The stale air in the rooftop asylum hung heavy with unspoken tension. Clara traced the condensation patterns on her half-empty water bottle, her combat boots squeaking against linoleum that still smelled of industrial cleaner and dried blood. 

Across the makeshift shelter of converted patient rooms, Benjamin "Benji" Carter - formerly known as John Smith in another life - flicked open his silver Zippo with unnecessary flourish, the flame dancing across features too delicate for the apocalypse.

"Loot teams depart in fifteen!" Henry's voice sliced through the murmur of conversations, his gloved fingers already checking the straps of Clara's stolen paramedic bag. A week after the outbreak had turned Hope Mental Health Hospital into their fortified cage, the former psychiatric patient now moved with the lethal precision of a spec ops soldier. "We hit the cafeteria through the west stairwell. Stick to the plan and you might live to see dinner."

Benjamin's laughter rang out like shattered glass. "Listen to General Crazy-Pants here! Still playing leader while hoarding all the good stuff in that magic backpack of his." The former socialite heir leaned against reinforced steel doors, idly plucking petals from a wilted chrysanthemum. "How do we know you won't abandon us when the horde comes? Again."

Henry didn't bother turning, his focus on adjusting Clara's scavenger rig. "You mistook a nest of crawlers for an ice machine last week. Survival probability increases 87% when you stop talking."

The tension snapped like overstretched piano wire.

Benjamin's pretty face twisted. Before anyone could react, he lunged with a speed that belied his delicate frame - enhanced reflexes from whatever mutation the fever had granted him. Clara caught the glint of a bone knife in his sleeve.

Henry moved faster.

The cafeteria ladle from Clara's belt appeared at Benjamin's throat before the first step landed. Pressed steel dented pale flesh as Henry crowded the smaller man against blood-smeared walls. "You want to discuss hoarding?" His whisper carried across the deathly quiet room. "That chain around your neck smells like Heather from Ward B. Where's the rest of her?"

Clara's stomach turned. She hadn't questioned where the fresh meat in yesterday's rations came from.

"Easy, Doc." Benji's smile revealed teeth filed to points. "Just evening the protein distribution. Unless your precious nurse told you vegetarianism survives the apocalypse?"

The crack of Benji's head against concrete echoed before Clara realized Henry had moved. Dark blood trickled from the dandy's perfect nose as Henry leaned close, his lips brushing the shell of Benji's ear. "Next time I catch you hunting patients," he murmured with lethal calm, "I'll stake you to the south fence during mating swarm."

The standoff shattered when Tiffany Deng's panicked shout sliced through the tension. "They're trending again! The Prophet's latest post!"

All eyes swiveled to the cracked iPad clutched in the hydrokinetic's trembling hands. Onscreen, a neon-green banner scrolled apocalyptic scripture:

< < @TheProphetAYR 12:03 AM >>

FEAST OF FOOLS RISES:

Samuels, their resident pyromaniac turned actual pyrokinetic, spat a glob of phlegm that sizzled against floor tiles. "More doomscroll horoscopes. Who's this hack anyway?"

"Someone who predicted the Philly outbreak thirty-six hours before news feeds died," Henry countered, finally releasing Benji. His gloved hand lingered protectively at Clara's back. "The Prophet's pattern recognition score tops 92% in my analysis."

Clara's fingers tightened around her modified fire axe. She remembered the vlog from three days before the world ended - some basement-dwelling teen rambling about mutation vectors and hive consciousness while hacking government servers. Now crowdsourced survivalists treated AYR's coded tweets like gospel.

Benji wiped blood across designer stubble. "So what's the plan, Nostradamus? How does this..." He waved contemptuously at the screen. "...cult fanfic help us exactly?"

Henry's smile chilled the room. "It means we're out of time. The cafeteria run just became an evacuation drill."

The protest erupted instantly.

"We can't abandon the meds stockpile!"

"The south gate's still swarming!"

"My brother's group is due back from-"

Henry's whistle pierced the din. In the sudden silence, the first distant thuds reverberated through ventilation shafts - rhythmic, relentless. Not the erratic pounding of mindless walkers.

Something was battering the lower floors with purpose.

"Hive Behavior. Stage Two evolution." Henry's diagnosis sent veterans scrambling for weapons. "Which means we have," he checked his stolen Rolex, "nineteen minutes before they matrix-learn door mechanisms. Clarke! Status on exit routes."

The bald orderly turned unlikely tactician didn't look up from his hand-drawn floor plans. "East maintenance tunnels collapsed in the last quake. Roof access leads to HVAC systems, but lateral vent twelve is-"

"Inevitably compromised," Henry finished. He began distributing weapons from his mysterious inventory with military precision. "We go through the morgue."

Clara's breath hitched. The subterranean labyrinth had been sealed since Patient Zero tore through the embalming room. Even looters gave it wide berth.

Benji's laugh held an edge of hysteria. "Brilliant! Let's dig up some corpse soufflé while we're at it!"

The steel ladle reappeared at his throat. "Alternative suggestions?" Henry's tone suggested he already knew the answer.

When no one spoke, he tossed Clara a modified nail gun loaded with carbon bolts. "Stay behind me. Phase three variants hunt through body heat signatures."

The descent into darkness felt like drowning in ink. Henry's tactical flashlight carved pale ovals from the gloom, revealing sagging ceiling tiles and the occasional drag mark staining concrete crimson. Clara's augmented hearing picked up scuttling in distant vents - too quick, too many legs.

At the morgue's shattered double doors, Henry paused. The stench of rotted flesh punched through their improvised face masks.

"Lights off," he ordered. "Infrared pattern confirmed in my twelve."

Clara never saw the attack coming.

The creature exploded from a ruptured coolant pipe with bestial grace - six limbs ending in scythe-like claws, its eyeless head split vertically into lamprey jaws. Henry's blade sparked against chitinous armor as he shouted coordinates.

"Samuels! Sector twelve grid three! Burn pattern delta!"

The pyrokinetic's fireball illuminated gangrenous walls, exposing a dozen more nightmares clinging to ceiling corners. Chaos erupted as the swarm descended.

Clara's nails found homes in compound eyes and rubbery flesh. She spun through Henry's drilled katas, feeling rather than seeing Benji's bone daggers flash nearby. A skittering horror lunged for Tiffany; Clara's kick sent it careening into Samuels' flames.

Through the carnage, Henry moved like Death's choreographer. His machete became a silver blur, each strike bypassing armored plates with uncanny precision. When arachne-like claws nearly severed Samuels' arm, Henry was there - knife in one hand, pressure bandage materializing in the other as if conjured from air.

"Fall back!" he barked as the tide thickened. "Clara! Three o'clock!"

She turned to see him toss a grenade-sized canister from his endless pack. The magnesium flare ignited in midair, bathing the morgue in hellish white light. Creatures shrieked, retreating from sudden brilliance.

"Now!" Henry shoved the group toward an emergency exit none had noticed. "And Clarke? Next time you forget sewer access maps, I'll feed you to the swarm myself."

The cafeteria's fluorescent lights flickered like mocking apparitions. Shelves stood picked clean, floor tiles sticky with congealed blood from previous battles. Henry's team fell upon remaining supplies with feral efficiency.

But Clara stood frozen, staring at the massacre site. Teeth marks on the serving counters didn't match any walker. Familiar boot treads marked the flour-dusted floor.

Her hand closed around a scratched metal bracelet beneath a dismembered arm - the same crude trinket she'd crafted for young Timmy from Ward 4A. Missing since last Tuesday's watch rotation.

"Henry." Her voice sounded foreign. "Did you know about this?"

He followed her gaze to the gnawed femur with military dog tags. "A 96.4% probability." His eyes betrayed nothing. "Standard survival calculus."

"You counted their deaths in percentages?!" Her cry drew uneasy glances.

His grip on her arm bordered on painful. "Adapt or perish, Clara. Sentiment breeds coffins."

The subsequent fight echoed through rotting halls. Accusations of omitting risks. Revelations of planned sacrifices. 

A slap that left Henry's cheek blooming crimson yet his gaze steady.

When the horde's hunting shrieks finally chased them back to fortified floors, the stolen supplies tasted like ash. 

Clara watched Henry reset Timmy's bracelet on his own wrist, strategizing their next move like the battlefield computer he'd become.

Somewhere amid fluorescent flickers and coded Prophet tweets, she finally understood - Henry hadn't survived the apocalypse. The boy who flinched at needles had died weeks ago. What remained was war incarnate, wearing her loved one's face.

That night, as Tiffany decrypted AYR's latest warning about "Twins in velvet chairs," Clara traced Henry's newest scar - a morgue creature's parting gift. His breathing remained even, but sleep never came. Somewhere below, something massive tested the barricades with intelligent persistence.

Survival, Clara realized with icy clarity, was becoming a numbers game no human could win. And Henry's equations always balanced toward cold necessity.

As first light bled through boarded windows, the hospital shook with impacts no walker could muster. The Prophet's deadline had arrived early. Somewhere above, wings beat against storm clouds.

And in the cafeteria's bloodstained shadows, two fresh corpses began twitching with unnatural synchronization.