The body hit the floor with a heavy thud.
I stayed frozen, staring at Henry's blown-open head. Gunpowder still hung in the air. Rain tapped against the windows. Nobody spoke.
I couldn't hold it in—I vomited across the floor. Everything I'd eaten came up in a sick rush. The room spun; my stomach twisted violently, and I nearly collapsed. Ava caught me before I hit the ground, pulling me into her arms. My whole body trembled uncontrollably. The horror of what I'd just seen was something my mind couldn't process.
I'd always thought I was tougher than this. I used to hunt with my grandfather—dead animals never bothered me. But there's a world of difference between animals and humans. I'd told myself that, if survival demanded it, I could kill—people or undead—without hesitation. But now I knew better. Saying it and doing it were not the same.
When that gun was pressed against my head, I froze. I'd been so afraid I could barely breathe, powerless to move or think. What if one of them had been killed because of me? The thought made my stomach twist again. My fists clenched until my nails cut into my palms. I hated the sound of my own breathing—it was too weak, too scared. I felt pathetic. I wanted to hit something. I was still that same useless version of myself—watching from the sidelines, doing nothing. Letting other people take what was mine.
But I couldn't stay like that. Not now. Not when I finally had a family again. I couldn't let anyone harm what I loved—not ever. I've already lost too much. If I lost this, what would be left worth living for?
I forced myself to look at Henry's body. The sight was gruesome and haunting, but I had to get used to it if I wanted to survive. He reminded me of myself—broken, angry, grieving. The only difference was that he'd lost his reason to live, and I had only just found mine. I pitied him—maybe because, deep down, I saw my past self in him. But that had to change. If another man like Henry ever came for us again, I wouldn't freeze in terror. I'd fight back. I wouldn't make the same mistake twice. I'd kill them all if I had to.
I had to be strong—not for me, but for the people I cared about.
Matthew grabbed John's shoulder, spinning him around. His face burned with anger.
"You said you found the medicine—not that you stole it from some helpless woman."
John—bruised and bleeding—glared back. "Then what the hell was I supposed to do? Watch my son die? I had no choice!"
Matthew's voice hardened. "You're a heartless businessman—willing to do anything for your own selfish reasons."
John wiped blood from his cheek. "So, what if I am? At least I did everything I could to save what I have left. What about you, Matthew? When I told you to grab the medicine from that group while I distracted them, what did you do? Even when you had it in your hands, you left it behind. If my son hadn't miraculously recovered, I'd never have forgiven you."
Matthew's glare deepened. "There were others who were sick—just like Max. I couldn't let them die just to save ourselves. But what can I expect from you? The same cold, selfish man who abandoned his son when he was just a toddler. The man who didn't even visit when his boy had cancer. You've always run from responsibility, John. You're still that same coward."
John looked away, then turned toward Ava and me. His voice was quiet.
"Yeah… I know what I am. But I don't regret taking that medicine. Not even now. I can live with the guilt of the world—but I can't live with losing any of you."
Matthew's jaw tightened. "What you did was still wrong." He pointed at Henry's lifeless body. "Don't let your mistakes drag us all to hell."
Ava stepped between them. "Enough! This isn't the time. The undead must've heard the gunfire. The rain's covering it for now, but this place isn't safe—they'll smell the blood. We need to move. Now."
As soon as she spoke, a low, guttural growl echoed from the shattered front door.
One of them was already there.
What shocked me was its speed—it wasn't shambling like in the shows. It moved faster, almost at a jog.
My father snatched the gun lying near Matthew's feet and fired. The shot cracked through the air, and the walker dropped instantly. But through the rain and darkness, I could see dozens more coming—too many to count.
"Dad! There are more!" I shouted.
He looked outside, panic flashing across his face as the horde surged toward the house.
"Matthew, help me with the table! Ava—upstairs! Get the crowbar and unbarricade the back door! We'll hold them off!"
The front exit was lost. My father and uncle heaved the dining table sideways and braced it against the door. Groans and fists pounded from outside; the wood creaked under pressure.
I grabbed the pistol from Henry's cold fingers and slipped it into the back of my pants. My eyes scanned the room until they landed on a heavy-looking cabinet against the wall. I sprinted to it and shoved. To my shock, it slid easily—my leg didn't even ache anymore. I hadn't realized how strong I'd become; it must be because I was in Agent 47's body.
With a growl, I pushed harder until the cabinet slammed against the front door, reinforcing the barricade. Matthew and John stared for a second, stunned, then threw their shoulders back beside me.
Ava raced downstairs with the crowbar, prying loose the boards from the back door. Every time the undead slammed into the barricade, the entire room shook.
"It's almost clear come on!" Ava shouted. "Max, Matthew—go! I'll be right behind you!"
I hesitated, unwilling to leave my father, but one look from him told me to run. Matthew grabbed my wrist and pulled. "Let's go!"
Ava had just freed the last board. "Where's John?" She cried.
"Behind us! Get to the car!" Matthew barked, kicking the door open.
We sprinted into the downpour. The rain came down in sheets so thick we could barely see the car's outline. As we ran, a walker lunged from the shadows and grabbed Ava from behind. She fought back with the crowbar, but it was too strong—its teeth closing in on her neck.
Without thinking, I drew the gun and fired. The shot tore through the walker's skull, dropping it instantly.
I turned to Ava, my chest tightening. "Are you all right, Mom?" I asked, the concern plain on my face.
She looked down at herself, then back at me with a shaky breath. No bite. Relief flooded through me.
"Yes… I'm fine," she said, forcing a nervous smile. "Thank you, honey."
"Move!" Matthew shouted. Seeing both of us was fine.
We scrambled into the car. Matthew jammed the key into the ignition; the engine roared to life, headlights slicing through the storm.
Then we saw them—hundreds of walkers pouring toward the house.
Matthew's voice cracked. "John, come on! Don't you dare stay behind!"
We all looked back, desperate, praying he'd make it in time.
Through the rain, a figure burst into view. John. He was sprinting full tilt, the horde at his heels. "I'm coming!" He screamed. He dove into the front seat and slammed the door shut.
"Drive!" He barked.
Matthew floored the gas pedal. The tires screamed, mud spraying as the car shot forward. The house vanished behind us, swallowed by thunder and rain.
We drove into the darkness—shaking, drenched, but alive.
No one spoke. The windshield wipers beat like a metronome over our shallow breaths. Blood, rain, and smoke filled the car.
Alive. For now.