The manhole slammed shut, and the darkness rushed in like a tide.
Boom.
A heavy thud hit the sewer floor.
Everyone's eyes struggled in the sudden pitch black, even with faint ambient light creeping from someone's phone screen. It wasn't enough to see clearly—just barely enough to separate shadow from void. Manila kept tapping her phone to keep the glow alive. Liam spotted Strong lying flat on the concrete just below the opening, slightly off-center, posture tense and deliberate. He must have rolled on impact to break the fall.
"You good?" Liam moved quickly, crouching beside him, lifting his elbow. It wasn't just age—Strong was huge, and dropping from four or five meters meant a heavier man like him took the hit far harder than the rest.
"I'm fine. Thanks." Strong gently pushed Liam's hand away, brushing himself off with the stubborn pride of someone who refused to act his age. But his hand came away soaked in something warm and sticky—dark red, glistening in the faint light.
"Dad!" Kayleeti rushed over, eyes wide, panic in her voice—her first loud words in front of the group, raw with worry.
"Wait, sweetheart," Strong said, catching her by the shoulder before she could throw her arms around him.
Others flicked on flashlights, pulling them from the emergency kits tucked into the outer pockets of their packs. The light scattered in shaky beams, and all of it centered on Strong. He'd squatted down, eyes locked on something on the ground.
Blood.
Not a little. A pool. A thick, glistening smear spreading across the sewer floor.
No one had noticed it before—everyone had been tense, adrenaline-pushed, rushing. But now, seeing it under direct light, they froze.
Liam remembered the lid. It had come down mostly clean. There hadn't been much blood above, and no sign that anything had leaked through the tiny seam of the manhole. That alley was a dead end. No one would've gone in unless they meant to vanish. Which could only mean one thing—this blood wasn't from above.
It had been here already.
He swept the beam of his flashlight along the narrow passage. The sewer tunnel wasn't wide—barely two meters across. A gutter beside them carried dark water, gurgling as it flowed. But the blood—it was smeared down the center, dragged across the floor, streaked along the wall in long, uneven slashes.
People didn't do that with their own wounds. That was something mindless. Something feral.
Something undead.
Strong stayed crouched, eyes hard, saying nothing. He stood a moment later and pulled Kayleeti against him without care for the filth, wrapping her in his arms.
Light beams darted and flickered. Some started vanishing. One, two, three—all extinguished until the tunnel was black once more. Laura clutched Mike's waist. Manila grabbed Liam's arm. Christine clung to Manila. No one spoke. No one needed to.
Everyone had seen the blood. Everyone knew what it meant.
There were zombies down here.
The growls from above still echoed faintly through the sewer, but the air was different. It smelled worse, thicker than before, even more nauseating. It wasn't the stench of rot they were used to—it was heavier, riper, unfamiliar in a way that made the skin crawl.
The brief thrill of escape faded completely, replaced by a silence that pressed down like weight. The tunnel felt smaller, the world more enclosed. Whatever hope they'd felt earlier was already rotting.
Click.
A small sound, then a beam lit the dark again. Liam's voice followed, low but calm. "Let's go. We need to find an exit before nightfall. Robby, up front with me."
There was a heaviness in his tone—resignation, maybe, or quiet anger. He'd known this could happen. The sewer system had too many openings, too many points of weakness. One unsealed entrance, one injured survivor turning down here, and the whole place could be crawling.
That's why he'd picked nearby exits. Not just to recover the truck—but to minimize the risk. If he'd chosen a further one, maybe near a police station or a shopping center, they might've found better supplies, weapons, or even an old SWAT truck with gear no civilian shop could offer. But those were all crawling with danger. He hadn't said it aloud. People needed something to hope for, not reasons to give up.
But even so, he hadn't expected this much blood so soon.
He switched his handgun with Manila's rifle, checked the ammo, then tore a strip of cloth from his sleeve and tied his flashlight to the barrel, just below the muzzle. Robby mirrored him, pistol in one hand, flashlight pressed across his wrist with the other. The light glowed low and wide.
The group moved out, slow, deliberate. No one spoke. The further they got from the manhole, the more muted the sounds from above became. Soon even the growls vanished. Only water remained, trickling in the gutter.
They moved carefully. Quietly. Any sudden movement could carry through the tunnels like a shout.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Then it came.
A rasp, wet and low, echoing from the turn ahead.
"Stop," Liam said, arm raised. He lowered his gun and leaned in, listening.
The sound came again. A groan. Hollow. Hungry.
Robby adjusted the beam on his flashlight and whispered, "I'll check."
He dimmed the light further, tilted it down the corridor, and moved. Soft steps. Controlled. He vanished around the corner.
Liam killed his light and leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing shallow. Manila squeezed his wrist. The dark felt alive. Every second felt like a minute.
Then—
Pop. Pop.
Two muffled shots. The kind only suppressed pistols made. Then silence.
Liam's eyes opened.
A faint light bloomed down the tunnel. Far from the corner, past the turn. It flickered twice.
Go.
He switched the flashlight back on, beam low, cutting a wedge of light through the dark.
"Let's move."
They walked toward Robby.
...
Downtown Manhattan. A wide, cracked avenue strewn with death.
Wind whipped old newspapers down the street, spinning them into the gutters where they trembled like insects. The smell of rot soaked everything. Half a body dragged itself along the sidewalk, leaving behind a black smear. Two others hunched in a shattered storefront, chewing through flesh that had long since gone cold.
Then—
Creeeaaak.
A burnt-out sedan collapsed on itself. The frame finally gave way.
Every zombie on the street turned its head. Even the ones mid-bite.
Silence.
Ash drifted in the air.
Then they lost interest.
One by one, they went back to their tasks. Shuffling. Feeding. Moaning. The broken city lay still again, draped in the silence of dusk.
Click.
A tiny sound on the sidewalk. Too soft to notice.
But—
"Boss. You need to see this. Someone's coming out down there."
On the top floor of an old apartment, a young Black man about Jason's age lowered his binoculars, waving excitedly toward the back of the room.
Brook sat on the bed, polishing a rifle. He didn't look up—yet.
The kid's voice was buzzing now.
"They're in the sewer. I saw movement. I think… they're trying to come out."