They wandered without purpose, responding to stimuli he couldn't identify. Occasionally one would stop and sniff the air, or turn its head at some sound only it could hear. But they weren't actively hunting. Weren't coordinating. Weren't searching systematically.
Thank God for small mercies, Jack thought.
According to the broadcast—according to Colonel Blake's warnings—zombies could smell and hear living humans from up to 150 feet away.
Jack did the mental calculation quickly. The third floor was about forty feet above the second floor. That meant they were within range. The infected down there should be able to detect the survivors up here.
So why weren't they?
Maybe we're just outside their effective range, he reasoned. Or maybe the vertical distance confuses their senses. Or maybe they're just stupid enough that they haven't figured out how to look up.
Whatever the reason, it was keeping them alive.
But it also meant they had to be extraordinarily careful.
One loud noise. One careless shout. One survivor having a breakdown and screaming…
And this entire floor could turn into a slaughterhouse in minutes.
Jack took a deep breath, his hand unconsciously going to his empty holster.
The habit was so ingrained he didn't even realize he was doing it until his fingers touched nothing but fabric.
"If I'd just kept my gun…" he muttered bitterly under his breath.
His service weapon—a Glock 19, standard issue for airport security—had been surrendered earlier that afternoon during a shift change. Protocol required all weapons to be logged and stored at the first-floor security post when transferring between shifts.
He'd heard gunfire not long after the first wave of infected had hit the terminal. Automatic fire, the distinctive crack of 9mm rounds, the boom of what might have been a shotgun.
But then—silence.
Jack didn't want to imagine what that meant.
Either the security team had been overrun, or they'd run out of ammunition, or they'd fled.
None of those options were good.
Forty-seven rounds, he thought bitterly. That's what I had loaded between my weapon and two spare magazines. Forty-seven chances to make a difference.
And now I'm fighting with a fucking metal pipe.
He clenched his fists, forcing himself to let go of the regret. What-ifs wouldn't keep anyone alive.
Meanwhile, inside the third-floor cafeteria, Emily tried calling her brother one more time.
Busy.
She tried again immediately.
Busy.
And again.
Still busy.
Her thumb hovered over the call button, trembling slightly, before she forced herself to stop.
The network's overloaded. Every call I make is just adding to the congestion. I need to conserve battery anyway—who knows when I'll be able to charge this again.
Around her, the other survivors were going through similar motions. Checking their phones obsessively. Sending text messages that would never be delivered. Refreshing social media feeds that had stopped updating.
Every few seconds, someone would mutter in frustration.
"The network's gone."
"Internet's dead."
"Nothing's working."
"Can't reach anyone."
The litany of failure was almost as depressing as the situation itself.
Emily forced herself to think rationally, to push past the fear and emotion and analyze their situation with the cold logic that had earned her two doctorates by age twenty-four.
Facts: Global outbreak. Infection spreads through fluid contact. Transformation takes minutes. No cure. Military response will be slow—they're dealing with simultaneous crises nationwide.
Conclusion: We're stuck here for an extended period. Days, minimum. Possibly weeks.
Priority one: Survival. That means food, water, security.
Priority two: Information. Understanding the infected—their behavior, their limitations, their patterns.
Priority three: Ethan.
Her chest tightened at that last thought.
I need to find him. Or at least confirm he's alive. But I can't do that from here, and I can't risk leaving—not until I understand the situation better.
She looked around the cafeteria, taking stock of resources.
The airport restaurants and shops would have food—packaged goods, bottled drinks, preserved items. Enough to sustain the survivors for a while, though they'd need to ration carefully.
Water was available from the bathrooms and water fountains, though she wasn't sure how long the building's plumbing would continue functioning without maintenance.
Security was their biggest concern. The barricades would hold against mindless zombies, but they were hardly permanent solutions. And if the infected ever figured out how to climb, or if the barriers were breached somehow…
We need weapons. Real weapons. And we need a better defensive position.
Emily filed those thoughts away for later discussion with Jack. For now, survival meant staying quiet and staying hidden.
Just like Colonel Blake had said.
Ethan Miller, on the other side of the city, was facing a nightmare of his own.
He'd fought his way across several blocks of Chicago's urban landscape, cutting through backstreets and alleyways, staying mobile, staying alert, staying alive.
The folding military shovel had become an extension of his arm—he'd lost count of how many skulls he'd crushed with it. Five? Ten? Twenty? The numbers blurred together after a while, becoming meaningless.
What mattered was that he was still breathing. Still moving. Still heading toward O'Hare.
Still heading toward Emily.
But now he'd hit a wall.
Not a literal wall, but something that might as well have been one.
The road leading directly to the airport—Century Boulevard—was a death trap.
Ethan crouched behind an overturned delivery truck, peering around its rusted bumper at the scene before him, and felt his heart sink.
Hundreds of zombies filled the street.
Not dozens. Not scores.
Hundreds.
They packed the broad avenue from sidewalk to sidewalk, a shambling mass of undead flesh that stretched as far as he could see. They moved between abandoned cars like a slow-motion river, bumping into each other mindlessly, occasionally stopping to gnaw on corpses that littered the pavement.
It looked like the aftermath of a massive outdoor concert—except now, the crowd was undead, and the music had been replaced with moaning and the wet sounds of feeding.
"This is the fastest route…" Ethan muttered under his breath, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.
He'd been mentally mapping his route since leaving the sporting goods store. Century Boulevard was the most direct path to O'Hare—a straight shot that should have taken maybe twenty minutes by foot at a brisk pace.
Taking a detour would mean circling around residential neighborhoods, cutting through unfamiliar territory, potentially running into even more zombies in areas where he didn't know the layout.
"If I take a detour, it'll add an hour—maybe more," Ethan said quietly, trying to think through his options. "I can't lose that time. Emily's waiting. Every minute I waste is another minute she's alone in that airport."
But looking at the horde in front of him, he had to admit the bitter truth.
He couldn't fight through that.
Even with his strength, even with the shovel strapped to his back, even with the hunting knife at his belt—he wouldn't survive if they surrounded him.
One or two zombies? He could handle that.
Five or six? Difficult but manageable.
Hundreds?
That was suicide.
Think, Ethan. Think. There has to be a way.
He spotted a small convenience store on the corner—one of those 24-hour places that sold cigarettes, lottery tickets, and overpriced snacks to late-night travelers.
The front windows were intact, which suggested it hadn't been completely looted yet. The lights were still on inside, probably running on a backup generator since the main power grid had failed about twenty minutes ago.
Ethan moved quickly and quietly, crossing the empty side street and ducking into the store through the propped-open door.
He closed the glass door behind him carefully, making sure it didn't slam, making sure the little bell above the entrance didn't jingle.
Quiet. Always quiet.
The store was empty—no living employees, no customers, no corpses. Just abandoned. The owner had probably fled at the first sign of trouble.
Smart.
Ethan grabbed a half-empty water bottle from a shelf near the coolers, twisted off the cap, and took a long sip. The liquid was lukewarm but clean, washing away the coppery taste of blood and fear that had been coating his tongue.
He forced himself to breathe slowly, to calm his racing heartbeat, to think clearly.
Alright. Assessment time.
From his hiding spot behind the store counter, Ethan watched the horde outside through the front windows. He pulled out his phone to check the time—the battery was at 67%, which was decent—and opened the maps application to study the area.
A hundred meters away, the infected moved sluggishly along Century Boulevard. Their movements were uncoordinated but relentless. Some of them stopped occasionally to investigate sounds or smells only they could detect. Others just wandered in seemingly random patterns.
Too many, Ethan thought grimly. Even with my strength and the element of surprise, I wouldn't make it fifty feet before they surrounded me.
He tried calling Emily again, already knowing what the result would be.
"Your call cannot be completed as dialed."
"Damn it," he whispered, resisting the urge to throw the phone.
He switched to the phone's internet browser instead. Miraculously, he still had a weak data connection—probably one of the last cell towers still functioning in the area.
The homepage of a major news site loaded slowly, images appearing pixel by pixel.
What he saw made his blood run cold.
Headlines rolled past his screen in a cascade of horror:
"CDC Confirms Outbreak in All 50 States"
"Zombie Infection Spreads to Europe, Asia"
"WHO Declares Global Health Emergency"
"Zombies Respond to Sound and Smell—Experts Warn"
"National Guard Mobilized Nationwide—Millions Feared Dead"
"No Cure Yet Discovered, Says CDC Director"
Ethan scrolled through article after article, his expression growing darker with each passing second.
All fifty states. Global. Responds to sound and smell.
That last detail caught his attention, making his mind race with possibilities.
"So they can be distracted…" he murmured, an idea starting to form.
If the zombies responded to sound, that meant he could potentially lure them away. Create a noise distraction in one direction while he slipped through in another.
It was risky—incredibly risky—but it was better than waiting to die in this convenience store.
I need something loud, Ethan thought, looking around the store for options. Something that will draw their attention for at least a few minutes.
His eyes landed on the parking lot visible through the side window.
Several cars were still parked there—abandoned when their owners had fled on foot. One of them was a beat-up sedan with an after-market alarm system, judging by the blinking red light on its dashboard.
Car alarm, Ethan thought, feeling a grim smile tug at his lips. Perfect.
The plan was simple: Set off the car alarm on the opposite side of the street from where he needed to go. The noise would draw the horde toward it like moths to a flame. While they were distracted, he'd cut through the gap they'd left behind and continue toward O'Hare.
Simple. Dangerous. But possible.
Alright, Ethan thought, taking another sip of water and preparing himself mentally. I can do this. Just need to time it right.
But before he could move toward the door, something caught his eye through the cracked front window.
Movement.
Not zombies—these were moving too deliberately, too carefully.
Two men were creeping out from behind a row of cars on the opposite side of Century Boulevard. They moved in short bursts, ducking between bumpers, using the abandoned vehicles as cover. Their movements were coordinated, suggesting they'd worked together before—or at least had some basic tactical sense.
Ethan's eyes narrowed, tracking their progress.
Where are they going?
He followed their line of sight—and then he saw it.
A police cruiser, its driver's door hanging open at an awkward angle. The vehicle had apparently crashed into a light pole at some point, the front bumper crumpled, the windshield spider-webbed with cracks.
And beside it, slumped on the pavement, was a body.
A dead police officer.
The corpse was face-down, its uniform soaked through with blood. One arm was outstretched, reaching toward nothing. The back of the skull had been crushed—probably by a zombie—leaving a dark stain on the concrete beneath it.
But what mattered—what had drawn those two scavengers like vultures to a carcass—wasn't the body itself.
It was what the body still had.
A black service pistol, still holstered at the cop's waist.
The weapon sat there in its leather holster, untouched, unnoticed by the mindless zombies who had killed its owner.
But very much noticed by living humans desperate for any advantage in this new world.
Ethan's pulse quickened, his hand instinctively tightening around the shovel's handle.
A gun, he thought, his mind already calculating distances and timing. A working firearm.
In a country like the United States, civilians could legally own guns—plenty of them did. But not everyone. Not in major cities like Chicago, where gun laws were strict and ownership was less common.
And even people who did own guns often didn't carry them. They kept them locked in safes at home, unloaded, stored separately from ammunition.
A loaded service weapon, right now, in this situation?
That was worth more than gold.
That was the difference between life and death.
Between being a victim and being a survivor.
Watching the two scavengers creep closer to the dead officer, Ethan felt that cold calculation he'd discovered earlier—that ruthless survival instinct—kick into full gear.
They're after the gun, he thought, his eyes tracking their every movement. Moving slow, trying not to attract the horde's attention. Smart. But not smart enough.
They're exposed out there. If the zombies notice them, they're dead.
But if I move now, while they're distracted…
Ethan's jaw set in a hard line, his expression going cold.
"Guess I'm not the only one with that idea," he muttered quietly to himself.
He adjusted his grip on the shovel, feeling its reassuring weight.
"But I'll be the one who gets it."
Because in this new world—this hell that Chicago had become—there were no second-place prizes.
There was only survival.
And Ethan Miller would do whatever it took to reach his sister.