Inside the Ford van.
The driver was a white man in his fifties, beer belly creeping beneath his shirt, a worn baseball cap pulled low over his brow. His face looked tense, but his hands on the wheel moved with practiced ease. He drove like a man who'd done it all his life.
In the middle row sat a young Black guy, probably no older than twenty. He wore a faded gray T-shirt stamped with punk-style lettering, saggy harem pants, a shiny earring, and a decorative metal chain around his neck. The kind of guy who looked like he was born to rap and laugh through the end of the world.
Behind him, near the back doors, sat a girl—maybe still in high school, though she looked older. Long golden hair curled in lazy waves, features sharp and clean, a hint of pale blue eyeshadow dusted over her lids. She clung to the seat in front of her, staring blankly out the window, fingers tight on the headrest. The van jolted now and then, but not because the driver was bad—it was the road. You don't drive far in a city filled with the dead without running over bodies.
"Yo! Up ahead—people! We got survivors!" the Black guy shouted, jabbing his finger toward the windshield. "What the hell are they holding?"
He glanced down at the firefighter's axe lying at his feet.
The girl snapped out of her daze. She pushed herself up, leaned over the seat, and peered forward. "Two of them. I think… they're shouting something."
On the street—
"Hey! Wait! Please, take us with you!" That was Manila's voice.
"Wait—damn it, you're drawing all of them this way—!" Liam's voice, low and tense as he twisted around, eyes locking on the horde chasing them. A zombie lunged at him. He swung his makeshift spear hard, pinning it to the pavement before yanking the blade free.
"There's too many. They're going to bring the whole swarm into Vigo Street." Liam's brows knitted, half dragging Manila as they ran in starts and stops.
"Hey! Help us! Please!" Manila screamed again, waving her arms. Her oversized T-shirt clung to her, chest heaving with each breath. If zombies could be seduced, she'd have stopped the whole damn horde.
Inside the van—
"Damn, that chick is stacked. Hey Mike, stop the car! Let 'em in!" the Black guy laughed, smacking the back of the driver's seat.
"We'll all get killed," Mike said, not even looking. "Look around you. See how many of those things are out there?"
"Come on, Mike! My aunt finds out you left people behind to die, she'll throw you out, man!"
"Jason, watch your damn mouth," Mike growled. "I'm still your uncle. And if Laura finds out you talk to me like that, you're the one getting kicked out."
The van didn't slow.
It rolled right past Liam and Manila, dragging the dead in waves behind it.
The girl in the back, still watching through the window, turned her head. She looked at Mike, then Jason, who was glancing back at her with a tilt of his head and a subtle grin.
What? she mouthed.
Jason twisted in his seat, hands flashing quick upward gestures while his eyes flicked nervously toward Mike.
She got it.
Without another word, she scrambled to the very back of the van.
"Hey, what are you doing?" Mike barked when he caught the movement in the mirror.
Click.
The back doors unlatched. The girl yanked them open and shouted, "Hurry! Get in!"
Jason climbed over, axe in hand. A zombie lunged at the van, trying to grab on. Jason swung wide—crack—the creature's skull split, half its face flying off.
"Shit!" Mike swore. It was already too late to stop them. The kids had made the choice. He pushed down his cap, grabbed the wheel, twisted in his seat.
"Hold on, all of you!" he shouted.
Then he slammed the brakes. The van skidded hard, tires screeching, then jerked into reverse.
"Oh my God!" Manila gasped, eyes wide with relief.
They weren't far—maybe a hundred meters. Liam took out another zombie as Manila sprinted toward the reversing van. It came to a screeching stop just three meters from her. She dropped her spear and dove for the open doors. Jason and the girl grabbed her arms and yanked her inside.
Liam came in a step behind. He hurled his spear like a javelin, skewering a zombie grabbing for the door. He lunged forward and slammed the doors shut.
Click.
The locks snapped into place. Mike spun the wheel hard, gunning the engine as the van peeled away down Vigo Street, the dead trailing behind.
Panting, covered in sweat, Liam and Manila scanned the faces around them.
The girl pulled a tissue from her pocket and offered it to Manila. "You've got something on your face."
"Thanks," Manila murmured, wiping away the gore.
"Yo, I'm Jason," the guy said with a wide grin. He'd returned to his seat, now leaning over the back to offer Liam a hand.
"Liam." Still catching his breath, Liam shook it.
Jason turned to Manila, eyes lighting up. "And you?"
"Manila," she said quietly, barely paying attention.
"I'm Christine," the girl said, giving a small wave. She wasn't as friendly as Jason—cooler, more guarded.
"Hey," Liam and Manila said in unison.
Only the driver hadn't introduced himself yet. Mike gave a glance in the mirror, then lifted one hand casually. "Mike. Or Old Mike if you want. Whatever."
Truth be told, Mike didn't dislike Liam or Manila. He hadn't wanted to risk the group for strangers, that was all. Jason and Christine were still kids to him. Now that no one was hurt, he didn't have a problem with them being onboard.
Liam's original plan—to get a car from the lot on Vigo Street—was shot to hell. The van had dragged the horde right into that area. Some would chase them. Others would linger. Either way, that route was blown.
The van kept moving, fast, swerving down another two streets. The undead never stopped following. Some fell behind, but others appeared from alleys and side roads, always replacing the ones lost. They beat at the sides of the van, slapped the windows. The glass held, but for how long?
Liam finally exhaled. "I saw you drive past on Oak Street. Why'd you come back?"
Jason shrugged. "We were heading to a gun shop, but… too many of those freaks. We bailed."
"Where are we going now?" Manila asked, leaning toward the window. The streets looked unfamiliar, and still infested.
Jason hesitated, casting a glance toward Mike. Mike didn't answer.
Christine did.
"To Dreamhouse. On West Gate Street. It's a clothing store. Two people are still in there."
—
West Gate was just like Oak—wrecked and bloody, cars overturned, bits of bodies strewn everywhere. Dreamhouse was a mid-range clothing store, metal shutters down, not yet opened when the world fell apart.
The Ford swerved hard at the intersection and shot into West Gate, mowing down everything in its path. Zombies howled and chased after the vehicle.
Beside Dreamhouse was a narrow alley—barely five meters wide and a dead end. Mike slowed only slightly, then sped into it. His eyes locked on the driver-side mirror. The gap between the mirror and the wall was less than a centimeter. Ten, maybe twelve centimeters between the van and the brick wall itself.
They scraped in tight, the van crawling to a stop at the alley's end. The middle door lined up perfectly with a small iron door in the wall.
Click.
The iron door opened. Someone inside had heard them.
Jason rolled down the side window, tossed his axe through it, and climbed out into the narrow space, slipping into the door.
Zombies poured into the alley, shrieking and battering the van. But the gap between the van and the wall was too narrow. They couldn't get through. They reached, clawed, snarled—but couldn't fit their bloated bodies in.
A perfect setup. But it had to work the first time. There was no second chance.
"Move! Out, now!" Mike shouted, waving them toward the window.
One by one—Christine, Manila, Liam, and finally Mike—they scrambled through the window and into the back of the store. The iron door slammed shut behind them.
Dim lights flickered inside. Racks of men's and women's clothing filled the space, posters of celebrities and designer ads plastered the walls. They'd come through the back entrance of the store.
Waiting for them were two people: a huge white man, six-foot-three, covered in tattoos and muscle, a SIG P210 pistol hanging loosely in one hand, and a Black woman, older, maybe in her forties, looking nervous.
"Where's the gun?" the big man snapped, eyes narrowing. He tugged the woman close, barely hiding the threat in his posture. The pistol hung low, but aimed close enough to matter.
Then his gaze swept over to Liam and Manila.
"Who the hell are they?" he growled.
And just like that, the air turned cold.
Something wasn't right.