The building groaned under their weight like it knew what was coming. The rooftop hatch let out a reluctant creak as Xenia pushed it open and climbed up first.
She gripped the ledge, hauled herself up, and planted one foot on the sun-baked concrete.
Okay. Brave face. You're the leader. Or at least the loudest. Or maybe just the one who drew the short straw.
Why am I always going first? Is it because I gave that speech at graduation? That doesn't mean I have a death wish. It means I know how to fake confidence.
She swallowed her doubts, stood tall, and glanced back down the hatch.
"Clear," she called, trying not to sound like her voice cracked halfway through.
Rafe helped Marga up next. Then came Nestor, whose knees made a noise like popcorn in a microwave as he groaned, "I'm too old for this."
"Straight line," Rafe whispered. "One at a time. Roof's got rusted edges—we don't need any accidental parkour fatalities."
The plan was simple.
Just hop, skip, and tiptoe across three connected rooftops to reach the garage. Easy.
Except the last stretch? A meter-long alley jump. One wrong step and they'd be zombie soufflé.
They moved slow. Silent. Like nervous cats.
Halfway across the second building, Marga adjusted her duffel—and fate, as always, chose that moment to intervene.
SNAP.
The strap gave way. The bag thunked against a metal vent with a CLANG! that echoed like a cymbal solo in a haunted auditorium.
Everyone froze.
Xenia peeked over the edge.
A cluster of infected jerked their heads upward in perfect horror movie unison. One screeched, guttural and wet. Another followed suit. Then the rest.
"Great," Xenia muttered. "We just rang the dinner bell."
One zombie punched the garage gate like it owed him money. The others lurched forward.
Tenorio, as always, was annoyingly calm. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a flare, struck it against the edge of the wall, and whoosh—a sizzling red comet arced across to the far rooftop.
The infected turned toward it like moths to flaming doom.
Xenia exhaled hard through her nose, like a stressed yoga teacher.
Still alive. Still stupid. Still the leader. Lucky me.
---
They reached the final rooftop. The garage loomed across a slim alley. The van peeked out through an open roof window like a white, dented chariot of hope.
One by one, they jumped.
Xenia went first, legs barely clearing it. She landed hard, knees buckling, and rolled—graceful if you were squinting in the dark. She stood, pretending it was intentional.
Rafe helped Marga over. Nestor jumped last, landing like a dropped sack of potatoes.
"Everyone still has their limbs?" Rafe asked. "Toes? Fingers? Dignity?"
No one answered. That was a "no" on dignity.
Rafe gave a short whistle.
Down below, Tenorio opened the van's side doors like a valet at the world's worst hotel. The group scrambled in, ducking between crates and an old folded mattress that smelled vaguely of regret and mildew. Rafe slammed the doors and banged on the hood.
Tenorio gave a nod like an action hero and turned the ignition. The engine roared.
The van jerked forward, clearing the garage gate just high enough to scrape its roof and everyone's nerves.
They hit the open highway. Sunlight painted the cracked city in molten gold. It could've been beautiful—if not for the blood and death and undead buffet stumbling ahead.
WHUMP.
The van plowed through the first wave of infected like bowling pins with personal grudges.
THUDD. SMACK.
A head hit the windshield. A bloody handprint smeared across the glass like a bad art project.
"Everyone hold on!" Tenorio barked.
The van fishtailed around a barricade, tires squealing like banshees.
Ahead: the ramp to the bridge. Narrow. Cracked. Below it, dozens of zombies clawed upward like they were trying to win concert tickets.
Their van wouldn't make it.
"Out!" Rafe shouted. "Take only what you need!"
Chaos. Everyone scrambled. Xenia grabbed her bag, her map, and her nerves. One by one, they climbed the van's roof, then stepped onto the narrow beam that ran alongside the bridge.
The maintenance parapet. Barely wide enough to stand on. Just right for a group of desperate lunatics.
Xenia led. Again.
Because of course. Heaven forbid the girl with a 4.0 GPA gets a break.
She clung to the beam, trying not to look down at the snapping teeth below.
Behind her: Marga. Then Rafe. Then Tenorio.
Last was Nestor.
He hesitated. His duffel swung like a wrecking ball.
He climbed the van's hood, tried to step up—but his knee buckled. His foot slipped.
He fell forward—hands scrabbling for purchase.
"Rafe!" he shouted, high-pitched and undignified.
Rafe turned and lunged, grabbing his arm.
"I got you!"
But the weight of the bag was dragging them both down.
"Nestor, drop the bag!" Marga cried.
"No! There's medicine in it! And—and protein bars!"
"Drop it or we both die!" Rafe snapped.
With a whimper that sounded suspiciously like a sob, Nestor let the bag go.
It fell with a splat, immediately torn apart by zombie hands like it was a Black Friday doorbuster.
Nestor gasped as his foot slipped again. Rafe nearly lost his grip.
Tenorio dropped to one knee beside them and added his strength.
Together, they yanked Nestor up like a soggy marionette.
He collapsed onto the parapet, panting. One shoe gone. Both hands bleeding.
He didn't say anything.
But he didn't need to.
His expression said it all:
This apocalypse sucks.
And no one disagreed.