The door buckled again.
Metal screamed as something heavy slammed into it from the other side, the vibration rattling through the storeroom wall and into my bones. Dust shook loose from the ceiling and fell into my hair, mixing with sweat and ash.
I stayed still.
My back pressed flat against the concrete wall, knees pulled tight to my chest, pistol resting uselessly across my lap. My hands shook too much to aim properly anyway. Every breath felt loud.
Another impact.
The rod I'd jammed through the handles bent slightly, groaning in protest. Whatever was pushing against the door didn't care about pain or leverage. It only cared about getting through.
I forced myself to breathe slower.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. I repeated this at least for what felt like 10 minutes.
The storeroom was small and cramped. Boxes stacked unevenly against the walls, most torn open and looted. Empty shelves leaned at odd angles, their contents long gone. The floor was slick with spilled oil and something darker that I didn't want to identify or get close too.
No exits.
Of course.
I pushed myself to my feet and scanned the room again, forcing my brain to focus. Panic wouldn't help. It never did. My gaze lingered on the walls.
The pounding continued.
The zombies weren't coordinated, but they didn't need to be. Numbers did the work for them. One would tire, another would take its place. Eventually, something would give.
I checked my pistol.
Still three and a half mags left.
Yet it's useless against a crowd of hundreds.
My backpack sat on the floor where I'd dropped it. I crouched and unzipped it slowly, wincing at how loud the sound felt. Water bottles. Food. Ammo. No miracles.
The pressure stirred again behind my eyes.
I froze.
The sensation didn't spike like before. It hovered, distant but present, like static in the air before a storm. I realised that this feeling wasn't random... It was something I could use, like another limb, but invisible.
The door bowed inward another inch.
I looked at the wall beside it. Concrete, reinforced. I knew what it was made of now without needing the words to appear. I could feel it, like recognising a language I'd somehow always known.
But I also remembered the mud. The nausea racking my body, and the shaking afterwards. The way my body felt hollow afterwards.
A loud crack split the air.
The rod holding the doors shut snapped.
The door burst inward under the combined weight of bodies, slamming against the interior wall hard enough to fracture the concrete. Hands poured through the opening immediately, fingers clawing, nails scraping.
I raised the pistol and fired.
The shots were deafening in the confined space. One zombie dropped. Another staggered. The rest didn't slow.
I backed away, heart pounding, until my shoulders hit the far wall.
No more space.
I pressed my palm flat against the concrete beside me.
The pressure surged.
Material: Concrete
Composition: Aggregate, cement, silica
My vision blurred. I felt within my head as I pushed against it with all my might.
The wall softened beneath my hand, not melting, not flowing—loosening. Cracks spiderwebbed outward as the surface lost cohesion, chunks crumbling free. I kicked hard where it gave, ignoring the pain as the weakened section collapsed inward.
The dead air rushed in.
I dove through the opening as hands crasped inches behind my boots. I rolled across dirt and gravel, coming up coughing as my shoulder screamed in protest.
I didn't stop to look back.
I ran.
The alley spat me out onto a service road choked with debris.
Cars lay abandoned at odd angles, doors flung open, windows shattered. A bus sat jackknifed across the road, its interior dark and silent. I skirted around it, boots crunching glass as I moved.
My legs felt like lead.
Each step took effort now, my muscles heavy and unresponsive. The adrenaline was fading fast, replaced by exhaustion that sank deep into my bones. My head throbbed, the dull ache pulsing behind my eyes with my every heartbeat.
I slowed to a jog.
Bad idea.
Movement caught my eye to the left. A figure staggered out from between two cars, head lolling at an unnatural angle. Another followed. Then another.
Not a horde.
A pack.
I veered right, ducking between buildings as quickly as my legs would carry me. The city here felt tighter, streets narrower, shadows deeper. The red-black sky pressed low overhead, casting everything in a sickly half-light.
I ducked into a stairwell and climbed two flights before collapsing against the wall.
My chest burned with exhaustion.
I slid down until I was sitting, head tipped back, eyes closed. My hands trembled uncontrollably now, the aftereffects of using the power settling in fully.
This was the cost.
I forced my eyes open and scanned the stairwell. Empty. For now.
Something else moved in the distance—not the dead. Too fluid. Too deliberate. Shapes flickered at the edge of my vision, slipping between shadows where the light didn't quite reach.
I remembered the daemon in the stadium.
The way it had smiled.
A shiver ran through me.
The city wasn't just full of zombies. It was occupied. Claimed. Whatever rules had once governed this place were gone, replaced by something older and crueller.
I pushed myself upright again, teeth gritted against the pain. Rest wasn't an option. Not here.
I moved higher, emerging onto a rooftop that overlooked the surrounding blocks. From here, I could see fires burning unchecked in the distance. Smoke curled skyward, blending with the clouds until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.
The dead moved below, moving through streets and buildings with tireless patience.
But they weren't the only things moving.
Something tall crossed an intersection three blocks away. It moved upright, smooth and unhurried, its silhouette wrong in ways I couldn't quite define. It paused, head tilting as if listening.
I ducked instinctively.
My heart hammered as I stayed low, barely daring to breathe. After a long moment, the figure continued on, vanishing between buildings.
I didn't wait to see what it was. My legs carried me as I moved, slow but fast enough.
The night came with silence.
One moment, the sky was bruised red and black, the next it deepened into something darker, heavier. The fires became the only real sources of light, flickering and unreliable.
I found shelter in an office building with most of its lower floors collapsed inward. The upper levels were intact enough to hold weight, and the stairwell was blocked by debris that even the dead would struggle to climb.
I barricaded myself in a corner office and collapsed against the wall.
My body finally gave in.
I drank half a bottle of water in slow, careful sips, forcing myself not to gulp it down. My stomach protested, but I ignored it. I ate one of the cans cold, barely tasting it.
Only then did I let myself think.
Not about home. But the irrationality of this. The daemons were supposedly trapped in the Middle East, even the zombie tide was stopped at the Panama canals, yet here I am in Texas, surrounded by the dead and daemons.
The power lingered at the edge of my awareness, quiet now but unmistakable. I knew it wasn't going away. I also knew that if I relied on it too much, it would break me long before anything else did.
Outside, something roared. Not close. Not distant either. The sound carried through the night, deep and layered, like multiple voices speaking at once.
I tightened my grip on the pistol.
I wasn't safe here, but I was alive nonetheless.
And for now, that would have to be enough.
I closed my eyes, not to sleep, just to rest them for a moment. Just a moment.
The world shifted uneasily around me, settling into its new shape.
And somewhere in the dark, something noticed that I had survived.
(Hope you enjoyed Guys :) )