Rafe had one arm looped tightly under Nestor's, the other stretched outward for balance as they inched their way across the bridge's maintenance beam. The metal groaned beneath them, rusted from decades of sea spray and neglect, and now burdened by the weight of five desperate survivors.
Nestor winced again—not from pain; he'd become intimately familiar with that—but from shame. Every labored breath felt like an apology. Every step he forced Rafe to slow down felt like guilt crawling up his spine.
"I'm fine," he muttered for the fourth time in ten minutes.
Rafe didn't even glance at him. "Liar."
Still, there was no bitterness in his voice. Just a quiet patience that made Nestor feel worse.
Up front, Xenia led the way with the cautious determination of someone pretending not to be terrified. Her bare foot scraped against the beam with rhythmic precision. She was counting under her breath, each step a beat, each beat a prayer.
Step, step, don't die. Step, step, don't fall. Step, step, pretend you weren't just valedictorian two days ago and now leading a death march across a zombie-infested cityscape.
Behind her, Marga moved silently, her eyes flicking down to the chaos below. Far beneath them, the undead shuffled and swayed like concertgoers waiting for the show to start. It should've been horrifying, but Marga found herself annoyed more than anything else.
"They don't even look hungry," she mumbled. "Just... nosy."
Tenorio brought up the rear, his boots silent, his jaw locked tight. He wasn't sure why, but his eyes kept drifting toward Nestor. The man was wheezing now, sweat running down his temples like slow tears.
And the worst part?
Tenorio cared.
He cared if Nestor made it to the boats. He didn't like that. He wasn't built for attachment—not in this world. Not after what he'd seen.
Still, he kept close, ready to catch either man if they slipped.
The wind was cruel this high up, pushing against them like invisible hands trying to shove them into the void. It howled through the bridge's rusted joints, sounding eerily like voices calling out from the deep—angry, distant, hungry.
The dead were quieter now. Fewer on this side. Slower.
Even they seemed exhausted.
"We can do this," Xenia whispered over her shoulder, trying to sound like a leader, even though her legs were trembling and her stomach was twisting like a pretzel in a tumble dryer.
"If we don't," Marga muttered, "we're just another snack pack."
Tenorio grunted in agreement.
They moved on, slower now. Every step was deliberate, exhausting. An hour passed. Then another.
The sun dipped lower behind thick clouds that smeared the sky like someone had wiped blood across a window. The shadows stretched longer. Every creak of the beam sounded more final.
Two hours and forty minutes in, they finally saw it.
The end of the highway.
The city was behind them, distant and broken. The ocean lay ahead—endless, gray-blue, glinting with cruel serenity. And just below the slope: the old ferry port.
Xenia's breath caught in her throat.
"There it is," she said, crouching behind a dented traffic barrier. "The end of the line."
But the final stretch wasn't empty.
A dozen—maybe fifteen—infected roamed the hill that led down to the docks. Some limped. Others staggered in strange, insectile jerks. None were fast.
But they were there. Guarding the way like cursed sentinels.
Xenia's throat tightened. "What now?" she asked, her voice cracking slightly, betraying the storm in her chest.
Rafe crouched beside her, his shirt soaked with sweat. "Too many to sneak past."
Tenorio knelt next to them, scanning the field. "But not enough to stop us. Not if we hit hard. Move fast."
"They're scattered," Marga added, squinting through a crack in the barrier. "Three here, two there. They're not grouped. We've seen worse. Remember that hotel lobby full of screamers?"
"No," Xenia said immediately. "I actively repress it."
"Fair."
"But if even one of them shrieks—" she started.
"They don't scream," Tenorio said. "Not like that. They growl. They chase. But they don't alert others. They're not organized. Just... hungry."
"Cool," Xenia muttered. "So more like toddlers than soldiers."
"Exactly," Rafe nodded. "Terrifying, fast toddlers with teeth."
He turned to the others, his voice low but firm. "We split. Group One—me, Xenia, Nestor. Group Two—Tenorio and Marga. First group runs straight down the middle. Draws their attention. Group Two sweeps the side, clears stragglers. Then we all meet at the docks."
"And if the docks are blocked?" Xenia asked.
Rafe looked toward the waves. "Then we swim."
"I'm wearing canvas sneakers," Marga said. "They'll be the size of bricks underwater."
"Guess you'd better run fast, then."
A beat of silence.
Then Xenia chuckled—just once, dry and sharp. "I gave the best graduation speech in the history of Central Campus. And now I'm about to race zombies with my bare foot"
"That's life," Tenorio said with a shrug.
"No," she replied. "That's post-life."
They waited for the wind to settle.
Then Rafe gave the nod.
"Go."
Group One vaulted over the barrier first. Xenia's lungs burned as she ran, her body aching from hours of tension. Her sneakers slapped the ground, and she heard Nestor's labored breaths behind her, Rafe's steady footfalls just beside.
The infected stirred. Heads lifted. One growled.
Then two.
Then the chase began.
From the side, Tenorio and Marga broke from cover, blades in hand. Marga moved like she was still dancing—quick, sharp, deliberate. Tenorio was brute force, every motion economical and deadly.
Xenia didn't look back.
Not until they reached the ferry gate—half-hanging off its hinges.
She turned.
Marga was limping, blood on her sleeve but still upright. Tenorio was dragging a corpse off his boot. Rafe had one arm under Nestor again, pulling him forward.
And the zombies were down.
All of them.
A beat of silence passed. Then Xenia breathed.
They were at the docks.
They had made it.
For now.