The shrieks of the infected below were getting closer.
Liam and the others gasped for breath, lungs burning as they sprinted upward. Laura and Old Mike weren't young anymore, but Mike's health was decent, and with Jason pulling Laura along, they managed to keep up.
No one even considered fighting back. Only a fool would think they could take on a horde. All they could do was run, lungs on fire, shoes hammering the stairs.
They reached the seventh floor. The staircase to the rooftop wasn't connected to the others—it sat at the end of the corridor, a thirty-meter dash away. Liam led the charge, then slowed just slightly, his gaze catching on a door to his right.
It was open.
The street-facing room lay in chaos, smeared with blood. Four corpses littered the floor. Three women, completely naked, bodies twisted, bruised, violated. One had taken a shotgun blast to the head, the wall behind her still wet. The fourth corpse, a muscular man, also naked, lay tangled with her, a single bullet wound through the temple.
Liam didn't need to guess. The gunshots they'd heard earlier—this was where they came from.
He only paused a second, then kept running.
A roar shook the stairwell. One particularly massive infected had reached the seventh floor and was barreling down the hallway behind them, with dozens more close behind.
"Go go go!" Liam shouted, boots pounding against the final flight of stairs.
He reached the rooftop first and pushed through the iron door. The sky hit him like a slap—open, grey, and howling with wind. His eyes shot to the northern edge of the rooftop.
A ladder had been set up—long and narrow, spanning the gap to the adjacent building's roof. It wobbled in the wind, and someone was crawling across it, nearly at the far side.
Liam knew the man. One of Brook's.
Beyond him, on the far rooftop, Brook and a few others were already running toward another ladder that bridged to the next building beyond that. A second escape path.
Liam understood now. Brook had set this up ahead of time. The ladders were a backup plan, a way out if things went bad. And it looked like they were working.
The rest of Liam's group scrambled up behind him. The old man brought up the rear, cradling his daughter in both arms like she weighed nothing. She looked terrified and weak, barely holding on.
BANG!
The door slammed shut behind them. The rooftop echoed with breath and panic. They all saw the ladder—saw the last of Brook's men stepping onto the far roof.
The man heard them. Turned. Met Liam's eyes.
Then he turned again, took one step, and doubled back.
Liam knew what was coming.
"Shit!" he yelled, and fired.
Bang bang bang!
But he was too far. The man reached the ladder, lifted his boot, and kicked hard. The far end dislodged, scraped loose from the rooftop ledge, and the whole ladder tumbled, clattering down into the alley between the buildings.
Too far for Liam to land a shot. Over fifty meters. He wasn't a marksman, and the bullets drifted wide.
"Die slow, you sons of bitches!" the man shouted, flipping them off before sprinting toward Brook.
Behind Liam, the iron door began to rattle. Then thud. Then smash.
Jason, Manila, the old man—they threw themselves against it, trying to brace it. But it was useless. The infected were pouring up in numbers far worse than Liam had feared. The door was sturdy, but the lock wasn't. Just a small metal bolt no thicker than two fingers. It wouldn't last long under the relentless pounding.
They were trapped. The ladder—the only escape—was gone.
"Oh God, what did he just do?" Laura gasped, both hands clutched to her mouth.
The bastard who'd kicked the ladder turned and smirked. Then raised his hand and flipped them off again, taunting them.
Robby stepped forward.
"Give me that," he said flatly, dropping his sidearm and taking the M16 from Christine.
He raised it, stepped into the wind, planted his feet, and took aim.
The rooftop air whipped around him, but he didn't blink. Just watched.
The man on the far rooftop started to panic. He saw the gun, realized what it was. M16s had an effective range of over 600 meters. He turned and ran faster, trying to reach Brook.
But he was too slow.
Crack!
One shot. His body twisted and collapsed mid-stride, blood bursting from his face as he hit the ground twitching. Then he stopped moving.
"Prick," Robby muttered, handing the rifle back to Christine. He bent, picked up his pistol.
The barricade wouldn't last.
Jason and the others kept pushing against the door. But the infected were slamming it harder now. Every thud sounded like a battering ram. Then Old Mike rushed over with a thick wooden stick he'd found on the roof, jammed it in at an angle behind the door, bracing it like a support beam. The impact lessened instantly.
It helped.
The rest of them scattered, searching the rooftop, bringing over bricks, plastic tubing, broken chairs—whatever they could find. They stacked it all against the door.
Then they stopped moving. Stopped talking. Even their breathing they tried to quiet.
Because if they could just go silent long enough, if they could stay still and invisible, there was a chance.
Zombies didn't have long memories. No movement, no sound, and maybe they'd forget what they were chasing. Maybe they'd wander off.
Two, three minutes. Maybe four.
The only question was—
would the door hold that long?