jimmy nodded. "Let's check it out."
The farmhouse was perfect. A two-story colonial set back from a gravel road, surrounded by open fields that gave clear sight lines in every direction. No vehicles in the driveway. Ni figures in sight. Just the wind and the crows and the setting sun, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple.
They cleared it room by room, tactical style. Nick leading with the shotgun, Jimmy covering with the AR-15, Ashley and Jenna bringing up the rear. The house was empty. No bodies, no blood, no signs of struggle. Just an abandoned home, its occupants fled or worse. A half-eaten bowl of cereal sat on the kitchen table, the milk long since turned to curdles sludge, a layer of mold growing on the surface. A child's drawing was taped to the refrigerator, a crude stick figure family with smiles on their faces, the crayon colors bright and cheerful.
They moved the Suburban into the barn, covered it with hay, and settled in for the night.
Ashley got Jenna situated in a bedroom upstairs, gave her water and a blanket, and sat with her until she fell asleep. When she came back down, she peeled off her blood-stained sweatshirt, her t-shirt riding up with it, exposing a strip of pale skin above her jeans before she tugged it back down. She caught Jimmy watching and almost smiled.
"What?" She asked.
"Nothing." He looked away. "Just glad you're okay."
She sat down beside him, leaned her head on his shoulder. "We saved someone today. That's something, right?"
"Yeah." He put his arm around her. "That's something."
Nick sat by the window, his eyes on the fields, his shotgun across his lap. He'd cleaned the scratch on his chest, bandaged it with supplies from the medical kid. Every few minutes, his eyes drifted to the stairs, where Jenna slept.
"She's going to need time," he said quietly. "After what she saw."
"We all need time," Jimmy said. "We're not going to get it."
Nick nodded. "Still. She's one of us now. We look out for her."
Jimmy looked at his friend. He saw something in his eyes he hadn't seen before. Concern, yes. But something else. Something softer.
"We will," he said.
The sun sank lower, the shadows lengthened, and the moans began their nightly chorus.
Jimmy sat in the kitchen, the AR-15 on the table in front of him, and thought about the woman upstairs. Jenna. Widowed in the worst possible way. Alone in a world that wanted to eat her.
They'd saved her.
He checked his watch. Eight hours until dawn. Eight hours to rest, to plan, to process the grease and prepare for the next leg of the journey.
Ashley's breathing had evened out beside him, her head still on his shoulder, finally asleep. Nick remained at the window, a dark silhouette against the fading light, his eyes scanning the fields. His gaze still shifting towards the stairs every few minutes, and his expression would soften, just for a moment.
The wind picked up outside, rattling the windows. Somewhere in the distance, a runner let out that high, keening wail, answered by another, then another. The sound echoed through the trees, a predator's call to its pack.
Jimmy's hand found the AR-15's grip, fingers wrapping around the cold metal. The rifle felt good in his hands. Solid. Reliable. After Kevin, after the gas station, after everything, he'd take any advantage he could.
The wailing continued for a while, then faded into the general chorus of moans that never quite stopped. The sound had become background noise now, as constant as the wind, as predictable as the dark.
Ashley stirred, murmured something unintelligible, and settled back against him. He pulled her closer, felt the warmth of her body, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. Alive. Still alive..
Nick rose from the window, stretched and moved to the other side of the room where he could still see the fields but also keep an eye on the stairs. He caught Jimmy's gaze and nodded once. A silent acknowledgement that they were both thinking the same thing.
Four of them now. Four survivors in a world that wanted them dead.
Jimmy looked at the AR-15, at Ashley sleeping against him, at Nick standing guard, at the stairs where a woman he didn't know was trying to sleep through her nightmares.
Four was better than three.
He closed his eyes and let the moans wash over him, a lullaby of the damned.
Somewhere in the darkness, they waited. Hungry. Patient. Endless.
But for now, the farmhouse held. The doors were barred. The windows were covered. The fields were empty.