Justin held his silence long enough for the room to settle into the ugly truth: they weren't alone anymore.
Five strangers meant five stories. Five sets of instincts. Five new ways to die.
He stood near a shelf of looted snacks, arms folded, eyes scanning them like he could measure risk by looking hard enough.
"Okay," he said quietly. "We need names. Where you're from. Where you were going. And if you've got injuries, you say so now."
The group exchanged looks—exhausted, wary, still vibrating with leftover terror. They were scraped up, dirty, and stained with blood in places that didn't look like theirs.
A woman stepped forward first. Mid-thirties. Athletic build. Dark hair yanked into a tight knot like she'd done it by feel. Her knuckles were split. Her left sleeve was smeared with dried blood.
"I'm Renee Calder," she said. "Physical therapist. I lived off Montgomery Cross Road. I was trying to get to my sister's place near the mall."
Justin nodded once. "Any weapons?"
Renee lifted her hands, palms out. "No. Just anger."
A weak, humorless exhale came from behind her.
A man shifted next. Late forties. Thick beard. Eyes red like he'd cried until his face gave up. His shirt was torn at the collar, and the stain down the front was too dark to be explained away.
"Marcus Hill," he said. "I was driving Uber. Picked up two of them when the lights went out. Traffic locked up. People started screaming. I ditched the car at Abercorn and White Bluff and ran."
Tally, still in the corner with her arms crossed, scoffed. "Left your car?"
Marcus stared at her. Not a glare—worse. Just a flat look, like she was too loud to be real.
"I watched a man get dragged out of his driver's seat and eaten in under ten seconds," he said. "You want the car, you can have it."
Justin shot Tally a look that shut her mouth.
Next came a girl—late teens—shaking so hard her hoodie trembled. Mascara streaked down her face. There was a bruise on her forearm shaped like fingers, and the way she held it screamed: don't look too hard.
"I'm not bitten," she blurted immediately. "I swear. He grabbed me when I fell."
Justin didn't step closer. He kept his distance. "Name."
"Lila Torres," she said. "Armstrong student. I was with my roommate and her boyfriend and… other people. We were trying to get out. Then they started running. And then they stopped."
Her voice cracked. She swallowed and forced the words out anyway. "I didn't."
Behind Lila stood an older woman, maybe sixties. White hair in a messy braid. Glasses cracked and taped at the bridge. She leaned on a cane that looked borrowed.
"Dorothy Whitaker," she said. "Dot. Retired school secretary. I don't run anymore." She tapped the cane softly on the tile. "So I hid. Until somebody set the neighborhood on fire."
Mari's expression tightened.
Dot met her eyes. "Didn't know the fire was coming. Just smelled smoke and started praying."
The last man hadn't spoken yet.
Tall. Early thirties. He moved like someone trained, even exhausted. His right forearm was wrapped in a bandage that looked too tight, spotted with blood.
"Ethan Park," he said finally. "Former National Guard. I was headed to Hunter."
That landed in Justin's chest like a fist.
His father's base.
Ellis's world.
Secrets and fences and guns and maybe—just maybe—answers.
Justin's jaw tightened before he could stop it. "Why?"
Ethan hesitated. "Because if there was anywhere that might still be standing… it would be there."
Silence stretched.
Justin let it stretch, because sometimes silence told you more than panic.
Then he nodded once. "Okay."
He stepped back and did the math again, because math was the only thing keeping him from breaking.
Food: maybe two days.
Water: less.
Ammo: barely.
People: nine.
He looked around the store—the dim corners, the half-empty shelves, the back area they'd barricaded like it meant something.
"So," Renee said cautiously, "what now?"
Justin didn't answer right away.
He thought of Ella Belle—missing, somewhere in this ruined city.
He thought of Sharon in the hospital.
He thought of Ellis at the base.
He thought of the dead outside that listened for mistakes.
"We don't move loud," he said finally. "We move smart. We stay quiet. We make a plan that doesn't get everybody killed in the first ten minutes."
Dot nodded like she'd been waiting for someone to say it.
Lila shook her head rapidly, panic rising. "We can't just sit here."
Marcus muttered, "We can't just run either."
Ethan looked toward the windows, eyes narrowed. "Staying gets you surrounded."
Justin's gaze flicked to the shelves. To the door. To the back exit. To his Jeep angled outside. To the fact that one wrong choice would turn this store into a coffin.
And behind him, like a shadow pressed too close, Tally stood near his shoulder—watching Mari, watching Kenzie, watching the newcomers—like the biggest threat in the room wasn't the dead outside.
It was what they were becoming inside.
Justin exhaled slowly. "We talk," he said. "We decide who's going where. We decide what we're willing to share. And we decide what happens if someone tries to take it."
No one moved.
No one argued.
Because for the first time, everyone understood what the next fight would be about.
Not zombies.
Resources.
Trust.
And whether survival meant saving strangers—or protecting what little they had left.
Outside, a dead man wandered past the window, dragging one foot.
The moan followed him like a shadow.
And the store—small, tense, and full of people who didn't know each other—felt like it might crack right down the middle.