The first man's eyes shot open, immediately going wide with confusion and fear as he tried to process where he was and what had happened. His hands went to his mouth, feeling the gag, and panic flashed across his features.
The other followed a second later, making similar muffled sounds of distress as consciousness returned.
They both tried to sit up, tried to speak, tried to spit out the cloth.
"Don't move," Ethan warned, his tone ice-cold and absolutely serious.
He raised the Glock 17, pointing it directly at the older brother's face from a distance of about three feet. At this range, even a mediocre shot couldn't miss.
"Don't make a sound. Nod if you understand."
Both men's eyes fixed on the gun barrel, and they nodded frantically, their movements jerky with fear.
"Good," Ethan said, satisfied they were paying attention.
He reached forward and pulled the cloth strips from their mouths, allowing them to breathe properly and speak if necessary.
Both men immediately began gasping for air, their faces red and sweaty.
"What—what the hell, man?" the younger one stammered, his Southern accent thicker now with fear. "We didn't do nothing to you! We were just—"
"Shut up," Ethan cut him off flatly. "I don't care about your excuses. Now you're gonna help me with something."
He gestured with the gun toward something he'd spotted earlier while moving through the area.
A black Harley-Davidson motorcycle, lying on its side about fifty feet away near the entrance to a parking garage. It looked like the owner had dumped it in a hurry during the initial outbreak, too panicked to bother with the kickstand. The keys were probably still in the ignition—people didn't think about securing property when zombies were chasing them.
"You two are going to pick that up and drive it down the street," Ethan said, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. "That way."
He gestured with his free hand toward a nearby intersection that was thick with shadows and, more importantly, thick with zombies that were currently inactive but would respond immediately to loud noise.
The taller man's eyes widened in horrified comprehension as he understood what Ethan was asking—no, commanding—them to do.
"You—You crazy?" he sputtered, his voice rising despite the obvious danger. "That'll draw every dead thing for miles! That engine's loud as hell! We'd be—"
"Exactly," Ethan said flatly, his expression showing no emotion whatsoever.
He raised the Glock slightly, making sure both men could see it clearly, making sure they understood that this wasn't a request or a suggestion.
"So… are you volunteering to do it quietly? Or do you want to see what a bullet to the face feels like? Because I've got four rounds in this magazine, and I only need two."
The shorter one—the younger brother—trembled visibly, his lips quivering as he tried to find words that might save them.
"You can't just—we didn't do nothing to deserve—"
"I can," Ethan cut him off coldly. "And I will. You've got five seconds to decide. Five… Four…"
The two men's eyes darted between the gun pointing at them and the street full of zombies that would tear them apart if the motorcycle attracted attention.
Neither option was good.
But one option meant certain death right now, while the other offered at least a slim chance of survival.
"Three…"
"Okay! Okay!" The taller one—the older brother—finally broke, cursing under his breath as he struggled to his feet. "Jesus Christ, you're fucking insane! Come on, David!"
He grabbed his younger brother roughly by the arm, dragging him upright.
"Move, damn it! Before this psycho shoots us!"
Ethan watched impassively as they stumbled toward the fallen Harley, their movements clumsy with fear and the lingering effects of being stunned. The younger one—David, apparently—kept looking back over his shoulder at Ethan, as if hoping this was all some kind of terrible joke.
It wasn't.
They reached the motorcycle and together—with much grunting and cursing—managed to lift it upright. The machine was heavy, probably close to seven hundred pounds, and they struggled with its weight.
The older brother checked the ignition.
"Keys are still here!" he called back, his voice carrying a note of desperate hope. Maybe they could actually ride away from this nightmare. Maybe—
"Start it," Ethan commanded from his position. "Now."
The man's hands shook as he turned the key and hit the ignition button.
For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happened. The engine turned over once, twice, sputtering and coughing.
Don't flood it, Ethan thought. Come on…
On the third try, the engine roared to life.
BRRRRRRRMMMMMM…!
The sound was absolutely massive in the relative quiet of the destroyed street—a deep, throaty rumble that echoed off buildings and shattered windows, bouncing and amplifying until it seemed to fill the entire world.
And instantly, the night around them changed.
The moans started.
Dozens of them at first—guttural, inhuman sounds of hunger and rage that rose from every direction.
Then hundreds.
Zombies that had been standing motionless in doorways suddenly stirred to life. Infected that had been wandering aimlessly through parking lots turned as one toward the source of the sound. Those that had been feeding on corpses abandoned their meals and began moving with terrible purpose.
They turned toward the sound like moths drawn to flame, their dead eyes fixing on the source of the noise, their bodies beginning to move faster as the predatory instinct kicked in.
"Go!" the older brother screamed at David, terror making his voice crack. "Go, go, go!"
He twisted the throttle, and the bike shot forward with a lurch that nearly threw them both off. David wrapped his arms around his brother's waist, holding on for dear life as they wove between wrecked cars.
The motorcycle's engine continued to roar, the sound echoing down the narrow street, acting like a dinner bell for every zombie in the area.
Behind them—and from the sides, and even from ahead—a tidal wave of undead began to converge. They came shambling and stumbling and running from every corner of the street, their arms outstretched, their mouths hanging open, their numbers growing with each passing second.
Fifty zombies.
A hundred.
Two hundred.
More.
Ethan had already moved, ducking into a nearby Starbucks coffee shop through its shattered front window. He crouched behind the counter, making himself small, controlling his breathing, watching through a crack in the window as the herd thundered past his position.
The zombies paid no attention to the coffee shop. They were fixated entirely on the motorcycle, drawn by its noise like predators after prey.
Through the narrow gap in the window, Ethan watched the two brothers race down the road on the Harley. They were going fast—too fast for the conditions, weaving dangerously between abandoned vehicles.
And then, inevitably, they lost control.
The older brother tried to swerve around a pile of debris in the road—luggage someone had dropped, maybe, or bodies—and overcorrected.
The bike's front tire caught on something.
CRASH!
The motorcycle slammed into the side of a parked pickup truck with a sound like a car bomb going off. Metal screamed against metal. The bike's frame crumpled. And both riders went flying through the air like ragdolls.
They hit the asphalt hard, tumbling and rolling, their bodies bouncing across the rough pavement. Bones broke. Skin tore. Blood sprayed.
The younger one—David—tried to crawl away, his movements weak and disoriented. He was screaming, his voice high and terrified, calling for his brother.
But the older brother wasn't interested in helping.
In a moment of pure animal panic and self-preservation, he grabbed David by the collar and shoved him down, using his own brother's body as an obstacle between himself and the approaching horde.
Then he tried to run.
His leg was broken—Ethan could see it from here, the way it bent at the wrong angle—but adrenaline let him stagger forward a few steps.
He didn't make it far.
Within seconds, the zombie mob was on them both.
The creatures swarmed like ants on spilled sugar, dozens of bodies piling on top of the two brothers. Hands grabbed and pulled. Teeth bit and tore. Flesh separated from bone with wet, tearing sounds that carried across the street.
The screams were brief but terrible—raw, primal sounds of agony that cut off one by one as throats were torn out.
And then there was only the sound of feeding. The wet sounds of zombies tearing into fresh meat. The snarls and growls as they fought each other for the best pieces.
Ethan exhaled slowly, his breath fogging slightly on the inside of the coffee shop window.
He wasn't proud of what he'd just done. Sending two men to their deaths—using them as bait, as a distraction—wasn't something that sat well with him morally.
But he wasn't guilty either.
Survival doesn't care about pride, he thought coldly. Survival doesn't care about morality or guilt or what's fair. It only cares about who lives and who dies.
And I choose to live.
For Emily. Always for Emily.
He stayed in position for another five minutes, watching as the horde continued to feast on the two bodies. More zombies continued to arrive, drawn by the sound of the crash and the smell of fresh blood.
Eventually, though, the feast began to wind down. The zombies—sated or simply bored—began to wander off, returning to their aimless meandering.
When Ethan finally dared to look out at Century Boulevard again, the difference was stark.
Where there had been hundreds of zombies blocking the road, now there were only a handful lingering near the crash site.
Eight zombies, maybe nine at most. The rest had been drawn away by the distraction and had scattered into the surrounding neighborhoods.
Manageable numbers, Ethan thought, feeling grim satisfaction. I can work with that.
"Alright," he muttered to himself, checking the Glock one more time and chambering a round. The metallic sound of the slide cycling was crisp and clean—a working firearm, ready to fire.
He tightened the straps on his backpack, making sure everything was secure. Adjusted the folding shovel on his back. Made sure the hunting knife was easily accessible.
"Time to move."
He burst out of the Starbucks at a dead sprint, moving low and fast, his eyes constantly scanning for threats.
Two zombies near the entrance noticed him immediately, their dead eyes fixing on his movement. They lunged forward, their arms flailing in that distinctive jerky motion, their mouths opening to bite.
But Ethan was faster.
He sidestepped the first one neatly, letting its momentum carry it past him, and drove the handle of his stun baton straight into the side of its skull. Not enough to kill, but enough to send it stumbling off-balance into a parked car.
The second zombie was closer, more dangerous.
Pop.
A single shot from the Glock, fired at point-blank range, and the zombie's head snapped back as the bullet punched through its forehead and exited out the back in a spray of dark blood and brain matter.
It dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
Pop.
Another shot, taking down a third zombie that had been closing from his right flank.
Two more zombies stumbled toward him from different directions, but Ethan was already past them, his athletic body moving with the speed and precision of someone who'd been fighting for his life for the past hour.
He didn't stop.
Didn't look back.
Didn't waste ammunition on threats he could simply outrun.
The city was burning around him—fires spreading unchecked through buildings, sending smoke and ash into the darkening sky. The air reeked of rot and death and destruction, a smell he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life however long that might be.
But none of that mattered.
Not the burning buildings.
Not the corpses littering the streets.
Not the screams echoing from distant neighborhoods.
Nothing mattered except reaching O'Hare International Airport.
Because somewhere across town—somewhere in that massive terminal building—his sister Emily was still waiting for him.
Still alive.
Still needing him.
I'm coming, Emily, Ethan thought as he ran, his legs pumping, his lungs burning, his determination absolute. Hold on just a little longer. I'm coming.
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