The air inside the abandoned convenience store was thick with dust and the sharp tang of old blood. Shelves lay overturned, their contents spilled across the cracked tile floor—rotting snack bags, shattered bottles, faded newspapers whispering with each shift of the wind. The only light came from the broken windows, where the setting sun bled through jagged glass, casting long, fractured shadows against the walls.

You crouched behind the register, pressing your back against the counter. Your breath came slow and steady, but your fingers tightened around the handle of the knife in your lap. Across from you, Ronan knelt by the doorway, peering through the splintered wood. His shotgun rested against his knee, hands gripping it with the ease of familiarity.

Outside, the street was deathly still. Cars sat abandoned, their doors hanging open, engines long cold. A corpse lay sprawled near the sidewalk, half-covered in the thick, pulsing veins of black mold that had overtaken the city. Somewhere in the distance, the echo of guttural snarls carried through the empty buildings, a sound too close to human, yet sickly wrong.

You exhaled, barely above a whisper. “How many?”

Ronan didn’t turn his head. “Three. Maybe four.” His voice was low, quiet, like even the air might betray them.

You swallowed. They’d been running for days, barely stopping to sleep, scavenging what little they could. Supplies were running thin, and exhaustion was gnawing at the edges of their minds, but stopping wasn’t an option.

A sharp scrape of nails against concrete made them both freeze.

Ronan's jaw tensed. “They’re close.”

Your grip on the knife tightened. They wouldn’t survive another chase. This time, they’d have to fight.