The quiet didn't mean safety.
It meant the dead had wandered just far enough away that everyone inside the store could hear their own breathing again—and that was somehow worse.
Justin crouched near the stockroom door, counting heartbeats instead of seconds. One. Two. Three. He kept his back straight, shoulders squared, like posture alone might keep the walls from collapsing inward. His hands still shook. He hated that. Hated that after everything—after dragging strangers out from under teeth and nails—his body betrayed him with adrenaline tremors like he was weak.
He wasn't weak.
He was tired.
So fucking tired.
Behind him, the five people they'd pulled in were finally slowing down. The panic cries turned into hiccupped sobs. One woman pressed her forehead to the concrete wall and whispered thank you over and over, not to anyone in particular. Another man stared at his torn palms like he couldn't understand how skin could rip that easily.
Justin didn't correct them.
Skin was that easy to tear now.
Mari sat on the floor with her knees pulled tight to her chest, arms wrapped around them like armor. Her jaw was locked so hard it hurt. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She just stared at the opposite wall and replayed the last five minutes in her head on a loop—Tally hitting the glass, the look on the people's faces, the way hope had flashed bright and deadly all at once.
She felt sick.
Not from the gore. Not from the screaming.
From the certainty that if Justin hadn't reacted fast enough, if Kenzie hadn't been there to help pull, if the Jeep hadn't been parked just right—they'd all be dead.
And it would've been Tally's fault.
Mari hated that thought almost as much as she hated herself for wishing, just for one ugly second, that the dead outside had taken the choice out of her hands earlier. That Tally wouldn't be here. That they wouldn't have to keep orbiting her chaos like it was gravity.
She swallowed hard.
You don't get to think that, she told herself.
But the thought stayed anyway.
Kenzie sat cross-legged near the shelves, Barbie curled tight against her chest, finally quiet. The dog's breathing had slowed, warm and steady through the fabric of the pack. Kenzie rested her chin lightly on the top of Barbie's head, eyes half-lidded—but she wasn't resting.
She was listening.
She always listened.
The sounds outside told stories now. Distant crashes meant glass. Long, echoing screams meant someone running too long without cover. Short screams meant… something else.
Kenzie didn't look at Tally.
She didn't need to.
She'd spent her whole life learning how to read people like Tally—popular, loud, reckless, the kind of girl who burned through rooms and left everyone else coughing in the smoke. She'd survived them by staying invisible.
But invisible didn't work anymore.
If she stayed quiet now, someone died.
And she wasn't going to let it be Barbie.
Or Justin.
Or even Mari, who was sharp and flawed and furious but at least thinking.
Tally stood apart from the rest of them, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one hip like she was still in control of the room. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt, but she refused to let it show. She stared at the floor, jaw clenched, replaying the moment she'd hit the glass over and over again.
She remembered the sound.
The way it echoed.
The way everyone had flinched like something had already gotten inside.
That part stuck with her.
She hated that it did.
She hated that her stomach had dropped when she saw the horde break from the smoke, hated that for half a second she'd wondered if Mari was right. If she'd gone too far.
But she pushed that down hard.
Because doubt felt like losing.
And Tally didn't lose.
"They're alive," she said again, quieter now, like repeating it might make it true enough to justify everything. "We saved them."
Justin turned slowly.
His eyes were dark. Not angry. Worse than angry.
"We survived," he said. "Because we moved fast."
"That's what I did," Tally snapped. "I acted."
"You didn't think," Mari said, finally looking at her. Her voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. "You never think."
Tally's head snapped up. "You don't get to talk to me like that."
"I absolutely do," Mari said. "Because next time you don't think, you might get him killed." She gestured at Justin without looking. "Or Kenzie. Or that dog you keep pretending doesn't matter."
Barbie stirred at the sound of her name.
Kenzie's grip tightened.
Tally scoffed. "You're dramatic."
"No," Mari said. "I'm done being nice."
The words landed heavy.
Justin stepped between them before Tally could fire back. "That's enough."
Tally stared at him, betrayal flashing hot and sharp. "You're taking her side?"
"I'm taking survival's side," Justin said. "Which means no more noise. No more solo decisions. No more acting like you're the only one who matters."
Something in Tally cracked—not enough to break, but enough to ache.
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
Outside, a crash echoed close. Too close.
Everyone froze.
Justin raised a hand.
They waited.
The sound moved on.
Slowly, carefully, he let his shoulders drop.
"We stay here till morning," he said. "If there is a morning."
One of the rescued women let out a broken laugh. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
Justin nodded once. "Don't thank us yet."
Silence settled again.
Heavier now.
Not just fear.
Resentment.
Regret.
What stayed behind after the noise faded.
And in that stillness, every person in the room understood the same thing, whether they admitted it or not:
Tally hadn't just drawn the dead.
She'd changed the rules.
And whatever came next—whatever this night still had waiting for them—it was going to be louder, uglier, and harder to survive together.
Because the danger wasn't only outside anymore.
It was standing right there in the room with them.
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