The mall was dead. Not quiet—dead.
Windows shattered. Blood smeared across display glass. Torn mannequins hung like corpses. Devin moved fast. A crowbar in one hand, duffel bag in the other. Every step echoed through the open atrium. Somewhere in the dark, something snarled.
He didn't care. He wasn't staying long.
He hit the pharmacy first—shelves ransacked, but behind the counter, jackpot. Painkillers, bandages, iodine. Shoved into his bag. Footsteps above. Not human. Something dragging. Then a growl. Closer.
No time.
He sprinted to sporting goods. Grabbed what he could—batteries, flares, a new knife. No food here. Didn't matter. He was already late. The sounds were multiplying. Groans. Nails on tile. Wet feet slapping the ground. He turned a corner and—
One of them.
Jaw hanging loose, eyes glassy. No shoes. Blood up to its knees. It lunged.
Devin swung. Crowbar cracked through skull. The body dropped, twitching. He didn't wait. He ran.
Back down the corridor. Down the escalator that no longer worked. Through a broken gate and into the loading dock. He burst through the emergency door and into sunlight.
His van waited in the lot. Matte black, windowless, reinforced with scrap metal. He slammed the duffel in the passenger seat, jumped in, locked the door. Not safe, but better.
Then came the worst part—he turned the key.
The engine coughed. Once. Twice. Third time—life. The van roared. A few of them staggered into view. Attracted to noise.
He didn't care.
Devin hit the gas, tires screaming. He smashed through a cluster near the gate, leaving a trail of bodies behind. On the road, he finally breathed.
Twenty seconds of silence.
Then the static.
He reached for the radio. It had been dead for days. Broken, maybe. But now—it crackled.
"Any survivor listening now…"
Devin froze.
"There's a safe zone. There's food, order, and currently powered by air. Repeat. There's a safe zone…"
His heart kicked hard. Someone alive. Someone broadcasting.
"Location coming in segments. Wait for tone—"
The voice cut to static again.
He twisted the knob. No good. Just white noise now. His eyes darted to the rearview mirror—no followers. Yet.
He gritted his teeth and turned off the highway. If someone was broadcasting, they had power. Shelter. Maybe even guards. Maybe a shot at surviving the next winter.
Maybe.
⸻
He stopped a few miles later, under an overpass. Hopped out, checked his van—no bites in the metal, no flat tires. The gas was low, though. Too low.
He knew what that meant. A new run.
He cursed and grabbed his map—crumpled, bloodstained, drawn on with marker. He circled the spot the voice mentioned—"powered by air." Could mean wind turbines. A power station. Maybe the old airfields. He drew a shaky line toward the northeast.
Then he heard it.
Crunching gravel.
He wasn't alone.
Devin ducked behind the van just as something moved above. A figure. Not infected. Too steady. Long coat. Rifle in hand.
"Drop the weapon," the man shouted. "I heard the broadcast too."
Devin didn't move.
"I don't care about your loot," the man said. "I just want the van. Gas, wheels, radio."
Typical.
Devin stood slow. Crowbar in hand. "You don't want to do this."
"I do," the man said.
A second man appeared beside him. Then a third.
Ambush.
Devin's knuckles went white on the crowbar.
Three against one. He scanned fast—ditch, guardrail, a rusted-out sedan. No good cover. Then his eyes flicked up—overpass support, loose rubble. Maybe…
He took one step sideways.
The first shot rang out, missed.
He dove.
Another shot—this one closer.
He rolled behind the sedan. Tossed the duffel under it. Came up fast with a flare in his hand. Lit it. Blinding red.
He threw it. While the gunmen shielded their eyes, Devin charged. The crowbar cracked ribs.
He knocked one down, grabbed his rifle, shot the second. The third ran.
He didn't chase. He panted, hands shaking. Then he took the gas can from their stash and poured it into his tank. The radio was still playing faint static.
He turned it up.
"…coordinates coming soon. If you hear this, head northeast. Survive."
Devin got back in the van. The engine rumbled.
He drove off with a bleeding hand, a rifle across his lap, and a fire in his gut.
Someone out there was calling survivors.
And he was listening.
•••
That's when she appeared.
A blur in the road ahead. A girl—thin, barefoot, blood on her arms and shirt. She ran straight toward him, waving both hands.
Devin slammed the brakes. The van skidded hard, fishtailing on the broken asphalt.
She reached the door before he could even draw his machete.
"They're hunting anyone who answers that signal!" she screamed. "Don't follow it! It's a trap!"
She looked wild, but not infected. Her eyes were clear. Sharp. But scared. Real scared.
Devin stared at her. "What do you mean, 'they'?"
She looked up. "Drones. Black ones. Silent. They're watching. I've seen it. Every time someone heads north, they disappear. The voice on the radio—it's not a rescue call. It's bait."
The radio crackled again.
"You're not alone…"
She looked him dead in the eye. "Yes, you are."
•••
It hit him harder than he thought.
He didn't know her. Barely even talked. But the way she looked at him before it started—it stuck. Like a truth he didn't want to hear, finally crawling out of the dark.
He paused only a second before yanking the van door open.
"Come on," he muttered.
Her hand was ice cold. Small. Shaking hard like she was gonna fly apart. She weighed nothing. Bones sharp under the skin like she was already halfway gone.
He pulled her inside. Locked the doors.
Didn't trust people. Not anymore. But something in him—maybe that part that still saw his little brother in scared faces—couldn't leave her out there.
Then she coughed.
Not normal.
Wet. Deep. Like something tearing.
She doubled over and coughed into her hands.
Blood.
Dark. Thick. Old-looking. It spilled between her fingers like black-red oil. Sticky. Hot.
Devin froze.
His gut twisted up.
"You, did you get bit?" he asked.
"No," she gasped. "I swear—didn't—"
Another cough. More blood.
Her body snapped once, hard. Her back arched like someone pulling strings inside her.
Then her fingers started twitching. Not just shaking. Twitching weird. Each one going a different way. Like something was inside, moving the wrong direction.
Her eyes rolled. Then locked on him. Red. Not glowing. Not fake horror-movie red. Just—blood. Filling the whites like smoke in a jar.
She opened her mouth. Tried to scream but didn't come out right.
It was a sound like wires breaking. Deep and wrong.
Her spine cracked. Bones shifted under her hoodie. She grabbed the dash like she was trying to hold on to being human. But it was slipping fast.
"Don't—abandon me—alone—" she stuttered. Her voice breaking. Fading.
Devin's hand was on the machete.
He didn't want this, but he knew what it was and he'd seen it before.
Back in month one, a guy turned without a bite. Swore up and down he was clean. Turned in three hours. Killed kids before someone stopped him.
This was faster.
Like it was inside her already. Like something turned on.
"Please…" she whispered. Her hand reached out—twisted, shaking.
He flinched.
He saw his brother again. The day he turned. Devin couldn't stop it. Couldn't kill him. He ran. Left others to handle it.
It still haunted him.
And now—again.
He looked at her. Her eyes begging.
Still her.
But fading fast.
"How?" he whispered. "No bite. Nothing…"
No answer.
She arched again, her nails turning black. Her breath was ragged, chest rising too fast. Wrong.
Then she stopped moving.
Just stared like an animal. Trapped. Ready to die or kill.
The radio crackled…"Any survivor listening now… head north, there's a safe zone, there's food and water… and we're powered by air…"
Lena had warned him and now she was dying. With no bite. No scratch.
His head spun.
Powered by air.
What if that wasn't a slogan?
What if it was a warning?
The wind howled outside. Trash whipped past the windows. Ash mixed in. The world felt like it was cracking apart.
He looked back at Lena…Twitching.
Still holding on.
Barely.
His jaw clenched. His stomach turned.
He made his choice.
⸻
He stared at her. Her eyes were red now. Veins burst. Skin pale.
Her neck cracked sideways. Her whole body shook like something under her skin was trying to break out.
Devin's fingers wrapped tight around the machete.
Other hand reached for her—stopped—dropped.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
Her eyes flicked toward him. She knew. Somewhere deep down—she knew.
"Please…" she croaked. "Not… alone…"
He didn't blink.
"I'm not," he said. "I'm right here."
Then he raised the blade and brought it down.
It wasn't clean.
Steel hit bone.
She jerked. Once. Twice.
Then stopped.
Her head hit the glass. Blood streaked down in a wide arc. One last breath left her mouth. Like air from a broken tire.
Done.
Devin didn't speak, didn't cry, just sat there. Cold.
Then reached for the rag. Wiped the blade. Slow.
"Jesus," he muttered.
The wind howled again. Colder now.
He looked at her—still. Quiet. Her hoodie soaked in blood. She tried to warn him and she died scared.
But not alone.
He made sure of that.
He started the van.
The engine groaned but held while the radio clicked.
"Safe zone… powered by air… you're not alone…"
He turned the dial. Back to static.
Then reached into the glovebox. Pulled out a marker, grabbed a map from the seat…drew a thick line to where the signal pointed.
Wrote one word over it.
LIES.
The rain started light…just enough to smear the blood on the glass. Dirty streaks down the window. He didn't wipe it.
She earned that mark.
As he drove, he didn't look back.
But her warning stayed in the van. In the air. In his hands.
The voice kept on playing on his head, "Powered by air."
The rain dripped down the windshield like cold needles.
Devin gripped the wheel tighter. The blood smeared glass blurred his view, but he kept moving.
Then he saw them.
Black shapes…Silent.
Hovering just above the treetops.
At first, he thought it was a trick—shadows, maybe.
But then one slipped forward, gliding low over the van's roof.
He froze.
The drone's matte black surface swallowed the dull light. No sound but the faintest hum, like static in your ear.
Two more appeared, sliding in from the sides.
They moved like ghosts. Smooth. Deadly.
Devin's heart slammed.
He slammed the gas.
The van lurched forward, tires digging into the dirt road.
The drones followed with no blinking lights, no indication, no warning…Just watching.
Waiting.
He couldn't shake the feeling they were reading his every move.
The radio crackled again.
"You're not alone."
This time, it felt like a threat.
Devin kept driving, eyes darting to the mirrors as the drones stayed close—above, behind, beside.
Relentless.
He didn't know if they were hunting him—or waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
But one thing was clear.
He wasn't just running from the dead anymore.
He was running from something much worse.