Shane pressed his back to the wall beside the shattered front window, baseball bat gripped low and tight in both hands. Through the narrow gap in the boards, he could make out the three figures more clearly now: two men flanking one woman, moving with the kind of purposeful stride that said they weren't just wandering survivors. They were hunting.
The woman was shorter than the men, dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail, clothes torn at the sleeve and streaked with dirt. She kept her head down; shoulders hunched like she was trying to disappear into her own skin. One of the men, a tall, broad-shouldered guy with shaved head and a hunting knife on his belt, had his hand clamped around her upper arm. Not gentle but possessive.
Shane's stomach twisted hard.
He knew that face.
Even from this distance, even half-hidden in shadow, he recognized her.
Professor Nyra Voss.
Environmental Science 301. The one who'd once spent an entire lecture ranting about how humanity was a cancer on the planet, then smiled sweetly when a student asked if that included him. Mid-thirties, sharp cheekbones, full lips that always looked like they were holding back a secret. Students called her "Voss the Boss" behind her back. Some of the guys had dirtier nicknames. Shane, original Shane, had spent more than one office-hours visit trying not to stare at the way her blouses hugged her curves, the way her hips swayed when she paced in front of the projector, the way her voice could cut through bullshit like a scalpel.
Now she looked nothing like the poised academic he remembered. She looked like she'd been dragged through hell.
A fresh bruise purpled her jaw. Her lower lip was split, crusted with dried blood. When she slowed her steps even slightly, Shaved Head yanked her forward hard enough to make her stumble. She caught herself without a sound, but the fear in her posture was unmistakable.
Shane's knuckles whitened around the bat handle.
They're not just passing through. They're bringing her here, towards his house.
He could read it in their body language: the way Wiry (the shorter one, baseball cap low, pistol tucked in his waistband) kept scanning the boarded windows like he was already measuring square footage, the way Shaved Head's free hand hovered near his knife hilt, casual but ready. They moved like men who'd done this before.
Nyra's gaze lifted, brief, frantic, and locked with Shane's through the splintered gap in the boards.
Her eyes widened in raw recognition.
Then pure, pleading terror.
She jerked against the grip on her arm. Shaved Head snarled something low and vicious, backhanding her across the face. The sharp crack carried clearly through the quiet street. She staggered sideways, fresh blood welling on her lip.
Shane's vision narrowed to a red tunnel.
He sent the command silently.
Brutus. Door. Hold position. Wait for my word.
The zombie shifted in the shadows behind the barricade, coiled and obedient.
The trio reached the porch steps.
Wiry kicked the bottom riser hard enough to rattle the whole structure. "Yo! House! We saw movement. We know someone's inside. Open the fuck up; we've got a lady here who needs a warm place to sit. And we're not asking twice."
Nyra's voice came out thin, cracked. "Please… don't—"
Shaved Head clamped his palm over her mouth, fingers digging into her cheeks. "Shut your hole."
Shane stepped into the open frame of the broken window, bat resting casually on his shoulder like he was just answering a late-night pizza delivery.
"Evening, boys," he called, voice light and mocking. "You lost? Nearest welcoming committee is two streets over. They've got better snacks and fewer brain stains on the welcome mat."
Wiry's pistol came halfway out of his waistband. "Kid's got a mouth. Open the door slow. We're coming in."
Shaved Head shoved Nyra forward, positioning her directly in front of him like a human shield. The knife edge kissed the side of her throat, just enough pressure to draw a thin red line. "You want her to keep that pretty neck intact? Drop the bat and let us in. We'll even let you watch if you behave."
Nyra's wide eyes stayed locked on Shane's. Silent scream. Pleading.
Shane let out a slow, theatrical sigh, smile stretching wider.
"Fine," he said lightly. "You win."
He let the bat drop with a loud clatter onto the floorboards.
Then he whispered, "Now."
The front door exploded outward in a shower of splinters.
Brutus launched, two hundred pounds of rotting momentum slamming chest-first into Shaved Head. The big man folded like cheap cardboard. The knife flew from his grip, spinning end over end. Nyra was thrown sideways, crashing into the porch railing with a pained grunt.
Shaved Head hit the deck hard, Brutus on top, jaws snapping inches from his face, black drool splattering.
Wiry spun, pistol whipping up.
Shane was already airborne.
He vaulted the windowsill in one fluid motion, glass tearing fresh lines across his forearms and hoodie. He drove his shoulder into Wiry's midsection like a linebacker. They crashed together onto the porch planks. The gun skittered away. Shane rolled on top, pinned the man's gun arm, and smashed the heel of his palm into Wiry's nose. Cartilage gave with a wet crunch. Blood sprayed.
Wiry howled, bucking wildly.
Shane didn't pause; he snatched the fallen pistol, flipped it grip-first, and brought the butt down twice against the side of the man's skull. On the third strike the body went limp beneath him.
Breathing hard, Shane shoved off and spun.
Shaved Head had managed to get an arm under Brutus's rotting chin, holding the snapping teeth back. His other hand scrabbled blindly for the dropped knife. Nyra was on her hands and knees a few feet away, staring in frozen horror at the undead thing mauling her former captor.
Shane sprinted over.
"Brutus, off!"
The zombie rolled away instantly.
Shaved Head surged up with a roar, knife flashing in a desperate upward slash.
Shane sidestepped, caught the wrist mid-swing, twisted viciously. Bone snapped with an audible pop. The knife clattered to the boards. He drove his knee into the man's groin, twice, then slammed the pistol butt into the base of his skull with all the force he could muster.
Shaved Head dropped face-first, twitching.
Shane pressed the barrel to the back of his head.
"You picked the wrong fucking house," he said, voice flat.
He pulled the trigger.
The gunshot cracked like a whip. Gray matter and bone fragments painted the porch steps in a wet arc.
The world went quiet again, thick, ringing silence broken only by Nyra's shallow, shuddering breaths.
Shane exhaled slowly, ears still buzzing. He wiped a smear of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand and turned to her.
"Professor Voss…?"
She was still on all fours, staring at the corpse. Then at Brutus, who had risen and now stood motionless a few paces away, black fluid dripping steadily from his chin onto the porch.
Then at Shane.
"Shane…?" Her voice was barely audible, cracked and raw.
He holstered the pistol in his waistband, still surreal, and crossed to her in three quick strides. He crouched and offered his hand.
"Yeah. It's me."
She stared at the offered hand for a long heartbeat, like it might disappear if she blinked. Then she took it. Her fingers were ice-cold, trembling so violently he could feel the shakes travel up his own arm. He pulled her up slowly, carefully. She swayed; he caught her elbow and steadied her against his chest.
She didn't pull away.
For several long seconds she just stood there, forehead pressed to his hoodie, breathing in short, ragged hitches against him.
Then she whispered, "They were going to take me inside. Right here. They kept saying… they were going to make themselves at home with me."
Her voice broke on the last word.
Shane's jaw clenched until his teeth ached.
"They're not making themselves at home anywhere anymore."
He guided her gently through the ruined doorway into the dim living room. She stopped short just inside, eyes sweeping over the blood-smeared carpet, the overturned furniture, Brutus standing like a grotesque, silent sentinel.
"That's… Kyle," Shane said quietly. "My old roommate. Turned. I… kept him."
Nyra pressed a hand to her mouth. "Oh God."
"Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck, awkward. "Not how I pictured seeing you again, Professor."
She looked at him, really looked, taking in the fresh blood on his clothes, the wild, hard light in his eyes, the casual way he'd just killed two men and commanded a corpse like it was nothing.
"You've changed," she said softly.
Shane gave a crooked half-smile. "World changed first."
He led her to the couch, eased her down onto the least-damaged cushion. Grabbed the last half-bottle of Gatorade from the fridge, cracked it open, pressed it into her shaking hands.
"Drink with small sips."
She obeyed mechanically, wincing at the artificial sweetness.
Shane crouched in front of her again, forearms resting on his thighs.
"What happened after the campus fell?"
Nyra stared into the bottle like the answers were floating in the blue liquid. "It happened so fast. The quarantine broke in the night. Infected inside the wire. Some people… they started showing powers. Barriers, fire, things no one could explain. I ran when it got too bad. Hid and scavenged. Then those two found me three days ago. Said they were protecting me. Then they stopped pretending."
Shane nodded once. "They're gone now."
She lifted her eyes to his. "You saved me."
He shrugged, trying for casual. "Wasn't gonna let them redecorate the living room with you."
A tiny, broken laugh escaped her. Then the tears came, silent, tracking down her dirt-streaked cheeks.
Shane hesitated only a second before reaching out, brushing a tear away with the pad of his thumb. Her skin felt fever-hot under the grime.
"We can't stay here," he said. "More will come, dead or alive. Supplies are shit. I've got a map to Oakridge. My mom might still be there."
Nyra swallowed hard. "I have no one left."
"Then you've got me," he said simply. "And the creepy butler over there."
He jerked a thumb at Brutus.
Nyra managed a small, watery smile. "I've had worse company."
Shane snorted. "Let's loot what we can, clean you up, get some rest. We move at first light."
He stood and offered his hand again.
This time she took it without hesitation, and held on a little longer than necessary.
XXXX
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