Even at quiet times, death is always near you, waiting for you to make the wrong choice—a mistake, that’ll cost you no sum of money but, your own life

The next day, we left the hospital behind. In a store we had found earlier, I came across a stash of backpacks—some old, some surprisingly intact. We grabbed whatever we could carry—groceries, an aid kit, anything that might keep us alive a little longer.

Kennedy swears there’s a place where the infection hasn’t reached. Yet.

It felt like we had been walking forever. My legs ached, every step heavier than the last. Meanwhile, Kennedy moved like it was nothing, his stamina barely wavering. Damn bastard.

“H-Hey Kennedyyy! Can we take a break? I’m tired.” I whined.

“Would you rather be killed in place, or stay alive and keep walking?”

I groaned, rolling my eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

Kennedy chuckled but kept walking. “And you’re slow.”

I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to push forward. My muscles burned, my feet felt like lead, but stopping wasn’t an option—not with the risk of getting torn apart at any second.

The streets were eerily silent, the kind of silence that felt too heavy, too unnatural. Like the world was holding its own breath.

“Where exactly are we even going?” I asked, my voice quieter now.

Kennedy glanced over his shoulder. “North.”

I frowned. “That’s not exactly reassuring..”

“Safer,” he corrected. “Or at least less dead.”

A gust of wind blew through the ruins, carrying the putrid stench of rotting flesh. I pulled my sleeve over my nose, gagging. The smell had become a cruel reminder—one wrong step, one moment of hesitation, and that could be us.

Kennedy slowed down suddenly, his posture shifting.

Alert.

My heart skipped. He only moved like that when something was wrong.

“What is it?” I whispered, instinctively gripping the knife strapped to my belt he gave me the other day. Just where does he find them?

He didn’t answer. Just raised a hand, signaling me to stay quiet.

Then I heard it.

A slow, dragging sound. Not footsteps. Something heavier. Wetter.

I swallowed hard, pulse spiking. The silence wasn’t just silence anymore. Something was here. Watching. Waiting.

Kennedy’s fingers twitched toward his pocket knife. “We’re not alone.”

The air felt thick, pressing down on me like a warning. I tightened my grip on the knife, my palm already slick with sweat.

The sound came again—closer this time. A sickly squelch, like something drenched in blood and bile was slithering over concrete. My stomach churned.

Kennedy moved first. Slow, calculated. He reached for the knife at his side but didn’t draw it yet. Too risky. Too loud.

I forced myself to breathe evenly, though each inhale felt like it could shatter the quiet. My eyes darted to the broken cars, the collapsed buildings—anywhere we could run if things went to hell.

Then, through the broken window of a nearby store, I saw it.

A figure.

At first, I thought it was another corpse slumped against the counter—just another piece of the wreckage. But then it twitched. A head lolled to the side, too fast, too unnatural.

My stomach twisted. Not dead. Not human.

Kennedy saw it too. He turned to me, his voice barely a whisper. “Move. Now.”

I didn’t argue. I took a step back—

Craaack…!

The sound of shattered glass and plastic beneath my boot sent a jolt of terror through me.

The thing inside snapped its head toward the noise. Empty, sunken eyes locked onto mine.

Then it screamed. Without hesitation, before any other trouble—Kennedy launched his knife and stabbed it countless times. Nastyyy!

We continued our journey and the dark slowly started to settle down. The air began to cool as shivers ran down my body. It’s colder than those previous nights. How many days has it already been?

I lost count. The days blurred together, stretching endlessly between exhaustion, hunger, and the constant need to survive. The night crept in fast, devouring the world in thick shadows.

Kennedy walked ahead, barely phased, while I trailed behind, my breath coming out in shallow, uneven puffs. My body ached from head to toe, but I refused to complain again. He’d only throw another sarcastic remark my way.

A gust of wind whistled through the hollow streets, rattling loose metal and sending a fresh wave of decay into the air. I grimaced, pulling my jacket tighter around me. The scent was everywhere, clinging to my skin, my clothes, my hair—like death had decided to follow us personally.

“We need to find shelter,” Kennedy muttered, eyes scanning the darkened buildings.

“Agreed,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “And maybe food? Warmth? An actual bed?”

Kennedy shot me a look. “You want a five-star hotel with that too?”

“Hell, I’ll take anything with four walls and a roof at this point.”

He exhaled through his nose, then nodded toward a gas station at the end of the street. The windows were shattered, the sign hanging lopsided, but the structure looked intact.

“Let’s check there,” he said.

I hesitated. “Looks ransacked.”

“Everything looks ransacked,” he pointed out. “Doesn’t mean there’s nothing left.”

I sighed but followed him. My hand instinctively tightened around the knife at my belt. Every step felt heavier, like the darkness itself pressed down on me.

Kennedy reached the door first. It was slightly ajar, creaking as he nudged it open with his foot. The air inside was stale, filled with the scent of dust, rust, and something foul that I didn’t want to identify.

He took the lead, stepping carefully over broken glass and debris. I followed, heart pounding in my chest. The silence in here was different. Not just empty—waiting.

Then something shifted in the back.

I froze.

Kennedy did too, his hand hovering over his gun.

A sound—faint, almost imperceptible.

Breathing.

Someone was here. I was afraid to turn around, but Kennedy just offered me his hand and i accepted it. Squeezing our hands tightly we continued walking. As soon as we were fully inside. The doors slammed shut, loudly. The sound echoing in the building. I screamed and he covered my mouth with his hand.

“Shut. Up.” He glared at me, muttering.

I nodded.

Suddenly the light of a flashlight hit our faces and we quickly turned the way it came from.

Kennedy moved first, his hand flying to his gun, but he didn’t draw it. Not yet. I squinted against the blinding beam, my pulse hammering in my ears.

“Who’s there?” Kennedy’s voice was sharp, controlled.

The flashlight wavered slightly before lowering just enough for us to make out the figure behind it—a person, standing tense, their grip tight around the handle. Their face was partially shadowed, but I could tell they weren’t infected.

“Drop your weapons,” the stranger ordered. Their voice was rough, hoarse—like they hadn’t spoken in a while.

Kennedy let out a slow breath, glancing at me before raising his hands slightly, non-threatening. “Not looking for trouble.”

The stranger took a step forward, their silhouette becoming clearer. A woman. Her clothes were torn, dirt smeared across her face, but her eyes—sharp, wary—never left us.

“Then why the hell are you sneaking around?” she demanded.

I swallowed hard, my fingers twitching near my knife. “We’re just passing through. Looking for supplies. That’s it.”

She studied us for a long moment, like she was weighing our words, deciding if we were worth the risk. Then she sighed and lowered the flashlight completely.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot first.”

Kennedy relaxed only slightly. “We get that a lot.”

The elderly woman huffed, then jerked her head toward the back of the store. “If you’re not here to kill me, then maybe you can make yourself useful.”

Kennedy arched a brow. “Useful how?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned and started walking, expecting us to follow.

I shot Kennedy a look, my stomach twisting with unease. He didn’t say anything, just gestured for me to stay close as we moved deeper into the gas station.

Something about this felt off.

What did she mean by useful…? I thought to myself. That’s very strange.

Kennedy must’ve had the same thought because his posture stayed tense, his fingers twitching near his gun. The woman led us toward the back of the gas station, stepping over broken shelves and scattered supplies like she’d been here for a while.

“Mind explaining what you need help with?” Kennedy asked, his voice even but edged with suspicion.

The woman stopped in front of a storage door, her hand hovering over the handle. She hesitated, then glanced back at us.

“There’s someone inside,” she finally said. “Injured. I can’t move them on my own.”

My stomach twisted. “Injured? How bad?”

She let out a breath. “Bad enough.”

Kennedy exchanged a look with me before stepping closer. “Why didn’t you just leave?”

The elderly woman’s jaw tightened. “Because I’d never abandon my husband.”

That answer made something stir uncomfortably in my chest. I wasn’t sure if it was admiration or concern. Maybe both.

Kennedy exhaled through his nose and reached for the door. “Alright. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

The woman nodded and pushed it open.

The smell hit us first—metallic, thick. Blood.

And then I saw them.

A man, slumped against the wall, his face pale and slick with sweat. His breathing was shallow, and his shirt was soaked through with crimson. A makeshift bandage was wrapped around his side, but it was failing to stop the bleeding.

My throat tightened.

“Shit,” Kennedy muttered. “How long has he been like this?”

“A day. Maybe two.” The woman’s voice was quieter now. “I tried to help, but I don’t have much.”

Kennedy crouched beside the man, pressing his fingers to his neck. “He’s still got a pulse. Weak, but it’s there.”

I swallowed hard. “And what if he turns?”

Silence.

The woman’s grip on her flashlight tightened. “Then we handle it.”

Her words sent a chill down my spine, settling deep in my bones—a silent warning of the choice we might have to make.