It’s rare for Dad to take us out for ice cream.

I look over at Riley. She’s devouring her ice cream, rambling about how it tastes like cotton candy.

 At least she’s happy.

Dad keeps looking nervously at his phone, completely ignoring Riley.

He probably brought us here to meet his new girlfriend or whatever she is.

Since Dad and Mom divorced, it’s been one girlfriend after another.

“OMG, what’s going on over there?” the table next to me stands up and starts pointing.

The crowd’s attention is locked on something ahead. Are they fighting? I can’t tell.

Riley and Dad don't even notice. I stand on my chair and try to see what's going on. 

My lungs lock. My voice barely works. “Riley, we need to go.”

“What? Whyyy?” she whines, licking her spoon.

The monsters are moving closer — their skin green and rotting, joints twisted out of place. Screams erupt. Chairs crash.

 Dad finally looks up and grabs Riley’s hand. “Let’s go!”

The group of monsters is closing in fast. We sprint toward the exit, but the crowd’s a frenzy—screams pierce the air, bodies shove and shove again, desperate to escape.

The exit ahead is clogged with bodies, pounding at the glass. “Dad! We need another way!”

“Quick, the stairs! We need to hide!” my dad gasped, his breath ragged. We sprint up the stairs, the chaos and screams still raging below on the mall’s first floor.

“Daddy, I’m scared,” Riley whispered, her voice trembling. Tears traced wet trails down her cheeks, while her runny nose shimmered beneath trembling eyes.

 She is so small, so afraid. As soon as we find somewhere safe, I hold her close.

“It’s okay, Riley. I’ll keep you safe,” I promise softly.

Ahead, an empty store caught Dad’s eye. “Let’s go in there,” he said, urgency threading his voice.

“ERUGGG” 

A monster bursts out of the elevator, its joints twisted and snapping unnaturally as it crawls forward.

“DAD, look out!” I scream.

 His arms move. At first, I think he’s pulling her close. Then I see—he’s holding her out. I watch in horror as he uses Riley as a shield. 

Its rotting jaws clamp onto her throat, and a wet, meaty rip echoes through the air.

 Her scream gurgles into silence. The monster chews slowly, strings of sinew dangling from its teeth.

 The smell of blood hits me like a thunderclap—an instant, pounding headache.

I’m frozen, everything unfolding too fast to process.

I can’t breathe. My sister is being eaten alive—my sister, my sister, my sister.  

The thought loops, louder than the screams, drowning everything else.  

Time stretches. Her cries fade into a suffocating silence that floods my mind.  

I’m trapped in this moment—paralyzed, useless—as the light drains from her eyes and the monster’s jaws clamp down, final and merciless.

Then Dad grabs my hand, his grip sharp and demanding.

“Come on, Renna! You can’t just stand there. We have to move!” he yells, as if it’s my fault.

He shoves me toward the empty store and starts slamming the door shut, barricading it.

My stomach twists violently, and I vomit up everything I’ve eaten in days.

“You killed her! You handed my baby sister over to that monster!” I scream, my voice cracking under the weight of my grief.

“Quiet!” he snaps, eyes cold. “Stop yelling! You’re going to attract them. It was a mistake. She was just a weight holding us back.”

He smiles — like he’s proud, like he did the right thing.

My whole body trembles. Tears burn my throat, and I’m barely holding it together.

Without warning, he pulls me into a hug, but it feels wrong — like a stranger’s arms, not my father’s.

I’m on the edge of throwing up again.

A burning rage ignites within me. He will regret what he did—soon enough. 

I've never liked my father, but I didn't always feel that way. When I was a little girl, he would play with dolls and dress up with me.

 Everything went sour after the divorce. My mother wanted freedom, so my sister and I were left with my father. 

It's 8 p.m., and we've been hiding in this store for the past two hours. Dad scrolls through his phone as if nothing happened.

By nightfall, my plan is set. “We should rest,” I say, keeping my voice soft, almost kind. 

He stretches out on the couch. I slip into the back rooms, my pulse in my ears. Ropes hang on a hook. Perfect.

I tie the knots he taught me years ago — tight, unshakable. His hands. His ankles. He doesn’t stir.

At dawn, I drag him into the open walkway. My arms ache, but I don’t stop.

He wakes to the sound — slow, wet footsteps. One monster staggers into view, sniffing the air.

“Renna? What’s going on?” His voice wavers.

Another monster joins the first.

“Untie me. Now.”

I crouch so close I can see the panic blooming in his eyes. “You gave her up,” I whisper. “Now I’m giving you up.”

His voice breaks into shouting, then screaming. The sound draws more of them.

 I step back as they close in, his eyes locking on mine. I don’t look away. Not when they grab him. Not when his screams splinter into gurgles. Only when the tearing starts do I turn and walk away.

I never thought my first murder would feel so good. 

I’m in the parking lot, scanning the rows for Dad’s car — my car now. 

The air tastes metallic and sharp with rust.

Every shadow could be a monster, every noise a warning. My legs feel like glass, but I keep moving, quietly as I can. 

There — the silver glint of the hood. I slip inside, slam the locks down, and finally let my lungs remember how to breathe. 

My hands won’t stop shaking. The leather smells like him, and bile burns the back of my throat. 

I press my forehead against the steering wheel, the leather cold beneath my skin. 

The screams still echo in my mind, stitched into the silence. Maybe the dead aren’t the only ones who’ve stopped living.