After a few hours of resting inside their hideout, they ate their last meal, emptying everything. They drank and ate like there was no tomorrow because, honestly, there might not be.

  When the last can was scraped clean, they started preparing. John handed Mark the knife and flashlight he had packed earlier. He gripped his own baseball bat, the weight of it familiar in his hands.

  “They’re still in this city. I know it,” Mark muttered, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms.

  John glanced at him. “Then why haven’t you gone looking for them before now?”

  Mark sighed. “I was going to, but… y'know, it’s New York. Not exactly easy to just waltz over. I’ve been planning how to get in, figuring out the safest route. We’re only a few blocks away.”

  John nodded. “We can do this.”

  Mark strapped the flashlight to his hat, adjusting it before exhaling sharply. “Alright. Let’s go.”

  By the time they stepped outside, night had settled over the city. They weren’t sure if time made a difference to the Undead, if they slowed down, got more aggressive, or if it didn’t matter at all. But they were about to find out.

  They moved cautiously through the streets, stepping over bodies, past streaks of dried blood. Their target loomed ahead... a modest apartment building just a few blocks away.

  “That’s it,” Mark said, pointing.

  “Stay quiet,” John whispered.

  The deeper they walked, the more unsettling it became. The city was… empty. No shuffling, no snarling. Just silence. A thick, unnatural kind of quiet.

  Mark slowed his pace, scanning their surroundings. “What the hell…? This is weird.” His voice was barely above a breath. “How is Brooklyn this… empty?”

  John swallowed, gripping his bat a little tighter. “Better than running into a horde.”

  Still, something about it felt off.

  A chill crawled up John's spine. A feeling.

  Then, movement, just out of the corner of his eye. A shadow darting across the street, too fast to be an Undead. Either it was hiding from them… or watching them.

  John’s stomach tightened. He leaned toward Mark, voice low. “Hey… I swear I just saw someone.”

  Mark turned to look, but saw nothing. “I don't see anything but... if it was dangerous, it would’ve attacked already.”

  John wasn’t sure he believed that.

  Before he could say anything else, Mark stopped. They had reached the apartment.

  "We're here," he said, exhaling.

  John glanced up at the dark windows. The building stood quiet, waiting.

  Something was off. He could feel it.

  “Even the buildings are empty…” Mark muttered as they made their way through the apartment complex, the silence pressing in on them.

  The hallway was still, eerily undisturbed. Dust floated in the air, catching in the glow of Mark’s flashlight. Then, as they reached the right floor, they saw it...

  A small body slumped against the wall. A little girl. Or at least, what used to be one.

  Her skin was peeling away, raw and lifeless. Her limbs were mangled... except for her right hand, which still twitched, still reached for them.

  Mark swallowed hard. “It’s a child…”

  John exhaled slowly. “First time seeing one turn?”, John gestures Mark to give him his knife.

  Mark nodded.

  John stepped closer, kneeling down to her level.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Mark stiffened. “What are you doing?”

  John didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes on the child... if she was even that anymore. Her lifeless, cloudy eyes locked onto him, her tiny fingers still grasping for something, for anything.

  “She doesn’t deserve this…” John murmured.

  Mark’s breath hitched.

  John gripped his knife, his fingers tightening around the handle. “A kid shouldn’t have to be one of them.”

  And then, without another word, he drove the blade into her skull. "This is mercy.."

  A sickening crunch. Then stillness.

  John didn’t move for a second. His first Undead kill. And it had to be a child.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. The weight of it hung over them like a shadow. John avoids thinking that it could happen to Amy... that he would be the one to put her out.

  Then, John gave Mark his knife back and took a slow step forward. “Let’s go.”

  John wiped his blade clean and followed, but something about him felt different. Maybe something about both of them did.

  Because this? This changed things.

  As Mark stepped into his parents’ apartment, a wet, sickening munching filled the air. Low, guttural growls followed..

  His heart stopped.

  “No, no, no, no, no, NO!” Mark bolted toward the bedroom, his pulse hammering in his ears.

  John chased after him, skidding to a stop just behind him.

  And then, he saw.

  An old man and woman. Handcuffed together to the bedframe. But Mark’s father… was already gone.

  His mother was still there. Eating him.

  Mark’s breath caught. His body locked up. His mind screamed.

  “No…! NO!” His knees hit the floor as the sobs ripped out of him.

  John stood frozen, staring. Mark’s parents had stayed together, even in death.

  Mark gasped between sobs. “I should have been here…” His voice cracked. “I’m so sorry, Mom… Dad… I’m sorry…”

  John, his throat tight, silently reached for Mark's knife, in an attempt of trying to take his parents down himself.

  Mark saw, and shook his head.

  “No.” His voice was hoarse but firm. He wiped his face and stood, his grip tightening on the handle. “Let me do it.”

  John hesitated, then nodded.

  Mark stepped forward.

  His mother kept chewing, oblivious, until Mark spoke.

  “Mom…” His voice wavered.

  She stilled. Then, slowly, her hollow, clouded eyes locked onto him. A second of silence. A flicker of… something, before she snarled.

  Mark’s breath hitched. His grip tightened.

  Then, he drove the knife into her skull.

  Her body twitched… then slumped.

  Mark’s hand shook, but he couldn’t let go. The knife stayed there, buried deep, as his shoulders trembled.

  John looked away.

  Mark swallowed hard and pulled the knife free. His mother’s body sagged.

  He turned to his father.

  His face was barely there. His throat, stripped to bone.

  Mark’s voice came out a whisper. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  The knife plunged down his skull.

  And just like that… they were gone.

  Mark sucked in a shaky breath, his shoulders trembling. His chest felt tight, his hands weak.

  John hesitated before placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll give you some time,” he said quietly. “I’ll wait outside. Keep watch.”

  Mark didn’t respond. Just nodded.

  John stepped out into the hallway, letting the door click shut behind him. He exhaled, rubbing his face.

  Then... movement.

  Across the dimly lit hall, just at the edge of his vision, something shifted.

  His stomach dropped. The figure.

  The same one from earlier. Still watching. Still following.

  John’s grip tightened around his bat. Not an Undead. If it was, it wouldn’t be lurking... it wouldn’t be peeking out from corners, it would be coming straight for him.

  But who? And why?

  He took a slow step forward, eyes locked on the dark shape at the end of the hall. It barely moved, just staring back.

  “Who are you?!” John’s voice echoed through the empty building. “Show yourself!”

  No response. No movement.

  John’s heartbeat hammered in his chest.

  He gritted his teeth, knuckles white around the bat. “Why are you following us?!”

  Still, nothing.

  The door behind him creaked open.

  “Stop shouting, man…” Mark’s voice was hoarse, the grief still clinging to him. He stepped into the hall, rubbing the tears from his face.

  John turned, gesturing sharply toward the hallway’s end. “Look!”

  Mark followed his gaze, but the figure was gone.

  John’s stomach twisted. “What the hell?!”

  Mark frowned. “What?”

  John scanned the shadows. Nothing. Like it was never there.

  “I swear,” he muttered. “Someone was stalking us…”

  Mark studied him for a moment, then sighed. “Really…?” His voice was flat, tired.

  John wasn’t sure what unsettled him more. The figure vanishing… or the feeling that it hadn’t really left.

  "REEEEAAAAAGH!!"

  A piercing screech tore through the hallway, echoing off the walls. Was that a man?! Or something else entirely?!

  The sound shattered the eerie silence of Brooklyn. Then came the response... distant at first, a low rumble beneath the city’s hush. But it grew, swelling into a deafening chorus of snarls, guttural moans, and pounding footsteps.

  Thousands. Thousands.

  "What the hell?!" Mark gasped. He barely had time to process what was happening before the first wave of Undead came into view, sprinting down the hallway.

  "Shit! Get back inside!" John shouted.

  They bolted into the apartment, slamming the door behind them. The wood shuddered as the first bodies crashed against it.

  "Help me block it!" John barked, throwing his weight against the door.

  Mark scrambled, shoving a nearby fridge toward the door. The fridge groaned against the floor before wedging into place.

  "That won’t hold," Mark panted, stepping back. His heart pounded against his ribs. "That won’t fucking hold!"

  The first fists broke through the windows. Pale, rotting hands clawed inside, grasping wildly for anything to tear apart.

  John turned, eyes darting to the balcony. “We have to jump!”

  “What?! We’re on the third floor!” Mark shouted, panic creeping into his voice.

  John didn’t hesitate. “So?! Better than dying in here!”

  The fridge groaned, tilting forward as the door splintered behind it. The Undead were coming through.