The night was heavy and cold, the kind that crept into your bones and made even silence sound like danger.
A pale moon hung over the city, spilling its ghostly light across the crumbling rooftops where Sasha and Dylan had taken refuge.
Below them, the undead shuffled restlessly — a sea of hollow faces and broken limbs. The moans rose and fell like the rhythm of an ugly lullaby.
Every few seconds, the building would shudder as another corpse slammed against the walls, drawn by the faint scent of life above.
Sasha sat cross-legged near the edge of the rooftop, staring at the moon as if its calmness could rub off on her. "You think Ben and the others will come for us tomorrow?"
Dylan lowered the radio he'd been fiddling with for the last hour. Static. Again.
"I'm sure they will," he said, though his tone didn't sound convinced. "We've got the medical supplies. Ben's too greedy to abandon something this valuable. And he knows I'm needed back at camp."
