The fridge buckled, its weight shifting as the door splintered behind it. Any second now, the Undead would pour in.

  John's eyes darted around the room, searching for anything... ANYTHING... that could save them. His gaze landed on their weapons: a baseball bat and a knife.

  That was it.

  They had two choices. Fight through thousands of them… or jump off the third floor.

  “Fight or jump?!” John’s voice cracked with urgency.

  Mark whipped his head around. “What?!”

  “FIGHT OR JUMP?!” John bellowed.

  Mark groaned, shoving himself against the fridge. “Help me hold this first!”

  John didn’t hesitate. He sprinted over, slamming his weight into it. The fridge jolted under the force of another slam from the Undead.

  “Okay—while we’re still holding this up, how about we find another way?!” Mark gritted his teeth. “One that isn’t jumping or fighting?!”

  Their arms were already burning. The groaning mass outside only grew louder, the sound of hands and bodies stacking up against the door like a tidal wave of death.

  John’s mind raced. He scanned the room again. No escape. Nowhere to go.

  Or was there?

  His eyes flicked toward the bathroom.

  “Can we hide?!” he asked, breathless.

  Mark strained to hear. “What?!”

  John sucked in a sharp breath. “The bathroom!”

  Mark stared at him like he had lost his damn mind. “You wanna hide in the BATHROOM?!”

  “They’re not smart, right?!” John reasoned, his words spilling out fast. “They might not even know we’re there!”

  “Are you CRAZY?!” Mark’s voice cracked. “What if they DO?”

  “It’s worth a shot!!!”

  “No, it isn’t!”

  The fridge tilted. The door groaned.

  ...

  ...

  ...

  They couldn’t hold it any longer.

  John and Mark bolted for the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind them. Their backs pressed against it, hands trembling as they fumbled for the lock.

  Then… silence.

  Maybe, just maybe, the Undead wouldn’t know they were here.

  John raised a finger to his lips, signaling Mark to stay quiet. His own breathing was shallow, barely there.

  Mark swallowed hard and gave a small nod.

  Then... THUMP!

  The fridge crashed to the floor, the impact shaking the walls. The echo of it sent a cold dread down their spines.

  And then came the sound.

  The frenzied, desperate scraping of hands against wood.

  John had one thought in his mind.

  Amy.

  His daughter. His only family.

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  The groans of the Undead filled the apartment, a constant reminder that death was just outside. But among the chaos, something else stood out.

  A growl.

  Feral. Animalistic. Like a predator closing in on its prey.

  Then...

  John saw it.

  The doorknob was turning.

  Mark’s eyes widened, and he shot forward, grabbing the knob with both hands to stop it from moving.

  Then came the scream again.

  "REAAAAAAGHHHH!!"

  A high-pitched, ear-splitting screech that sent chills down John’s spine.

  Then, the scratching.

  Clawed fingers dug into the wood, ripping and tearing at the door. Splinters flew. The whole thing rattled as if it could be torn apart at any second.

  “Shit! We’re dead!” Mark’s voice cracked with fear.

  "Just hold the door!" John yelled, pressing his weight against it.

  But as the pounding got worse. The horde started to slam into the bathroom, their bodies stacking up, desperate to get inside.

  Then...

  Gunfire.

  A burst of shots rang out in the distance.

  Then another.

  Then more.

  John and Mark froze. The Undead outside hesitated. Then, in an instant, they turned and sprinted toward the sound.

  The apartment shook as the horde rushed out, their groans fading as they chased the gunfire.

  Silence.

  John and Mark exhaled, their bodies shaking with relief.

  But then…

  A growl.

  Low. Deep. Close.

  John’s heart pounded.

  Whatever that thing was… it was still here.

  But as the gunfire drew closer, the creature let out a low snarl… then vanished into the darkness.

  John’s breath hitched. “Is that the military?”

  Mark swallowed hard, still gripping the door. “God, I hope so.”

  Then, a small military patrol of six entered the apartment.

  Gunfire echoed outside as some of them remained by the entrance, holding off the incoming horde.

  Inside, one of the soldiers raised his voice over the chaos.

  "Echo Team! If there are any survivors, state your names!"

  John and Mark didn’t hesitate. They shoved open the battered bathroom door, hands raised, but still wielding their weapons.

  "I'm John, and this is Mark! We're not one of them!" John called out.

  A soldier immediately stepped forward, rifle steady. "Are you bitten? Scratched? Any physical contact with the infected?"

  "No, no, we're fine!" John answered quickly.

  "Any illnesses?" the soldier asked, his voice sharp with urgency.

  "No, we're fine! In good shape!" John replied quickly. "Please help us, we're desperate!"

  The soldier didn’t hesitate. "Follow us. Don’t separate!"

  John and Mark nodded and trailed behind as they were led outside.

  Gunfire roared. Five soldiers held their ground at the entrance, firing relentlessly at the horde while another prepared a rappelling rope near the balcony. The hallways were flooded with the Undead, there was no way down but through the air.

  One by one, they began to descend.

  Then it came again.

  That same screech.

  "REEEEEAAAAAAGHHHH!!!"

  It tore through the air, raw and inhuman.

  As they descended, gunfire turned to screams. The soldiers above them shouted in panic. Then one of them was flung off the balcony, his body slamming into the pavement below with a sickening crunch.

  The sounds of tearing flesh followed. Gurgled cries. The relentless, wet ripping of bodies being torn apart.

  And then… silence.

  Echo Team was gone.

  Only one soldier remained.

  As soon as their feet hit the ground, the last soldier clutched his radio, his voice frantic. "Echo Team is compromised, I repeat, Echo Team is----"

  A blur of movement. A flash of claws.

  The creature leaped on him.

  John barely registered what happened before the soldier’s armor was shredded like paper. The thing... an Undead in a tattered hoodie, drove its claws into his torso.

  The soldier didn’t scream and attempted to aim his gun at the creature.

  The creature tilted its head, puzzled… then wrenched its claws sideways, ripping out a mass of flesh and organs.

  The soldier’s agonized wail split through the streets.

  "LOOK OUT!" Mark roared.

  John turned just in time to see an Undead lunging at him, only for Mark to drive his knife deep into its skull.

  "KEEP RUNNING!" Mark shouted.

  More Undead poured into the streets.

  John and Mark ran.

  And ran.

  And ran.

  Then, the unmistakable sound of rotor blades.

  A chopper.

  "LOOK!" John pointed.

  Hope.

  But hope was short-lived.

  "REEEEEAAAAAAAGHHHH!!!"

  The creature leaped.

  Like a bullet, it shot through the air, slamming onto the helicopter’s windshield.

  With one brutal punch, the glass shattered. The pilot barely had time to react before the thing ripped him out of his seat and threw him into the streets below.

  Then, chaos.

  Screams erupted from inside the chopper as the creature tore through the soldiers inside the chopper.

  John and Mark could only watch in horror.

  "Holy shit--" Mark breathed.

  Then, they ran.

  To wherever.

  To nowhere.

  As they ran, their lungs burning, their legs screaming for rest, they finally slowed, staggering to a stop at the sight ahead.

  Brooklyn.

  Or what was left of it.

  A military safe zone… or at least, it had been.

  Now, it was a graveyard.

  The walls meant to protect survivors were crumbling, clawed apart by something far stronger than human hands. A tank sat in the middle of the street, its hull scorched, its turret bent at an unnatural angle. The stench of death clung to the air, thick and suffocating.

  Bodies... military and civilian... lay sprawled across the pavement, torn open, their remains baking under the dim, sickly glow of the fires still smoldering around them. And the worst part?

  Some of them were still moving.

  Not alive. Not dead. Just... mindless.

  John stood frozen, his breath shallow, his hands trembling at his sides. A lump formed in his throat, heavy and suffocating.

  That small flicker of hope, the belief that... somewhere, someone still had control over this nightmare... snuffed out in an instant.

  "They tried," Mark murmured. His voice was barely there, hollow and tired. "They tried to set up a safe zone…"

  John swallowed hard, unable to look away.

  "They failed."