Glass. That sound was unmistakable—a sharp, high-pitched crack, like a scream tearing through the air.
Adam's heart slammed into his ribs.
"No... no, no, no—"
The noise came from the right side of the store.
He turned toward it and saw the first zombie stepping through the shattered window. It dragged one leg behind, its body twisted, skin torn, eyes like lifeless glass.
Another one followed. And another.
They didn't stop. They walked through the glass as if it didn't matter.
Adam recoiled instinctively, nearly stumbling over the giant fly's corpse on the floor. His breath caught in his throat, his legs froze—as if his muscles had forgotten how to move.
A wet moan echoed between the aisles.
Then another.
Adam turned, his gaze darting between the shelves. Then he saw it—a narrow corridor at the back of the store. Storage room? Office? Whatever it was—it had a door. Maybe even a lock.
For a split second, he thought it might be the best option. Hide. Wait it out. He ran to the door at the end of the narrow hallway.
But the door wasn't solid. The handle wobbled, the lock groaned with every rattle. And even if those monsters didn't get in immediately... they might in an hour. Or a day.
What if the room had no other exit? Even if it was a grocery store—so what? The food would run out. Water would run out. And he... he would die there, of hunger or thirst, while those things kept pounding on the door, waiting for him to weaken.
Visions burst through his mind: a corpse lying in darkness, moaning shadows beyond the door, no light, no hope. Just an end. With no chance for anything.
No. No way. That was a fucking tomb.
This place wasn't an escape. It was a trap.
He clenched his teeth. Stood still for a moment, forcing himself to think.
What now?
Run? But where? That back room was a dead end. Behind the counter? Maybe that would buy him a minute. Two.
His eyes scanned the store desperately, searching for something—anything—that could give him an advantage.
Then he saw it.
A glass window to the left, just beside the barricaded front door.
Beyond it—the cityscape. Smoke rising above rooftops, outlines of ruined buildings in the distance. But no zombies in sight.
A glimmer of hope. Maybe, if he moved fast, he could get out without being torn apart.
It was risky. Extremely risky.
But better than fighting those monsters up close.
He crouched, slipping between the aisles. Every step hurt—the wound in his leg throbbed, as if reminding him with every meter that he was walking the razor's edge between life and death. But he couldn't stop.
Behind him, a shuffle. One of them must've spotted him. Then another. The sudden acceleration of their footsteps sent a chill down his spine.
He pivoted hard around the pasta shelf, nearly crashing into a plastic bin full of candy bars. Spun around, gasping, scanning.
The zombies were surrounding him.
Between aisles, behind shelves, by the fridges—their bodies emerged like nightmares. Every step clumsy but relentless. Their eyes gleamed with emptiness, mouths open in a silent hunger.
They were closing in.
Cold sweat slid down his back. There was no turning back. Either he got out now, or he died here, torn apart by rotting hands.
He reached the window—and hesitated for a heartbeat. In that instant, he heard footsteps just behind him. He turned reflexively and saw them.
Barely two meters away, stumbling over the bin of candy bars, came two ghouls. One lunged toward him, arms spread as if to embrace him, its face twisted in a grotesque snarl.
He dodged, stumbled, nearly fell, but caught his balance. The zombie's body crashed beside him, thudding against the floor. Adam jumped back as far as he could—and then saw another one, weaving through the shelves with limp arms, more silhouettes moving through the dark behind it.
There was no doubt left in his eyes. This was the last chance.
Now or never.
He grabbed a can of soup lying at his feet. Swung and threw it with all his strength.
The can whistled through the air and struck the window with a dull crack.
The glass trembled. Cracked. But didn't break.
A wet snarl echoed behind him.
No time left.
He sprinted forward and, with a desperate cry, smashed his elbow into the crack. Pain exploded through his joint, but the glass gave way.
He didn't wait. Arm first, then head, torso. The glass sliced into his sides, his jeans tore at the thighs.
Then he felt the wind brush his ankle.
From behind, just past the shattered edge, a rotting hand reached through. Fingers, bluish and torn, creeping forward like spider legs. Their tips almost touched his skin—cold, slick, dead.
A strangled gasp escaped Adam's throat. He hurled himself forward, every muscle straining, forcing his way through before death could wrap its fingers around him.
The landing was brutal. His knees scraped the asphalt, glass cuts burning like open fire embedded in his skin.
But there was no time.
He scrambled to his feet, staggering, his heart hammering in his ears. He spun in place, gasping, eyes darting across the street in panic.
Right by the store entrance he had just escaped, the whole pack had gathered. Zombies clustered around the shattered window like wasps around a torn nest, pressing against each other, trampling in place, hissing, panting. Their dead eyes seemed fixed directly on him.
Adam's stomach clenched. The horde of undead gathered exactly where he had just escaped. In moments, they would come after him.
He looked around wildly—the left side of the street blocked by a wrecked bus, the right buried under a collapsed building facade. Only one way left: forward.
There was no room left for thought. Only instinct.
The street ahead yawned open like a bleeding wound in the world. Flames, smoke, rubble.
And empty. For now.
He didn't think—his body just moved.
He ran, teeth clenched, wincing with each step.
I need to hide. Anywhere. A store, a stairwell, a ruin. Maybe I'll find a pharmacy. A weapon. Anything.
I can't just run blind. I need to get a grip. Focus.
He tried to calm down, find a steady breath, though his heart pounded like a drum. Thoughts raced. He needed a safe place. Fast.
High ground. I need to get higher. A roof, a floor up, somewhere they can't get in easily.
He glanced at his arm. Blood soaked through the sleeve. His sides burned, and a dark smear trickled from his torn jeans.
I need a medkit. Bandages. Anything. Infection will kill me faster than they will.
And something else. A backpack or a bag. Somewhere to gather supplies, water, food. If he wanted to survive more than a few hours, he needed the basics.
He clenched his jaw and turned into a side alley, scanning for building entrances, stairs, a pharmacy, shops—anything that would take him higher. Every step he took was a decision between life and death.
He ran for minutes, past ruins, abandoned cars, and lifeless bodies sprawled on the street. Any one of them could be a threat, but he didn't have time to check.
And then he saw it.
A rusted neon sign above shattered doors. White letters, half of them no longer glowing.
PHARMACY.