Ethan's breathing was steady, his hands firm as he reloaded his rifle. From his rooftop vantage point, he could see the militia group still struggling below, their numbers thinning as the undead overwhelmed them. Every shot counted. Every movement mattered.
He fired again—one of the creatures' heads snapped backward, a clean kill. Another shot rang out. The undead dropped, its decayed body hitting the pavement with a sickening crunch. But for every monster he put down, three more emerged from the depths of the sinkholes, their grotesque forms shambling forward in endless waves.
Ethan had seen death before. But this… this was different.
He crouched lower, scanning the area. The streets were littered with corpses, both human and inhuman. Fires raged in the distance, their orange glow casting eerie shadows across the ruins of the once-great city. The air was thick with the scent of burning flesh, blood, and decay.
He needed to move.
Staying in one place was a death sentence.
The militia wouldn't last much longer, and if he wasted time, he'd be next on the menu. He swung his rifle onto his back, gripping the metal ladder as he made his way down the fire escape. The rickety structure groaned under his weight, but he descended quickly, his movements practiced and efficient.
The moment his boots hit the pavement, he was running.
Gunfire cracked through the air as the last militia survivors made their final stand. Ethan darted behind a wrecked SUV, pressing his back against the cold metal. He could hear their frantic shouts, the desperate struggle to hold back the flood of monsters.
He peeked over the hood.
A lone survivor stood in the middle of the street, a bloodied machete in one hand, a pistol in the other. His comrades were gone, torn apart, their screams echoing in Ethan's mind. The man's face was twisted with fury, defiance, and sheer survival instinct.
Ethan recognized the look.
The man turned and met Ethan's gaze. For a brief moment, time seemed to freeze.
Then, the undead lunged.
Ethan didn't hesitate. Bang. The shot was clean, precise. The creature's skull burst open, splattering the pavement with blackened gore.
The man staggered back, panting heavily, before nodding in silent gratitude.
"Move!" Ethan shouted, gesturing toward an alleyway.
The survivor didn't need to be told twice. He sprinted toward Ethan, barely dodging the grasping hands of the undead as they closed in.
Ethan covered him, firing off quick, controlled shots. Each bullet found its mark, dropping the horrors one by one.
The two of them ran, weaving through the wreckage and ruined city streets. Every turn brought more destruction—burning buildings, overturned vehicles, bodies.
They didn't stop until they reached a collapsed storefront, its shattered windows and broken shelves offering the illusion of temporary shelter.
Ethan kicked the door shut behind them, barricading it with a fallen shelf.
The silence that followed was deafening.
The survivor collapsed onto the ground, breathing heavily. Up close, Ethan could see the man was in his mid-thirties, his clothes torn and covered in blood. His dark hair was slick with sweat, and his hands shook as he reloaded his pistol.
"Thanks," the man finally said. His voice was hoarse, tired.
Ethan simply nodded, unslinging his rifle and checking his ammo. "You're lucky I was up there."
The man let out a bitter chuckle. "Luck ran out a long time ago."
Ethan sat against the wall, studying the stranger. "You with a group?"
The man shook his head. "Not anymore." His jaw tightened. "We tried… held our ground, set up defenses. It wasn't enough. Those things… they don't stop. They just keep coming."
Ethan understood. The city was falling, collapsing under the weight of the nightmare spilling from the sinkholes.
There was no stopping this.
Only surviving.
"What's your name?" Ethan asked.
The man hesitated, as if the question itself was foreign now. "Mason," he finally said. "Mason Reid."
Ethan nodded. "Ethan."
Silence fell between them. Outside, the distant howls of the undead echoed through the empty streets.
Mason exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "So, what now?"
Ethan had already thought of that. "We move. Get out of the city."
Mason scoffed. "You think anywhere's safer?"
Ethan didn't answer immediately. The truth was, nowhere was safe.
But he wasn't going to die here.
"There's a hunting cabin I use, about 40 miles north of the city," Ethan finally said. "Off the grid, isolated. If we can get there, we can figure things out."
Mason considered that. "Forty miles is a long way in this mess."
Ethan shrugged. "Better than waiting here to die."
Mason sighed. "You got a plan?"
Ethan stood, checking his rifle. "We head west, away from the heaviest sinkhole activity. Scavenge supplies, stay low, move fast. No unnecessary fights."
Mason let out a short laugh. "No fights? In case you haven't noticed, those things don't exactly leave people alone."
Ethan's gaze hardened. "Then we kill only when necessary."
Mason hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. I'm in."
Ethan moved toward the back exit, peeking through a broken window. The alley outside was clear—for now. He turned to Mason.
"Let's go."
---
They moved quickly, keeping to the shadows. The streets were war zones, filled with abandoned cars, collapsed buildings, and the remains of those who hadn't been fast enough.
The further they went, the worse it became.
Bodies were strewn across the pavement, torn apart by things that no longer belonged in this world.
They stopped at a gas station, its front doors smashed open. Ethan signaled for Mason to cover him as he slipped inside. The shelves were ransacked, but he found a few bottles of water, some energy bars, and a small first aid kit.
Mason grabbed a crowbar from behind the counter. "Not a gun, but it'll do."
As they prepared to leave, a noise froze them in place.
A deep, guttural snarl.
Ethan turned slowly.
Something was moving in the back of the store.
It wasn't a normal zombie.
The creature emerged from the shadows—taller, bulkier, its skin stretched tight over its grotesque frame. Its mouth hung open unnaturally, black bile dripping from its jagged teeth.
A mutant.
Ethan's stomach twisted. He had seen zombies. He had fought them. But this… this was something else.
The creature charged.
Ethan barely had time to react. He dove aside as the monster smashed through the shelves, sending debris flying.
Mason swung the crowbar, striking the creature's arm. It didn't even flinch.
Ethan rolled onto one knee, lifting his rifle. He fired. One shot.
The bullet struck its skull—and did nothing.
His blood turned cold.
The creature turned, locking eyes with him. Then, it grinned.
It was aware.
Ethan had seconds to react.
"RUN!" he shouted.
Mason didn't argue. They sprinted toward the exit as the mutant roared, its monstrous form crashing through the aisles.
They barely made it out.
Ethan slammed the door behind them, but the creature kept coming.
Mason cursed. "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!"
Ethan didn't answer. There was no time.
The creature hit the glass, cracking it with a sickening crunch.
Ethan grabbed Mason's arm. "MOVE!"
They ran.
Behind them, the mutant let out an inhuman howl.
The hunt had begun.