Thud, thud, thud—the sound of the dead pounding on the door.
The wind was strong on the rooftop, scattering everyone's hair across their faces.
No one spoke. Guns in hand, they quietly backed away from the iron door, step by step, until they reached the northern edge of the roof and had nowhere left to retreat.
They glanced down. Seven floors. A drop of over twenty meters.
Below them, the streets teemed with an endless flood of undead.
From this height, they could see far and wide—alleys, streets, intersections—all swallowed in that dark red ocean of rot.
The rooftop wasn't that big, maybe five or six hundred square meters. Bare concrete. Nothing pretty. The edge was surrounded by rusting metal railing, much of it broken or missing. In the southeastern corner stood a small utility structure with a metal door, next to it a few old water tanks.
Everyone was on edge. Even Liam felt it. They were trapped on a rooftop with nowhere to run. If the door gave way, there'd be nothing left but teeth and claws. The pounding and the guttural moans below were a grim reminder—death was waiting.
"It's alright, it's alright," said the big man, holding his daughter tight, his voice low and steady, though the lines in his face betrayed his fear.
But was it really?
Three minutes passed. The pounding on the door began to weaken, and the moans faded too.
By four minutes, the rooftop was quiet again, save for the wind.
A few more dull thuds, then silence.
Everyone exhaled.
Liam squatted, then sat down on the concrete. He kept his eyes on the iron door, about thirty meters away. Finally, he let out a breath.
This rooftop was smaller than the one across from it, but it was big enough, and as long as they stayed away from the door, they could speak quietly without alerting anything below.
People relaxed a little, some crouched, some stood, everyone trying to catch their breath.
Liam and Robby moved off to inspect the perimeter of the roof, looking for anything—anything—that could be used to get them out.
"I'm Jason," Jason said out of nowhere, flashing his usual grin and showing a mouthful of white teeth. He offered his hand to the older man and his daughter, though his eyes were clearly fixed on the girl.
She was around Christine's age, maybe younger. Dark-skinned, delicate features, bright wide eyes. Beautiful.
The girl didn't respond. Just looked at Jason and then shifted her gaze toward her father, uncertain.
The man's face darkened slightly. "John," he said, shaking Jason's hand. "And this is my daughter, Keility."
Since the outbreak, she'd barely spoken a word to anyone besides him. She'd been terrified ever since.
Manila stood by the edge with Christine. They leaned on the railing, watching the flood below.
The trucks they had fought to protect, now swarmed.
All that preparation, gone.
Manila felt someone tug at her sleeve.
She turned and saw Christine's red-rimmed eyes, her lips tightly pressed together.
"What is it?" Manila asked softly, brushing her hand through the girl's hair. She thought Christine was just shaken. She liked her—almost like a little sister—and had even once told her how to win Liam's heart.
Christine didn't speak. She just turned slightly.
She'd been leaning against the rail while Manila had been facing her. Now, turned sideways, Manila could see the back of her jeans—soaked in blood.
The stain had spread down the legs. It looked like it had been bleeding for a while.
In all the chaos, no one had noticed until now.
"Oh God, Christine, what happened?" Manila gasped, whispering, eyes wide. She clamped her hand over her mouth but then lowered it again. Her face twisted slightly. "Is it… your period?"
For a girl her age, that would've made sense. Manila glanced around nervously, relieved no one else had noticed.
If it was just that, it'd be embarrassing, but no big deal.
"No. I got hurt. It hurts," Christine said, her voice trembling.
Manila's expression changed.
Christine was injured.
Elsewhere on the roof, Liam and Robby were scanning the south side. They'd seen the whole rooftop.
There was no way off.
It was like standing on an island, with only the sea of undead around them.
Sure, they had some food, but there were nine people up here. Not enough to last long.
"Got any ideas?" Robby asked, hand on the railing.
Liam shook his head. "Nope. We wait. Maybe someone passes by and draws the horde away."
The two of them made their way back to the north side and formally introduced themselves to John. Liam thanked him—for stepping in when Christine was cutting the ropes. Without that, she might've been caught.
"He's military," Robby said to Liam quietly.
"How do you know?"
"Tattoo. On his arm. The eagle with the insignia under it—that's official military ink."
Liam nodded. No wonder the guy looked like he could still bench-press a truck. Even if he had silver hair, the man carried himself like command staff. He probably hadn't retired before the collapse. Could've been a general.
"Wait—where's Manila and Christine?" Liam scanned the rooftop, frowning.
"Over there," Jason said, pointing to the corner by the utility shed and water tanks.
Liam nodded. Probably went to pee. It was the only place with cover.
But then, Manila came rushing out from behind the shed, hands red with blood.
Liam jerked upright.
He didn't run—too much noise—but he strode quickly over.
Others stood too. Even John pulled Keility into his arms.
No one knew what had happened.
Robby followed, gun drawn.
"What happened? Where's Christine?" Liam asked, voice low, eyes scanning her hands.
"She's hurt. I couldn't do it right…" Manila's hands shook, face pale.
Liam's gut dropped. He didn't know when or where it had happened, but Christine had been bleeding for a while. And if it had anything to do with the infected—
He turned and hurried behind the tanks with Manila.
Robby started to follow, but Manila stopped him. "Let Liam go. Christine's wound… it's somewhere a little…"
"Got it," Robby said, turning back without question.
Behind the tanks, in the narrow space next to the shed, Christine stood with her jeans and underwear down to her knees, legs trembling, crying.
Liam stepped in and saw the injury. He let out a breath. Then frowned.
"That from the scalpel?" he asked, reaching out to press lightly around the area.
It was deep but narrow.
Blood kept flowing.
On the ground, there were discarded bandages, cotton, all soaked. Manila had tried to help but hadn't managed.
Christine, red-faced and sniffling, gave a small nod. "Yeah."
The wound was on her buttocks, high and left—deep enough to split skin and flesh. The edges were already puffy.
Liam didn't even flinch.
Not because he wasn't a man. Not because Christine wasn't pretty. But because this wasn't about any of that.
This was first aid. Period.
"Alright. Lie down."
He pulled over one of the emergency packs. Christine let go of her jeans and laid down.
Her hips rested on the backpack, leaving the wound fully exposed.
Liam opened the other pack, pulled out some gauze, anesthetic, a needle, and a vial. He cracked the top of the glass ampule, drew the fluid into the syringe, and prepped the injection.
"You'll be fine. We'll stitch you up and give it time." He crouched beside her, calm, practical.
Christine wasn't listening.
She was too busy trying to disappear into the concrete. Her pants were down. Liam could see everything.
She wasn't in pain anymore—just drowning in embarrassment.
Footsteps approached.
Manila peeked around the tanks and saw Laura.
Laura must've heard from Robby.
"She okay?" Laura stepped around, saw Christine's position, paused, then walked over, concerned.
"She'll live," Liam said. "No infection, as far as I can tell."
"Hang in there," Liam murmured, pressing the needle in and injecting the anesthetic.
"How'd it happen?" he asked, as he began cleaning the wound with cotton.
"I was… cutting the rope," Christine whispered. "Then he came over… I panicked. Slipped."
Liam nodded.
She must've jabbed herself with the scalpel when the fat bastard started walking over. Probably didn't even feel it at the time.