The "leaders" are at the front, gathering their brave/foolish "scouting party." The air is thick with the smell of sweat and fear. The MC grabs Mark and Jenna, pulling them behind a set of folded bleachers. His voice is a low, intense whisper.
"This is a mistake," he says, his eyes locked on the main doors. "They're going to open that door, and they're going to draw every one of those things for half a mile right to us. This building isn't safe. It's a box. We're trapped."
Jenna looks horrified. "What are you... you're not saying we should just let them...?"
"They're going to do it anyway," the MC cuts her off, his voice sharp but not cruel. "Their 'plan' is our 'distraction.' When that door opens, all the chaos will be at the front. We are leaving out the fire exit on the north wall. Understood?"
Mark looks at the main doors, then back at the MC. He trusts his friend's competence. "And go where?"
"My flat. It's close. It's secure. We can wait there. We have to go. Now."
Mark nods, steeling himself. He grabs Jenna's hand. "We're with you."
The "Something Happens" (The Split)
The trio moves silently along the gym's back wall. At the front of the gym, the "leaders" give their "go" signal. The metal bar on the main door is pushed.
Screaming. Instantly.
It's not just the students; it's the things outside. A wave of sound and panic. Just as the MC planned, every head in the gym swivels to the main entrance.
"Now," the MC whispers.
He shoves the bar on the fire exit. It opens into a narrow, brick-walled service alley. It's quiet. Too quiet.
"Okay, go. Move fast. To the street," he urges.
Jenna scrambles out first. Mark is right behind her. The MC is last, pulling the door shut behind him, scanning the alley.
And that's when it happens.
It wasn't quiet. A single infected—maybe a campus security guard—was slumped against a dumpster just out of sight. Alerted by the click of the fire door, it lunges.
It doesn't go for Jenna or Mark. It slams directly into the MC, who was closing the door.
He's taken completely by surprise. He and the infected crash to the pavement. He's strong, and his martial arts training kicks in, but the thing is on top of him, snapping and clawing. He's in a life-or-death grapple.
"GO!" he screams at Mark and Jenna, who have frozen in terror. "RUN!"
Mark, to his credit, starts to charge back to help.
"NO!" the MC roars, struggling to keep the thing's teeth from his face. From his peripheral vision, he sees two more infected turn the corner at the far end of the alley.
This is a "triage" moment. If they stay, they all die.
While holding the infected's throat with one hand, the MC fumbles in his jeans pocket with the other. He pulls out a set of keys and hurls them at Mark's chest.
"KEYS! MY FLAT! APARTMENT 12B! 450 WEST 118TH! GO! IT'S SAFE!"
Mark catches them, stunned.
"GET HER THERE! LOCK THE DOOR! BARRICADE IT!" the MC yells, finally getting his knee up and kicking the infected off him. He scrambles to his feet, pulling the multi-tool from his backpack.
The two new infected are sprinting at him. He's now standing between them and his friends.
"GO! WAIT FOR ME!" he shouts, popping the 3-inch blade on his Leatherman. "IF I'M NOT THERE IN SIX DAYS, ASSUME I'M DEAD! GET OUT OF THE CITY! GO! NOW!"
Jenna, finally breaking from her panic, grabs Mark's arm and yanks him. "He means it! Mark, run!"
The last they see is the MC, a grim look on his face, bracing as the first of the two runners leaps at him in the narrow alley. They sprint out onto the street, joining the city-wide panic.
The last thing he saw of them was Jenna's terrified face as she dragged Mark into the chaos of the street.
The MC didn't have time to watch. The infected security guard he'd kicked was already scrambling back up. The two runners from the alley's end were ten feet away.
He didn't stand and fight. That's how you die.
He bolted, sprinting out of the alley mouth, hooking a sharp right onto the street, in the opposite direction of Mark and Jenna. It was a calculated move. He was the more immediate threat; he'd draw the runners.
He was right. The sound of their pounding, erratic footsteps echoed his own.
The world was a nightmare of noise. His head throbbed in time with the city-wide screaming. The hangover was a crippling, nauseating weight, and his lungs were already on fire. He was running on pure, terrified adrenaline.
He vaulted the hood of an abandoned taxi, his body screaming in protest. The two runners were fast, unhindered by pain or fatigue, but his training kept him half a step ahead.
He saw his chance. Ahead, a group of five panicked students burst out of a side street, screaming hysterically. They made a beeline for the open doors of the John Jay Hall dorm, a pack of at least a dozen infected drawn by their noise, pouring in right behind them. The doors slammed, but the sound of shattering glass and screams from inside told him it wasn't a sanctuary. It was a deathtrap.
It was also a "lure."
The MC cut hard left, down the side street the group had just fled. As he'd gambled, the narrow street was now eerily empty. The local "population" had been pulled away by the bigger, louder prey.
He was finally alone, but he was spent. He slumped against a brick wall, gasping, the world spinning. The adrenaline was fading, and the hangover was slamming back in, making him dizzy and sick. He was exposed. He couldn't make it the last three blocks to his flat like this. He'd get sloppy. He'd make a mistake.
He needed a "tactical pause." He needed to reboot.
The Sanctuary
Across the street was a small, unassuming metal door on the side of an academic building. "SERVICE ENTRANCE."
He staggered across, his Leatherman already in his hand. The lock was a simple commercial one. He jammed the flathead bit into the jamb, put his shoulder into it, and leveraged it open with a sickening crack of wood.
He slipped inside, into a dark, bleach-smelling hallway. Silence. He pulled the door shut, his heart hammering.
He found it. A janitor's closet.
He ducked inside, into the cramped, windowless space. It was perfect. He dragged a heavy-duty floor buffer and a metal shelving unit in front of the door. It wouldn't stop a determined push, but it would make noise. It would give him a warning.
He slumped to the floor, his back against the shelves. He was shaking, not from fear, but from the adrenaline crash. His head felt like it was going to split open.
He pulled his backpack into his lap. He checked his meager supplies: a half-empty bottle of water, a Lifestraw, a Clif Bar, his multi-tool, and a flashlight.
He knew he had to recover. He couldn't go on like this. He needed to wait for the first wave of pure, city-wide panic to subside. He needed to let his body process the alcohol and the shock.
He set the alarm on his digital watch for 90 minutes.
It was a massive risk, but it was the only smart move. He closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to slow, the blade of his Leatherman still clutched in his hand. He wasn't just taking a nap. He was letting the storm pass over him.
His watch alarm was a silent, insistent vibration against his wrist.
He didn't move for a full minute. He just listened. The building's groans. A distant, thin scream. The sound of shuffling, but it was far away, maybe on the street. Nothing immediate.
He carefully moved the floor buffer. His 90-minute "nap" had worked. The crippling, nauseating part of his hangover was gone, replaced by a dull throb, a gnawing hunger, and an icy clarity. He was alive.
He slipped out of the janitor's closet. The service corridor was empty. He made his way to a small staff lounge, where a vending machine stood against the wall. He didn't have time for quarters. He used his Leatherman, jamming the pry-bar end into the seam of the cash box and twisting. With a sharp crack, the lock mechanism failed.
He "gently" smashed the glass with the butt of his knife, a controlled, spider-webbing break, and pulled out two bottles of water, a high-sugar soda, and four or five protein bars. Calories and hydration. He stowed them and moved on.
He peered out a window. The sun was gone, its last light just a smear of sickly orange on the New Jersey horizon. The streetlights were dead. The city was sinking into a primal, terrifying darkness.
His flat was too far. His truck was too far. Moving through the open city at night was a death sentence. His nightmares had been very clear on that.
He needed a temporary base. A place to shower, rest, and wait for the sun.
His eyes fell on the dorm he'd seen earlier: John Jay Hall. It was a high-rise. The upper floors might be clear. More importantly, it had showers. He stank of sweat, fear, and the alley's grime. That scent was a beacon. He had to get clean.
He slipped out of the academic building and sprinted across the 50 feet of open quad. The lobby was a warzone, just as he'd expected. Overturned furniture, blood, and glass. The main elevators were dark. He found the service stairwell.
He eased the heavy fire door open. A groan.
Two of them were in the stairwell. A student, still in a Columbia hoodie, and a man in a dining hall uniform. They were "lurkers," just shuffling on the landing. They turned, jaws slack.
The MC didn't hesitate. He was already moving. He stepped in, driving the 3-inch blade of his multi-tool blade deep into the student's temple. He ripped it free as the body fell and, in the same fluid motion, spun and buried the knife in the dining worker's eye socket. It was over in three seconds. Silent. Practiced.
He climbed, ignoring the carnage in the lobby, bypassing the lower floors. He stopped on the 8th floor. He needed a lockable room, preferably at the end of a hall.
He'd just stepped out of the stairwell when he heard it.
Laughter.
It was loud, arrogant. It was so wrong, so out of place, that it made his skin crawl more than the zombies did. He flattened himself against the wall of the dark, flickering hallway—lit only by the red emergency exit signs—and crept forward.
He saw them. Four men, all fit, looking like they'd just walked out of the university gym. They were exiting a room, 812, slapping each other on the back.
"Crazy bitch," one of them said, his voice echoing. "She couldn't even endure it. Just... jumped."
Another one laughed. "Her loss. C'mon, I saw another one run onto this floor when the screaming started. I think she's in 825."
"Let's go," the leader said, zipping his fly. "She'll be grateful for our protection."
The MC's blood ran cold. He waited until they turned the far corner, their footsteps fading. He slipped into the room they'd just left.
It was a nightmare. The room was trashed. A woman's jeans, ripped. A torn bra on the floor. Bloodstains on the rumpled bedsheets.
The window was shattered.
He walked to it, his protein bars suddenly like lead in his stomach. He looked down. Eight stories. On the concrete roof of the dining annex below lay a broken, barely-clothed body.
His disgust was a physical, choking thing. But beneath it was a pure, white-hot fury. His nightmares had prepared him for the dead. They had never prepared him for this.
This wasn't the apocalypse. This was a choice.
In a fit of rage, he turned. But his rage wasn't loud. It was silent, cold, and utterly focused. He was no longer a survivor seeking shelter. He was a hunter.
He stalked out of the room, his knife still in his hand, sticky with the blood of the dead. He was impossibly light on his feet. He heard them down the hall, at room 825.
"Hey!" one of them called, his voice a fake, sweet coo. "We know you're in there! We're other students! We're here to help!"
Silence from inside.
"Bitch! Open the damn door!" another one yelled, his voice instantly turning ugly.
WHAM.
A heavy shoulder slammed the door.
WHAM.
They were making enough noise to draw every infected in the building.
The MC was thirty feet behind them, moving through the blood-red darkness of the hallway. And he was making no noise at all.