"Sylvia! You're going to be okay!"
Sarah clung to Sylvia, tears streaming down her face as she looked at the woman's ashen features. Words of comfort tumbled from her lips in a desperate stream.
"Cough... Don't... don't try to comfort me." Sylvia's voice was barely a whisper as she slumped against Sarah. She could feel something vital draining from her body with each passing second.
Without immediate pressure on the wound, the blood loss had been catastrophic. Sylvia was already teetering on the edge of death.
Summoning what little strength remained, she reached up and unclasped a necklace from around her throat. Crimson welled up in her mouth, but she forced it back down. "Please... take this to my sister... cough... give it to her..."
Sarah could see Sylvia fading before her eyes. She wiped her tears away and gently removed the necklace, clutching it tightly in her palm. "I will. I promise!"
A faint smile crossed Sylvia's face. Then she sensed a presence beside her and turned her eyes toward the figure.
It was Bryan. He stood motionless, staring at the wound in her abdomen, a flicker of sorrow crossing his features. They hadn't been particularly close, but they'd traveled together, survived together. The loss still hurt.
"Mom..."
Sylvia's gaze grew distant as she looked past Bryan. For a moment, she could have sworn she saw her mother standing there, wearing that gentle smile, telling her she'd done enough—that she could rest now.
She reached out and felt her mother's warm hand clasp hers. Strength flooded back into her limbs. She rose from the ground and found herself surrounded by family and friends, their laughter filling the air. A warmth and happiness she'd never known before washed over her. She didn't notice the single tear that traced down her cheek...
"No... no..."
Sarah covered her mouth, watching Sylvia's eyes close for the last time, her breathing slowly ceasing. The dam broke, and she wept openly.
Bryan placed a gentle hand on Sarah's back—he'd learned it was the most effective way to comfort her.
"SHRIEK—!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
But before they could process their grief, a sound cut through the air from behind them—the all-too-familiar screech of the Infected. Gunfire erupted immediately after.
Both Sarah and Bryan tensed. Their eyes met, and each saw the same exhaustion reflected back. Another chase was about to begin.
...
"Huff... huff..."
Wilfred collapsed onto the snow, sweat pouring down his face despite the cold. A gust of wind made him shiver, but when he saw his daughter lying on the ground ahead, he scrambled back to his feet and rushed toward her.
Someone beat him there. The moment Allen saw the voyeur go down, he bolted from behind the abandoned car and ran to Anna's side, pulling the gag from her mouth.
"Ptooey!" Anna spat repeatedly, trying to get the taste of the cloth out of her mouth.
Wilfred reached her and knelt down, checking her over anxiously. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine. Just get these cuffs off me—the key's on that bastard." Her hands were still pinned behind her back, and the position was agonizing. Then something occurred to her, and panic flooded her face. "Wait—how's Sylvia?!"
She'd been shoved outside by Ogden and had missed everything except a glimpse of Sylvia falling.
Silence.
Wilfred's face fell as the memory crashed back. He turned and saw Sarah sitting in the back of a truck, Bryan heading toward her.
He flipped Ogden's corpse over and began searching frantically for the key. "She was shot. We need to get over there!"
"What?!"
Anna's jaw dropped. She craned her neck toward the truck, dread settling in her stomach. In a world without hospitals or proper medical supplies, a gunshot wound was often a death sentence. She urged her father to hurry.
Allen had been helping search for the key, but the moment he heard about Sylvia, his head snapped up in disbelief. He abandoned the search and sprinted toward Bryan.
Wilfred could only sigh. He knew how close Sylvia had been to the children—treating Sarah and Allen like her own siblings, and they'd adopted her as family in return.
Guilt gnawed at him. Sylvia had taken that bullet for him.
He searched faster, his hand finally closing around a small key in an inside pocket.
"Got it!" He turned to unlock Anna's cuffs, and she twisted to give him access.
"SHRIEK—!"
Seven or eight Infected burst from the treeline on both sides, howling as they charged.
"Damn it!"
Wilfred had expected the commotion to attract Infected, but not this fast. At least these seemed to be scattered stragglers rather than a main horde.
No time for the cuffs now. He raised his pistol and opened fire, but after the chaos at the roadblock, he was nearly out of ammunition. The gun clicked empty after just a few shots.
He tossed it aside without hesitation, snatched up Ogden's fallen weapon, and charged forward, firing as he went.
When that gun ran dry too, only three Infected remained. He was exactly where he needed to be. He threw the empty pistol aside and grabbed an iron bar from the ground, swinging it at the nearest creature.
Crack!
The bar caved in the side of its skull. The Infected stumbled and crashed to the ground.
Wilfred planted his foot on its chest, raised the bar high, and brought it down like a hammer on a watermelon. The head burst apart.
He pivoted, narrowly avoiding another Infected's lunge. The bar came up again, catching it in the back of the skull. The creature went sprawling, twitching in the snow.
"Hiss—!"
"Ahh!"
Just as Wilfred turned to deal with the last one, he heard more clicking shrieks behind him—and his daughter's scream.
He'd forgotten. Anna's hands were still cuffed.
He spun around. Anna was scrambling to her feet, and behind her, emerging from God knew where, was a Stalker—half its head encased in fungal growth.
Anna ran toward him as fast as she could, but her legs had gone numb from lying in the snow, and she was too panicked with her hands bound behind her. Her foot caught on something, and she went down hard.
The Stalker was right behind her. It lunged, withered hands reaching for her.
"Get away from her!"
Wilfred was already sprinting back. With a desperate shout, he hurled the iron bar with everything he had. It spun through the air and struck the Stalker just as it leaped, knocking it back two steps.
That gave him just enough time to close the distance. He tackled the creature, got his arm around its neck, and wrenched. They both went down, but Wilfred came out on top, pinning it beneath him.
The Stalker thrashed wildly, but Wilfred held firm. His free hand found its jaw, and with a savage twist—
Crack.
The neck snapped.
"SHRIEK—!"
Before he could catch his breath, the last remaining Infected howled and charged.
Wilfred was exhausted. The prolonged fighting had drained both his strength and his reflexes.
As he turned, the creature was already on him, tackling him to the ground. Its rotting mouth gaped wide, lunging for his throat.
He got his hands up just in time, but momentum and fatigue worked against him. He could barely hold it back. Those teeth were inches from his face.
He pushed with everything he had left, but the Infected didn't budge. It seemed to sense its prey weakening. Its mouth stretched wider, eyes gleaming with hunger, and it dove for his exposed neck—