The sun had barely touched the horizon when the screaming began.
Dean stood in the middle of the road, gun still warm in his hand, the body of Kevin bleeding out behind him. The silence that followed was worse than the scream itself deep and unnatural, like the entire town had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.
He needed to move.
Dean turned on instinct, heading toward the one place that still made sense home. It was just four blocks away. He kept to the edge of buildings, feet light, back hunched low. He knew how to disappear in enemy territory. He'd done it in Tehran, Kiev, Caracas.
But this was Blackwater.
A town with lemonade stands, softball games, and smiling mailmen who brought your dog a treat every morning.
His stomach turned.
He reached his back door, locked it behind him, and headed straight for the closet in the basement. Pulled back the old coats and dog-eared boxes until the false panel popped free. Behind it was his emergency gear: tactical pack, suppressed Glock 19, boot knife, trauma kit, and a worn radio set long since cut from official channels.
He suited up without hesitation.
He wasn't an agent anymore but the instincts didn't fade. They just waited.
He glanced around the dim basement once more. There were framed photos on the wall. His wife's smile frozen forever at the Fourth of July barbecue. A town gathering. Faces he now feared he might have to put down.
He stuffed the photo in his bag.
Then he heard footsteps.
Slow. Uneven. Dragging.
Dean moved to the top of the stairs, pistol raised, breath low. The hallway beyond was dark but he saw the silhouette.
Tall. Thin. Familiar.
"Mr. Holloway?" he called out.
The shape twitched.
Then, the old man's voice, slow and trembling: "Dean… that you, boy?"
He stepped into the light.
His face was… off. Jaw slightly dislocated, eyes wet and red, skin pale and stretched too tight over his bones. But he wasn't gone. Not yet.
"I saw your wife yesterday," Mr. Holloway said. "She was in the trees. Said it's all gonna be okay."
Dean froze. "What?"
The man chuckled then convulsed.
He dropped to his knees, clutching at his stomach, and let out a dry, gurgling scream. Then his body split not open, but wrong, like something inside was twisting him backwards.
Dean fired.
Once. Twice. The old man's body crumpled. His twitching stopped.
Dean stood over him, shaking. "I'm sorry."
He didn't have time to grieve.
Outside, more footsteps not just one pair. Dozens.
Dean peeked through the window.
The street was filling.
Not just with infected. With neighbors. Some shambled. Some ran. One was slamming her head against a street sign over and over, blood splattering like paint. Another was laughing, walking on all fours.
Dean grabbed his pack and bolted through the side door, leaping fences like it was a mission in enemy territory. Dogs were barking somewhere in the distance. Lights were flickering. A child's music box played on loop, abandoned in a garden.
The air had changed.
It was heavy. Wrong. Breathing.
He ducked behind a rusted truck on Hawthorne Street and checked his bearings. His best shot was the church. Solid brick. One main entrance. High ground in the bell tower. If anyone was still sane in this town, they'd be holed up there.
Dean kept moving.
He passed what was left of the grocery store. Its front doors were smashed in, blood smearing the broken tile. Shelves were torn down, cans rolling across the floor. He didn't stop.
On the corner of Birch and Ellis, a group stood motionless in the street, heads tilted up toward the sky. Their mouths moved, but no sound came out.
Dean slipped past them in a crawl.
The church was lit.
A warm, flickering glow spilled out from behind the boarded-up windows. A miracle, almost.
Dean approached slow, cautious, then banged on the side door in a sharp pattern: three knocks, pause, two more. He prayed someone inside remembered what that meant.
The door creaked open.
A shotgun muzzle greeted him.
"Dean?" a voice whispered.
He recognized her instantly. Ellen Marsh, the librarian. Her hair was tied back, face pale, but her grip on the shotgun was steady. Behind her were three more people: Sam, the hardware guy. Kendra from the diner. And a boy no older than twelve Lucas, if Dean remembered right.
They let him in, bolted the door.
"We thought you were dead," Ellen said. "They said you were gone."
Dean didn't answer. He looked around instead.
They had candles lit, food piled in crates, a few jugs of water. The place smelled like fear and mildew. A barricade had been built around the pulpit using pews and rope. Kendra was crying softly in the corner.
"What happened here?" Dean asked.
"They started changing yesterday," Sam said. "Talking to themselves. Bleeding from the eyes. Then… they started tearing people apart. We've been hearing them all night scratching the walls. Laughing sometimes."
Dean turned to Lucas. The boy was staring at the door, wide-eyed.
"How long's he been like that?"
Ellen hesitated.
"He got bit this morning."
Dean's eyes narrowed. "Bit?"
"Just a scratch. He's fine," she said quickly. "He's still with us."
But Lucas's hands were shaking. His lips moved as if repeating something under his breath. Dean took a step closer.
"Lucas?" he said gently.
The boy looked up.
Then he screamed.
His body jolted, muscles seizing. Blood poured from his nose. He thrashed wildly, knocking over a lantern. Fire spilled across the wooden floor.
Dean tackled the boy and pinned him down. "Hold him!"
The others rushed in but Lucas's strength surged unnaturally. He writhed and snarled, spit flying from his mouth like foam.
"Help me he's turning!"
Sam hesitated. Kendra froze. Ellen screamed.
Dean didn't.
He reached for his pistol.
And ended it.
The fire burned low as they sat in silence.
No one cried. Not now.
Outside, the night had fully descended.
And Blackwater was no longer a town.
It was a hunting ground.