Robby burst out of the store, rolled across the asphalt, and opened fire the second he came up. A few bullets hissed past the spot where he'd just been lying, sparking against the pavement, while his own shots cracked through the air—one slammed into the back of the truck, two others skimming past its side. Brook's last remaining guy outside, a white man in his mid-twenties with an AK-47, had fast reflexes and had already ducked behind the truck, returning fire in tight bursts. Robby didn't land a hit.
Down at the southern end of the intersection, the first wave of infected had appeared. Not many, but enough. They came screaming with flailing arms, less than two hundred meters away, their speed varying—some faster, some slower—depending on what kind of body they'd had before death. More were pouring in behind them, surging into the street like a flood.
Brook's guy kept close to the truck's side, blocking Robby's line of fire. He'd duck out to shoot, then duck back. Robby couldn't risk chasing him without taking a bullet to the gut—this was no cover to play cat and mouse in.
"Shit," Robby muttered. He ejected the mag—empty. One in the chamber. That was it. His SIG P210 held seven rounds. He'd burned through six.
He didn't have time for a drawn-out firefight. The horde was coming. And once it filled the street, they'd all be trapped.
He made his move.
He sprinted forward, took two quick steps, then twisted his body and let himself fall. His back hit the ground and he slid beneath the truck's cargo bed. Just as his head cleared the other side, he spotted the enemy crouched behind a wheel, peeking out.
Pop!
One shot, clean through the back of the skull. The man dropped.
"Move! They're coming! Get the hell out here!" Robby yelled, kipping up from the ground like he weighed nothing.
Inside the store, Liam had just finished cutting the ropes off the old man and the girl. Now eight of them huddled in the back, crouched behind shelves, weapons in hand. Manila had already handed the shotgun to Liam, who was keeping his sights locked on the stairwell.
The moment Robby's voice rang out, everyone surged to their feet and rushed for the exit.
The infected were less than 150 meters from the truck now, flooding the street. Liam shouted for everyone to get into the truck's cargo box. Robby leapt into the Jeep first, fiddling with the ignition. It didn't have a key, but he was an expert—stripped wires were already hanging loose. Five seconds later, the engine roared to life. Robby revved the gas and glanced back through the rear window, waiting on the truck.
Laura and Old Mike were already in the driver's cabin, but Mike was fumbling. He'd started it once, then stalled. Twice. His nerves were rattling him. The others scrambled into the cargo box. Jason slammed the doors shut behind them.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Gunfire cracked out. Bullets punched into the Jeep's body, metal sparking. Liam and Robby flinched, ducking instinctively. They turned. The shots came from inside the store.
Brook had come down.
He squeezed off more rounds, others spilling out behind him, aiming for the trucks. But the moment Brook laid eyes on what was coming down the street, he froze.
"Fuck! What the hell—where did all these come from!?" he screamed, stumbling back toward the shop, waving at his men. They forgot about Liam's crew entirely and scrambled upstairs, terrified.
The horde was maybe 120 meters away now. But then, from the right side of the street, another mass of infected poured in, howling and screeching.
"Oh God—both sides?" Liam stared, stunned. Ahead of them, the street filled with rotting, snarling faces. Behind them, same story. Nothing but a wall of death. There was no way out.
The truck still hadn't started. Mike stalled again.
"Shit!" Liam slammed a fist into the car door. Gunfire had brought every walking corpse for blocks. They were boxed in. He bolted from the Jeep and ran forward. A narrow alley. He looked left, then right—no help there. Even the alley was filled with infected now, pushing into the street.
They had seconds.
He ran to the back of the truck, yelling, "Get out! Everyone off! We're going upstairs—now!"
The radios were gone. Brook had taken them. He had to shout.
"Jason! Open the door! MOVE!"
He remembered something else. "Grab the guns and packs! Emergency kits—don't forget them!"
Jason swung the doors open and jumped out. Then Christine, Manila, the big old man, and the girl. Liam helped them down one by one. The cargo floor sat too high to just hop off easily—he caught each person as best he could, except the last one. The old man was huge and carried a semi-auto rifle across his back and an axe in his hand.
Everyone had packs on. Liam had made sure of that back at Walmart in Brooklyn. He'd planned for this moment. Each backpack carried just enough—food, water, meds. Not too heavy, just enough to run with.
Jason carried a larger duffel bag, long and narrow. Inside were rifles and ammo. He grabbed one at random.
"Go! Into the shop!" Liam yelled, and they ran. Robby and the others met them at the door. Laura and Mike had given up on the truck and fled with them.
They crashed inside. Liam and Robby rushed to the shelves and started dragging them toward the shutters. Jason dumped the duffel and the guns spilled out. Everyone scrambled to arm themselves.
The metal shutters rattled violently. A wave of groaning, snarling, pounding chaos smashed against the door. The whole building shook.
Liam took a pistol, stepped back, eyes locked on the shaking entrance.
"We move. Upstairs. Now."
They ran.
Behind them, the shutters buckled. A gap split open. Through it, Liam saw wild eyes, snapping jaws, filthy bloodstained skin. The horde saw him too. He could feel it. The door wouldn't hold. Not against this many. One zombie couldn't push through. But hundreds could. They pressed together, forced by sheer instinct into a wall of pressure that would eventually crush everything.
As Liam turned to run, one infected got its arm through the gap, clawing wildly.
"Go! Rooftop!"
They sprinted. The stairs wound up and up. The roof access door was metal, and maybe—just maybe—they could hold there. Zombies couldn't pile on the door like they could on the shutters. The stairwell would bottleneck them.
But already, as they hit the third floor, the door downstairs caved in. The horde screamed and stormed in.
Zombies never tired. They climbed like machines. Humans didn't. Their legs burned. Their lungs screamed.
The infected gained on them.
If the building had been any taller, they wouldn't have made it.
But luckily for them it only had seven floors.