Gunshots. Screams. Blood everywhere.

  The city was falling apart. People ran without thinking, crashing into each other, desperate to escape... but where? Nowhere was safe. Their fear only made things worse. The Undead were drawn to the noise, to the panic. Every scream brought more of them.

  Blood streaked the streets. Limbs, torn and abandoned, lay in pools of red. The Undead didn’t just kill... they ripped, clawed, tore people open like paper. Hands plunged into stomachs, pulling out whatever was inside. People weren’t just dying. They were being devoured.

  The slowest had no chance. Children tripped and fell, screaming for parents who were already gone. The elderly, their bodies too weak to run, were the first to be torn apart. No one stopped to help. They couldn’t. Stopping meant dying.

  Cars slammed into each other, metal crushing metal. Some plowed straight into buildings. Alarms blared, horns wailed, but nothing drowned out the horror. The Undead figured out how to break glass. They reached inside, grabbing at drivers, ripping them from their seats. People trapped in their cars could do nothing but scream as hands yanked them out, teeth sinking into their flesh.

  John Cust had just arrived in the city when the world began to fall apart.

  Now, he was running.

  His breath was ragged, his heart pounding so hard it hurt.

  He had no time to think. No time to feel.

  The only thing that mattered was his daughter.

  His fingers clenched around the baseball bat in his hands. He swung when he had to, the crack of bone beneath wood barely registering in his mind. If he stopped, even for a second, he was dead.

  He couldn’t die. Not yet.

  The city was gone. The living were just specks in a sea of the dead. Even above, on the rooftops, the Undead were there, crouched over bodies, feeding like wild animals.

  This wasn’t just a disaster.

  This was the end.

  Blood and death weren’t just everywhere.

  They were everything.

  John Cust burst into his apartment, heart pounding, eyes scanning the room.

  “Amy?!” he called, rushing to the kitchen, empty. The bedroom, nothing. The bathroom, still no sign of her.

  His chest tightened. Panic set in. Then, a name surfaced in his mind. Francis.

  He had paid his friend Francis to babysit Amy whenever he was at work or away. Maybe she was with him.

  John grabbed his phone and dialed Francis, his fingers trembling. As the call rang, a scream tore through the hallway.

  John’s stomach dropped.

  Footsteps... fast, frantic... pounded outside. Then came the snarling, the guttural moans of the Undead.

  Someone was running for their life.

  John ducked under the kitchen counter, holding his breath. His heart slammed against his ribs as the sound of the chase faded down the hall.

  The phone kept ringing.

  No answer.

  His grip tightened around the device. His pulse hammered in his ears. Amy. Where was she? Was she safe?

  Panic clawed at his chest, pressing down hard. His vision blurred for a moment. His body shook. He needed to breathe. Think. Focus.

  He forced himself to his feet and stumbled toward the window.

  From the fourth floor, the city stretched out before him... a hellscape of blood and death. The Undead feasted on bodies, their hands pulling at torn flesh. A man sprinted down the street, his movements wild, desperate.

  They were gaining on him.

  John turned away, squeezing his eyes shut. Don’t think about it. Don’t lose it.

  “I have to find Amy,” he whispered, steadying himself.

  But before he could try to find Amy, he must get out of here alive.

  Who knew how many Undead were waiting outside his door?

  He needed supplies. Fast.

  Grabbing a backpack, he stuffed in water bottles, a few cans of food, a kitchen knife, and a flashlight. He slung it over his shoulders, adjusting the weight.

  Then, he gripped his baseball bat. His lifeline.

  Standing in front of the door, he inhaled sharply.

  I can do this. I just need to be fast.

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  One last deep breath.

  Then... he turned the knob, flung the door open, and ran.

  As he ran, John barely kept his footing. The hallway was slick with blood, a thick, suffocating scent filling the air. There weren’t many bodies... just the aftermath.

  The screaming from earlier must’ve lured the Undead away. The hall was empty. No movement. No snarling. Just blood and corpses.

  He didn’t stop to think.

  Down the stairs, fourth floor, third, second, first. His legs burned, but he didn’t care. He had to get out.

  Bursting through the exit, he froze.

  Thousands.

  The Undead stretched as far as his eyes could see, a mass of rotting bodies swaying, groaning, searching.

  John cussed under his breath. His stomach twisted. Then... eyes. Hundreds of eyes locking onto him.

  The moaning turned to snarls. The shuffling turned to sprinting.

  Run.

  He bolted into the streets, dodging reaching hands, the air thick with the stench of rot. His baseball bat swung, crack! Skulls caving beneath the force. Blood sprayed. He didn’t stop.

  Run. Run. Run.

  The more he ran, the more they noticed. The more they noticed, the more they chased. And the more that chased him, the more likely one of them to be faster; a former track star maybe, would catch up.

  His breath burned in his chest. His muscles screamed. But only one thought pounded in his head.

  Francis’ apartment.

  It wasn’t far. If he could just-----

  Something grabbed his ankle.

  John hit the pavement hard, air ripped from his lungs. Before he could react, the Undead was on him, growling, snapping, its teeth lunging for his neck.

  The teeth tore into his backpack instead, John's desperate thrashing keeping it from his throat.

  "GET OFF ME!" he roared, but more were coming. Shadows closing in.

  Then...

  BANG!

  The deafening blast of a shotgun ripped through the chaos.

  BANG! BANG!

  John’s ears rang. The Undead shrieked and crumpled, the stench of gunpowder mixing with death.

  Gasping, he looked up.

  A figure stood over him, shotgun still smoking.

  A man he never knew.

  John blinked in relief.

  The Undead snarled, but the man didn’t hesitate. Another blast. Another body dropped.

  "Get up!" The man barked, grabbing John’s arm and yanking him to his feet.

  John’s legs wobbled. His head spun.

  “Let’s go!” the man shouted, grabbing John’s arm and pulling him forward.

  Gunfire roared in John’s ears as the man blasted through the Undead blocking their path. Each shot echoed through the streets, cutting down the monsters before they could lunge. But then...

  An Undead grabbed the barrel of his shotgun. With unnatural strength, it yanked the weapon away, sending it clattering into the stampede of rotting bodies. The gun was gone, swallowed by the chaos.

  John reacted fast. He swung his bat, the crack of impact drowned out by the snarls around them. The Undead’s skull caved in as it collapsed, releasing its grip on the man.

  The stranger shot John a grateful nod before taking off again, leading him toward a narrow alleyway. “In here!” he barked.

  John didn’t hesitate. He bolted after him, slipping through the door just as the man slammed it shut and twisted the lock.

  Outside, the Undead screeched and clawed at the walls. Their footsteps pounded against the pavement, directionless. They hadn’t figured out where their prey had disappeared to... ...yet.

  John leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath. His heart slammed against his ribs, his fingers still gripping the bat like a lifeline.

  He turned to the man beside him, who looked to be in his early twenties. Sweaty, out of breath, but alive.

  “Thanks for saving me,” John said, his voice rough.

  The man nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. “Yeah, well... thanks for returning the favor. Nice swing, by the way.” He smirked. “Baseball player?”

  “Former, yeah,” John replied. “Name's John.”

  “Mark,” the man introduced himself, rolling his shoulders. The room settled into silence, heavy with everything they’d just survived.

  Mark broke it first. “You heading somewhere?”

  John hesitated, then sighed. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  Mark shrugged. “Nobody just goes outside anymore. Not unless they’re trying to get the hell out of here... y'know, try to evacuate...”

  “Evacuate?” John frowned.

  Mark gave him a confused look. “Wait… you didn’t know? Everyone in the city knows about it.”

  John shook his head. “I just got back. I was working in another state when everything went to hell. I came back for my daughter. She’s the only reason I’m here.”

  Mark’s expression darkened. He hesitated. “Listen, man… I don’t wanna be that guy, but…” He exhaled sharply. “The chances aren’t great.”

  John clenched his jaw, looking away. He knew what Mark meant. He just refused to accept it.

  “I won’t stop looking for her,” he said, voice firm. “Not unless I see her alive or…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

  Silence again.

  Then, Mark spoke, his tone softer. “Maybe she got out. The military was evacuating people in choppers a few days ago. I saw a few get lifted out before...” He paused. “...well... before everything turned to shit.”

  John looked back at him. “You were here when it happened, huh?”

  Mark nodded. “Yeah. Two days ago, everything was normal. Yesterday? Geeks started popping up. Today? Almost everyone’s dead.” His voice was steady, but there was something hollow beneath it.

  He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

  "It's crazy, man..." Mark's voice trembled. "I saw them eating kids." His breath hitched. "And you know what I haven't seen? A child infected..."

  John swallowed hard.

  Mark shook his head, his hands unsteady. "That means they didn’t even turn. They were completely devoured. I saw bones, man. Tiny bones in the streets... They... They..."

  His breathing turned ragged. "Oh God… It’s like they’re feasting on us."

  John reached out, gripping Mark’s shoulder. "Hey. We made it out alive. That’s all that matters."

  Mark inhaled sharply, then exhaled, steadying himself. "...Yeah."

  A moment passed before John spoke again. "Why'd you save me?"

  Mark let out a weak chuckle. "Maybe… I guess I’d want someone to do the same for me." He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "I just want to save people before I die. It’s kinda my principle, you know? Even though I’m scared as hell…"

  "Ah, damn it... my shotgun..." Mark groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Shit..."

  Silence settled between them.

  Then Mark spoke up. "So... any plans?"

  John nodded, slipping off his backpack and unzipping it. He emptied its contents onto the table: Water bottles, a few cans of food, a kitchen knife, and a flashlight.

  "I need to find the evacuation site," he said. "It's worth a shot. Maybe my daughter’s there…" His voice faltered. Or maybe…

  Mark's words echoed in his mind: I saw them eating kids. The thought of Amy ...his Amy... being one of them, torn apart in the streets, made his stomach twist. He shook it off. No. She's alive. She has to be.

  "You coming with me?" he asked.

  Mark hesitated. "I don’t know, man… I need to find my mom and dad. They’re in this state. I just… I moved out when I turned eighteen."

  John considered that for a moment. Then, with certainty, he said, "I'll help you."

  Mark blinked. "Really?"

  "You saved my ass back there," John said. "Least I can do." He glanced at his bag, then back at Mark. "We find your parents first. Then I head for the evac center."

  Mark replies, “Okay…”

  "REEEEAAAAAGH!!"

  Then... a high-pitched, ear-splitting screech tore through the streets.

  John and Mark froze.

  A man’s voice followed, raw with terror. “Get off me!” His screams were guttural, desperate, then drowned out by feral growling and the sickening sound of flesh being ripped apart. A wet, tearing noise. Bones snapping.

  Then...

  Silence.

  Only the shuffling of the Undead remained.

  John’s stomach twisted. “What the hell was that…?”

  Mark’s face had gone pale. “That’s the one that started the infection here...” he whispered. “It's nothing like the ones you've seen today...”

  John turned to him. “What do you mean?”

  Mark swallowed hard. “It’s fast. Faster than anything I’ve ever seen. A car at full speed couldn’t outrun it. It leaps, pounces on you like a goddamn animal. It doesn’t just bite. It tears you apart.” His voice shook. “It rips you to shreds.”

  John’s grip on his bat tightened. “You said the military was here. How the hell did this thing spread if they had guns, tanks, everything?”

  Mark shook his head. “You don’t understand.” His breath came faster. “That thing... tore through the military. They didn’t stand a chance. It was leaping between rooftops, ripping through body armor like it was paper.” He looked at John, his eyes hollow. "It toys with its victims, John..."

  A cold shiver crawled up John’s spine.

  "It wants you to scream first..."