The world felt distant, muted, as if I'd been shoved underwater. I didn't know how long I'd been holding my mother's lifeless body. Her blonde hair was still tangled in my fingers, as though she refused to let me go. Her skin, once warm, was cold now—cold enough to seep into me and hollow out whatever was left inside.
I couldn't remember when the tears had stopped. Or when the laughter, the fractured, hysterical laughter, had begun spilling out of me. At some point, they had blended together. Crying and laughing felt the same now: pain wearing different masks.
All I truly knew was that something inside me had shattered beyond repair, and I had no idea how to put myself back together.
Maybe I shouldn't have let myself get so close to this family. Maybe then it wouldn't hurt this much. I hadn't even realized how quickly they had become important—how desperately I'd clung to them after my grandfather died. Maybe I had been lonely. Maybe I still was.
All I knew was that I hated this feeling—this feeling of losing someone I loved.
I wasn't angry.
I wasn't even sad.
Or maybe that was a lie.
I couldn't tell anymore.
The only truth that remained was simple and cruel:
I had lost something I should never have lost.
The room reeked of smoke, blood, and gunpowder. Fire crackled below us, smoke creeping through the vents, but I couldn't bring myself to care. A small part of me wished the whole motel would burn down—with me in it.
"Max!"
A voice cut through the ringing in my ears. Footsteps stumbled across splintered boards. Someone entered the room behind me.
"Max… oh God."
It was my father.
I didn't look at him. Didn't move. My throat released strange, broken sounds—something between laughter and choking sobs.
His boots creaked as he came closer. He knelt beside me and turned me toward him. I finally saw his expression—fear, panic, disbelief—but none of it reached me.
"Max, come on. We need to go. The horde is coming."
I didn't answer.
Whatever he saw in my eyes made him flinch.
It felt like something essential had been cut out of me and left on the floor beside her.
Then his hand cracked across my cheek.
"Max! I said it's time to GO!"
The slap pierced the fog in my mind. I blinked. The room swayed. Flames licked the walls, growing taller, hungrier. The motel was burning.
I couldn't die here.
She wouldn't want that.
I gently laid Ava on the floor, smoothing her hair one final time. I wasn't ready to let her go—but I had to. Then I stood.
A pistol lay on the ground, as if waiting for me. My fingers closed around it. The metal felt warm—too warm.
John said something behind me—his voice trembling—but I didn't hear it. Or maybe I didn't want to. He grabbed my arm and dragged me out into the burning hallway.
Half the motel was already engulfed in flames.
Ahead, a horde of undead pushed toward the building.
Nine bandits sped away in a jeep.
I lifted my gun.
Fired.
Three tires exploded.
The jeep spun out and slammed into a tree.
Without thinking, I jumped from the second floor and bolted toward the wreck. I didn't hear my father shouting behind me.
"Max! What are you doing?! GET IN THE CAR!"
Uncle Matthew was behind the wheel, his injured arm clutched to his chest. His eyes widened when he saw me.
"Max, get in! Where is everybody?!"
But I couldn't answer.
I just kept running.
The bandits crawled from the wreck—dazed, bleeding. When they saw me coming, they reached for their guns.
I fired first, knocking their weapons from their hands.
I grabbed the closest man by the throat and slammed him to the pavement. His skull burst open across the concrete. He didn't get up.
Two more reached for their weapons. I shot them before they could lift their arms. Their heads snapped back, blood spraying across the grass.
Another tried to run. My gun clicked empty.
I hurled the pistol.
The metal smashed into his temple with a sickening crunch, lodging into the bone. He collapsed instantly.
Two bandits had died in the crash.
Three were still alive—barely.
I dragged them out of the jeep, ignoring their pleas.
"P-Please don't kill us! Let us go!" one begged.
And hearing him beg—
I smiled.
I punched him so hard his jaw shattered.
But it wasn't enough.
I hit him again.
And again.
Until his face caved in—just pulp and bone.
A broken laugh escaped me. Hearing it made my stomach turn. My hands dripped with blood—warm and disgusting.
The two remaining bandits trembled violently, wetting themselves when they saw me turn toward them. I wanted to rip their throats out with my bare hands. But the roar of the undead reminded me I didn't have time.
I grabbed a shotgun from the ground and left them there, screaming.
They would serve as bait.
They would buy us time.
I turned toward the car. My father and Matthew were waiting, faces twisted with panic.
"MAX! GET IN THE CAR!" my father yelled.
I glanced over my shoulder.
The wounded bandits were already being dragged into the swarm, screaming.
But the undead didn't stop.
They kept coming.
From every direction.
The car had no way out.
My father kept yelling.
But I knew the truth.
If we stayed together, we'd all die.
I couldn't lose any more family.
So I turned and ran the opposite way—arms waving, shouting—anything to draw the horde toward me.
"MAX! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! GET BACK HERE!"
I fired into the sky.
The horde turned toward me.
Most of it.
I ran, firing until the shotgun clicked empty. Then I threw it aside and sprinted, a tidal wave of undead roaring behind me.
It was enough.
Behind me, I heard the engine roar to life.
My father and Matthew sped away through the gap I'd created.
I reached the forest and plunged into the trees. Branches tore at my arms and legs as I ran. Only when the undead groans faded did I stop.
They were gone.
But now...
I am alone again.