The stockroom stank of powdered dust. Air thick with mildew clung to Quinn's lungs like wet cloth. He leaned against the locked door, heart pounding, sweat trailing cold down his spine.
Outside, just beyond the metal, something scraped a slow arc with its nails—deliberate and rhythmic, like it wanted him to hear. A breath followed: wet and rattling, close enough to fog the gap around the frame.
He had to move.
The room was twelve feet wide, maybe twenty deep. Concrete floor, scuffed and spiderweb-cracked. To the left, a wall of rust-streaked shelving sagged under collapsed boxes, their contents spilling in half-decayed lumps. A battered locker unit slumped in the far corner, its top scorched and peeled open beneath a rattling vent. Directly opposite the entry door was a second exit—heavy metal, chained from the inside with a thick, rusted link looped through its handle. Beside it hung a fire extinguisher, cased in glass, its surface split down one side like a fractured windshield.
The ceiling above flickered with failing fluorescent tubes, their yellow glare twitching shadows across the room. Cardboard boxes towered in piles—some knee-high, some stacked to his chest—forming narrow choke-points and blind corners that made the space a claustrophobic maze.
Quinn moved quietly between them, boots muffled against dust and damp cardboard. The first box—closest to his boot—was marked SEASONAL in faded red. He nudged it. The side crumpled, and stale chocolates in discolored wrappers spilled out; their contents had long since liquefied into a black, greasy sludge. Something glinted beneath.
He knelt and pulled out a box cutter. The plastic handle was sticky, the blade rust-flecked but whole. He tested the edge with his thumb—it drew a thin line of blood. Still sharp. He pocketed it. The metal warmed quickly against his thigh.
The next box read ELECTRONICS in smudged marker. He peeled back the tape. Inside: smashed tablets, their screens spiderwebbed, exposed wiring like snapped veins. Tucked between the ruins, a crumpled drawing. Crayon on notebook paper. A stick-figure girl held hands with a taller woman. A sun smiled down.
Mother and daughter. Maybe.
Quinn folded the paper without looking at it again. The grief knocked but didn't come inside.
A third box took longer. The tape fought him until he jammed the cutter through the seam. Inside: a plastic water bottle, half full and clouded. He sniffed. No green, no floaters. He drank. It was warm and stale, but it didn't matter.
Then he saw the body.
Curled into the shadowed space between two fallen boxes, one pale hand stretched across the floor like it had been reaching. Not one of them. Just a man. Mid-forties maybe, his skin bloated and collapsing into itself. A name badge clung to his collar—store manager. The gaping wound under his chin had split his jaw, blackened flesh splayed like a broken blossom.
Quinn crouched beside the corpse. Near the boot, almost hidden under a fan of promotional flyers, lay a revolver.
He picked it up. The grip was smooth, worn. He opened the cylinder.
Six chambers. Two bullets.
A dry laugh caught in his throat but didn't make it out.
Above him, something shifted.
A metallic groan. Slow pressure. The ductwork strained under weight.
Quinn raised the revolver toward the ceiling.
Another sound followed—a low, fleshy slide across sheet metal, too heavy to be vermin. The vent above the locker rattled slightly, a whisper of disturbed dust falling from the grille.
He took two steps back, pistol leveled.
His temple throbbed. Blood had dried along the edge of the head wound from the crash. His palms still ached, glass buried in raw flesh. Two bullets. One for them. One for him if he couldn't stop them.
Fabric shifted above him, and then a voice broke the silence—low, uncertain, trying too hard to sound calm.
"You bitten?"
Quinn didn't lower the weapon. "No."
A ceiling tile creaked and pushed aside. A face leaned into view—male, early twenties. Acne scars, gaunt, sunken eyes. His gaze locked onto Quinn's bloodstained jeans.
"The hell happened to you?"
"Crash." Quinn let the dim light show the embedded glass and torn skin along his ribs.
The young man flinched at that.
Another tile shifted. A second face appeared—woman, forties, wiry frame, dark braids shot through with gray. She held a fire axe below the lip of the ceiling. The edge was already dark with old blood.
"We saw you fight," she said. "Military?"
"Calloway." He touched the tags at his neck.
The young man muttered something, but the woman silenced him with a look.
"Show us your arms."
Quinn rolled up both sleeves slowly. No bites. Only old scars: shrapnel along the forearm, a healed break near the elbow.
Her jaw tightened. She nodded.
"They're coming through the ducts," she said. "Two minutes, maybe less."
She dropped first. Boots hit the floor without a sound. She rose with her axe ready.
"Vent system forks—one shaft into this room, one toward the front. East side's blocked. This one—" she nodded toward the vent above the scorched locker "—we couldn't reach."
A screech of bending steel made them all look up. The grille above the shelf bowed outward.
The young man landed next—clumsy, crowbar in hand, too long for him to swing cleanly in the tight space.
"The back door's chained," he said, gesturing to the far wall, "but maybe if we—"
A loud clang cut him off. Ceiling dust filtered down like ash.
Quinn's eyes darted—vent, locker, extinguisher. Not enough time to seal it. Maybe enough to get out.
He grabbed a box—heavyweight, stuffed with gadgets—and hurled it at the glass casing.
Crash.
"AXE!" he shouted.
The woman moved instantly. One swing buried the blade into the drywall beside the vent.
A scream tore through the metal.
Something thick and black seeped through the edges of the grille—blood or fluid, he couldn't tell.
Then the ceiling exploded.
Tiles shattered, raining down as something dropped into the room. Pale. Bare feet. Gaping mouth torn open at the corners. It shrieked. Quinn fired.
First shot sliced through the eye. The body collapsed mid-lunge.
Three more scrambled through behind it. They didn't growl. Didn't moan. They coordinated—one low, two fast—arms reaching, eyes fixed, no wasted movement.
The young man swung his crowbar. The impact cracked bone, but the infected caught the metal and pulled, dragging the boy off balance.
Quinn fired again. Second shot shattered its jaw. It screamed—not mindlessly, but like it felt it. It reeled back. The man struck again. This time the blow landed clean.
The woman yanked her axe free just as another charged. She turned, pivoted, and let its momentum carry it into the corpse of the manager. Both collapsed in a tangle.
From the ceiling came more clawing. Another body pressing close.
"The back door!" the man shouted.
"It's chained!" Quinn barked.
"We thought it would hold," the man gasped. "Didn't think we'd need it."
The woman bolted toward the extinguisher. She ripped it free and slammed the red metal against the chain.
Once—nothing.
Twice—the link bent.
Third—snap.
She cried out as claws raked her arm. Blood darkened her sleeve.
"MOVE!" she roared.
She kicked the door. It stuck. She kicked again. Metal groaned. A third strike and it blew outward into the light.
Sunlight flooded in, too bright, too sudden.
Quinn staggered. The alley stretched beyond—tight and trash-strewn. A dumpster pressed to one wall. Oil slicks gleamed on the concrete. No movement.
The man tore out first, crowbar raised like a ward.
The woman followed, gripping her bleeding arm.
Quinn turned back. Shadows writhed behind the shattered vent. Fingers curled over the edge.
He tossed the useless revolver. Gripped the box cutter. And ran.
He burst into the alley, breath catching in the shift from stale air to sun. The stink hit him—gasoline, rot, and something burnt. He skidded on slick pavement, barely keeping his footing. The others were just ahead. The man heaved, bent double. The woman leaned against the wall, axe held in one hand, the other pressing her torn sleeve.
Glass shattered somewhere beyond the alley. Then a scream. Then silence.
The woman raised a finger.
Stillness.
Click. Click. Click.
Nails on concrete.
It turned the corner. Four legs. Once a dog. Skin sloughed from its ribs. Eyes dark. But it saw them—locked on like a loaded gun.
The man whispered, "Oh shit—"
It lunged.
The woman met it mid-air. Axe embedded in its shoulder. It spun, flung her aside.
Snarling, it closed on her.
Quinn grabbed a trash can lid and rammed it into the dog's jaws. Teeth locked onto the metal. Its weight drove him backward, knees scraping open on pavement.
The man screamed and ran in.
A gunshot cracked.
The thing's skull exploded.
Quinn blinked blood from his face. The infected dog sagged, collapsed.
At the alley's mouth, a figure stepped into view. Rifle lowered. Fatigues. A scar cutting down one cheek.
"You got a death wish," the man said, voice like gravel, "or are you just stupid?"
The woman staggered upright, wiping blood from her lips.
"We're moving."
The man looked past her—eyes locking onto Quinn. He squinted.
"Calloway?" he said. "You're supposed to be dead."