It had been a full week now.
Even after most of the undead followed the explosion, hundreds still remained. We were still trapped inside the train station, surrounded on every side.
Every hour—every day—they thinned out a little.
A week ago, there were hundreds.
Now maybe eighty… maybe ninety.
Still too many to escape.
The building was somehow still holding.
Barely.
We spent the entire week reinforcing barricades, shoving anything heavy—desks, crates, metal cabinets—against every crack, window, and doorway. Anything to keep the undead from squeezing inside.
But the smell…
God, the smell.
Even after we dragged the two rotting bodies into the north office and tossed the severed hands in with them, the stench only worsened. Hot, sour rot filled the air. It clung to our clothes. Our hair. Our skin.
We ate with it, breathed it, slept with it.
Everyone was exhausted.
Even I was worn down—and I never tired easily. The others must've felt like the walking dead themselves.
We slept in shifts, two people awake at all times. The rest tried to rest, but with constant scraping and pounding on the walls, no one ever truly slept.
But the worst problem wasn't the undead.
It was the food.
The two old people I killed had stockpiled enough supplies for maybe two, maybe three weeks—for themselves. With six of us, it vanished fast, no matter how we rationed.
Then the water ran out.
Now everyone was hungry.
Thirsty.
Irritable.
Angry.
Arguments sparked over nothing.
Even Lee snapped once, something I'd never seen.
And Kenny… Kenny was unraveling. The groaning outside, the hunger, the grief, the sleepless nights, it was dragging him right to the edge.
We were in terrible shape.
We couldn't stay much longer.
All week, helicopters had been flying overhead. Sometimes one, sometimes two, sometimes more.
Every day, miles away, explosions shook dust off the ceiling. Deep, rolling booms that made the floor vibrate like a giant heartbeat.
Operation Cobalt.
I remembered enough from the Walking Dead show to know what it meant: the government's last attempt to contain the outbreak by napalming entire cities—burning walkers and civilians alike.
Every night, distant fireballs glowed on the horizon. Orange, then red, then black. Every time the bombs fell, everyone flinched, wondering if the next one might land here.
Across the room, Clementine lay curled on her side.
Lee sat beside her, his hand on her back, watching her like he was afraid she might stop breathing.
Her fever hadn't gone down. The cut on her hand was swollen, hot, and leaking pus through the filthy bandage. We had no medicine. No clean water. Nothing.
She grew weaker every day. Now she couldn't even sit up without help. Her chest rose and fell too fast. Her lips were cracked. Her eyes were half-open, unfocused.
She hadn't spoken in two days.
I kept looking at her… then at the door… then at the windows rattling under undead hands.
If we didn't move soon, she would die.
All of us would.
But we were trapped. Surrounded.
No food.
No water.
And thirst was killing us faster than hunger.
In my bag, I had one bottle of water and one can of food. My emergency supply. The one thing I swore I would never share.
I missed the days when I'd casually handed out extra cans thinking I could just hunt for more.
Now I understood what arrogance really was.
But Clementine needed it more.
It was because of me she was in this condition.
I moved beside her and knelt. Her eyes fluttered at the sound.
"Clementine," I whispered. "Here. Drink some water."
She tried to focus on me. Her lips parted, but no sound came—just a trembling breath.
I uncapped the bottle and lifted her head gently. Her small fingers reached for it but trembled helplessly. She didn't have the strength. So I held it to her lips and helped her drink half the bottle in tiny, painful sips.
For the first time in days… she smiled. Just a little. But she smiled.
Lee stared, disbelief and relief mixing in his tired eyes.
"Where'd you find water?" he asked softly.
I didn't answer.
I kept holding the bottle.
Behind me, I heard it—
a harsh, rapid breathing.
Loud. Unsteady.
The kind of breath someone takes right before they snap.
Kenny.
A moment later—
"You gotta be fucking kidding me!"
He stormed over, face red and wild. Clementine flinched at the sound of him yelling.
"You had water?" he barked. "You were HIDING water while all of us damn near dying from thirst?!"
"I wasn't hiding it," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I've had it since the beginning. In my backpack."
"That's the definition of hiding it, kid!" Kenny roared.
Before I could stop him, he ripped the backpack off my shoulder and tore it open. His hands dug through it—then froze.
Slowly, he pulled out the can of food.
His face twisted into something ugly.
"What the hell is this?" he snarled. "You were hiding FOOD too? While we're STARVING?!"
Every pair of eyes locked on the can.
Sunken, desperate eyes.
Not angry—hungry.
Lee immediately stepped forward, blocking him.
"Leave the kid alone. It's his. He kept it from the start. It's his choice whether he shares it."
Kenny shoved the can against Lee's chest.
"We're a group, Lee! We SHARE what we have! We don't hoard like rats! If everyone acted like him, we'd all be dead!"
He jabbed a trembling finger at me.
"We fed him. We gave him water. We kept his ass alive. And he's hiding food from US?!"
The silence felt heavy enough to crush me.
I had no answer.
"He's just a kid, man," Lee snapped. "Let it go."
Kenny's jaw tightened. His nostrils flared.
"Let it go?" he echoed, voice shaking. "LET IT GO? While we're starving? Dying of thirst? Listening to bombs drop every night wondering if we'll even see morning?"
He stepped closer, chest nearly touching Lee's.
"Our lives are on the line, Lee. ALL OF OURS. You think I'm gonna 'let it go'?"
His finger jabbed Lee's chest again.
"And now he's wasting water on someone who might not even—"
Lee's eyes went cold.
Dangerous.
"—who might not even make it through the few days," Kenny finished. "Every day she's worse. She's becoming a threa—"
Lee didn't let him finish.
His fist cracked across Kenny's jaw.
Kenny staggered sideways into a stack of crates, then lunged back with a guttural snarl. They crashed to the floor, fists flying, blood smearing across the concrete as they grappled and cursed.
"STOP! Please—STOP FIGHTING!" Ben cried.
Christa grabbed Lee's arm.
Omid wrapped both arms around Kenny's waist and hauled him back with everything he had.
After a brutal struggle, they tore the two apart.
Both men were panting, bruised, swollen, glaring like they wanted to kill each other.
"Enough!" Christa shouted, voice shaking. "Can you two not SEE where we are?! Look around! This situation is already hell. Don't make it worse."
Omid held Kenny back, his own hands trembling.
"The walkers are thinning out," he said, trying to sound steady. "Slowly. Maybe another week and they'll mostly be gone."
"We don't have water," Kenny growled, wiping blood from his mouth. "We won't survive another week."
Silence.
Because he was right.
"Then instead of fighting," Christa said, looking at each of us, "we need to figure out how the hell we're getting out of here."
Lee wiped blood from his lip.
Kenny glared at him, jaw trembling with rage.
Christa stared at Clementine like a candle burning down to its last inch.
Ben hugged himself, shaking.
Outside, the undead clawed and pounded at the walls.
We were running out of time.