When the last of the supplies were stacked, the back room looked hollowed out.
Not empty—stripped. Like a carcass after scavengers. Bare metal shelves. Torn cardboard. A few crushed wrappers stuck to the tile. The smell of stale sugar and old coffee, and that faint chemical bite of cleaner that never really erased what happened in here overnight.
Justin latched the back door and tested it twice.
The click sounded too loud.
For a second, nobody moved. The quiet felt heavy—like the gas station itself didn't want them to step outside again. Like the building knew what was waiting on the other side of the walls.
"Alright," Justin said softly. "Listen up."
Tally rolled her eyes like it was muscle memory.
"We only get one shot," Justin continued, voice low, controlled. "We turn the pump on, fill the Jeep, fill every can we've got, and we don't make noise doing it. No shouting. No slamming doors. No running unless I say run."
Tally scoffed. "You're not a drill sergeant."
Ethan's head turned, eyes flat. "He kind of has to be now."
Tally's mouth tightened. She hated agreeing with anyone who wasn't her. Especially a stranger who'd walked into their mess and started talking like he belonged in it.
Mari tightened her ponytail like she was gearing up for a fight. Renee wiped her face with the heel of her hand and stared at nothing like her mind was somewhere else—somewhere that still had her sister alive in it. Marcus kept glancing toward the front windows, muttering, "I hate this," like saying it out loud might make it less true. Dot leaned hard on her cane, lips moving in quiet prayer that sounded half like cussing.
Lila hugged herself, shaking so subtly you might miss it if you weren't watching for cracks.
Kenzie adjusted Barbie's pack against her chest, fingers tightening in the straps. The dog's head poked out, ears twitching, nose working overtime. Barbie didn't understand the words, but she understood the tension. She understood the way fear smelled.
Justin looked at each of them, slow and steady, like he needed them to feel anchored to his voice.
"Ethan," Justin said, "you're with me at the pump. Eyes up. If you see anything turning toward us, you tell me."
Ethan nodded once.
"Mari—front seat. You're driving if me and Ethan are outside. If we have to peel out fast, I need you behind the wheel."
Mari's eyes snapped to his, surprised for half a second, then she nodded like she'd already accepted her place in this new reality.
Tally's head jerked toward them. "Why is she in the front between you and him?"
Mari didn't even look at her. Her jaw was set like stone.
Justin answered calmly, no edge, no sarcasm. "Because when Ethan and I get out to gas up, you're not waiting for me to scramble back in the driver's seat. Mari will be driving in case we have to move fast."
Tally's face twisted. "I can drive."
Before Justin could respond, Ethan cut in, voice clipped. "We don't have time for this. It is what it is."
That shut it down—not because Tally agreed, but because even she could feel the shift in the room. The way everybody's patience had thinned to a thread. The way the newcomers were watching her now with that same look people gave a loose fuse.
They barely knew her and they were already tired.
Justin didn't argue. He didn't scold. He just moved, because movement was survival.
He cracked the back door and listened.
Morning wasn't quiet the way normal mornings were quiet. It was quiet like a cemetery. Somewhere down the street, a slow moan drifted on the air, thick and lazy. Smoke curled up from somewhere unseen, and every now and then the faint pop of something burning carried on the wind.
No screams. No engines. Just the city holding its breath.
Justin opened the door and they slid out, careful with their feet, careful with their breathing. The Jeep was backed tight to the building, ready. Cargo carrier strapped down on top. Trunk half-packed, waiting for the final load.
They moved to the vehicles first—because that was the plan. That was the only plan.
They loaded up.
Not gracefully. Not comfortably. But fast and as quiet as human bodies could manage in a world where every sound was bait.
Justin took the driver's seat. Mari climbed into the middle up front, wedging between Justin and the open space where Ethan would sit. Her hands were steady as she buckled, but her eyes kept flicking to the mirrors like she was already tracking shadows.
Ethan dropped into the passenger seat, posture alert, scanning.
In the back seat, Marcus, Renee, Dot, and Tally packed in shoulder-to-shoulder. Dot huffed, "Lord, I haven't been this cramped since I rode a school bus in '82."
Marcus let out a breathless half laugh. "At least the school bus didn't have zombies."
Dot shot back, "Don't speak it into existence."
Tally shoved her shoulder against Marcus like he was personally offending her by existing. "Move."
Marcus stared at her, dead tired. "There's nowhere to move."
Tally acted like that was his fault and pressed closer to Justin's seat anyway—claiming space, claiming proximity, like if she could physically attach herself to her brother she'd be safe.
In the trunk area, Kenzie climbed in first, then Lila. Barbie sat between them in the pack, head poking out, watching with wide eyes and twitchy ears. Kenzie kept one hand on the dog like a lifeline. Like the only thing she could control in a world that kept ripping everything else away.
Justin handed Mari the keys.
Her eyes snapped to him. "You sure?"
Justin nodded once. "If something goes wrong, you don't wait. You move."
Mari's throat worked. Then she nodded.
He turned to Ethan.
Ellis's gun was heavy in Justin's hand—he hated that he could feel the weight of his father's world in the metal. He hated that it made this feel even more real.
He passed it to Ethan.
Ethan's hand closed around it with the ease of someone who'd held weapons before. He checked it quickly—efficient, quiet—and gave Justin a sharp nod.
"Cover me," Justin murmured.
Ethan's eyes stayed on the lot. "Always."
Justin and Ethan slipped out.
The sun hit them like something rude—too bright, too honest. The front of the gas station was a wrecked postcard. An abandoned sedan sat crooked over the curb, driver door open. A smear of dried blood streaked the asphalt in a wide arc, and Justin forced himself not to look for what had been dragged through it.
No dead close.
A few wandered farther down the road, swaying, bumping into burned-out cars, moaning like the city itself had learned to grieve out loud.
Justin and Ethan moved to the pump.
The machine blinked when Ethan hit the button. A soft electronic beep cut through the stillness, and Justin felt his stomach clench like it was a gunshot.
They froze for one heartbeat.
Nothing reacted.
Ethan slid the nozzle into the Jeep and squeezed.
Gas began to flow. That faint rushing sound—liquid moving through metal—felt too loud anyway. Felt like the kind of noise that carried.
Justin popped open the first gas can and started filling. The smell of gasoline was sharp enough to sting his eyes, cutting through smoke and rot.
Everything was going well.
Too well.
It made Justin nervous.
He sealed the can, slid it back toward the Jeep, and reached for another. Ethan kept scanning, head turning slowly, weapon held low but ready.
Then Ethan's gaze snapped to the front of the store.
Propane.
The rack of large propane canisters near the entrance stood like a shiny, stupid miracle in the morning light. A survival tool. A bomb. A trade item. Heat. Cooking. Pressure. Possibilities.
Ethan leaned toward Justin, voice barely more than breath. "Propane. Those big tanks. We should grab a couple."
Justin hesitated. The pump kept running, steady. The Jeep tank was filling. The lot looked clear.
And propane was… useful. Too useful to ignore.
"You sure?" Justin whispered.
Ethan's eyes never stopped moving. "You never know what you'll need. It'll come in handy."
Justin swallowed and nodded once.
He clicked the gas handle into auto-pump.
The sound of it locking was tiny. Still, it felt loud in the open air.
They moved like thieves, quick and careful, toward the store entrance. Steps soft. Breaths held.
Up close, the propane tanks looked heavier than they had from a distance. Solid metal. Cold. Ugly.
Justin gripped one handle. Ethan grabbed another.
They lifted.
The weight yanked at Justin's shoulder and made his arms burn instantly. They carried them awkwardly, both men forced to move slower than they wanted to.
Halfway back toward the Jeep, they froze.
Not because they saw something first.
Because they heard it.
A scream—high and raw—ripped through the air and bounced off buildings like a thrown knife.
Justin's blood turned to ice.
Ethan's head snapped toward the sound.
Across the street, a woman in her mid-twenties stumbled into view, crying loudly, her voice breaking on every breath. A man around her age had his arm hooked under hers, dragging her more than guiding her.
Behind them, something hauled itself off the ground.
A single dead thing—blood slick around its mouth—rising slow, like it had just been knocked off her. Like it had already taken something from her and wasn't finished.
The woman sobbed and tried to limp, but her leg didn't move right. Dark blood poured down her calf in thick, wet ribbons.
The man kept hauling her anyway, desperate, panicked, his face twisted like he was trying not to look at what was chasing them.
Justin's mind tried to catch up.
One zombie.
Two civilians.
A scream.
And sound—
Sound was the dinner bell.
Before Justin could even form the thought fully, it happened.
From behind cars.
From between buildings.
From the far side of the lot.
From the street like they'd been waiting under the skin of the city.
The dead started pouring in.
Not one.
Not ten.
Dozens.
A flood of staggering bodies turning toward the noise, drawn by the woman's cries like gravity. The moans thickened, multiplied, layered into a chorus that made Justin's skin crawl.
Forty.
Fifty.
Maybe more.
They weren't smart.
They didn't need to be.
They just needed sound.
And the woman was screaming loud enough to wake the whole south side.
Justin's lungs locked.
Ethan's grip tightened on the propane canister.
There was no time to sprint back to the Jeep without dragging the horde right onto it. No time to shout for Mari without turning the entire lot into a beacon.
The man in the street finally spotted them.
His eyes went wide with desperate hope—like they were the answer, like they were rescue, like they were a door opening in hell.
And Justin realized, with sick clarity, that hope was about to get all of them killed.
He stood frozen with a propane tank in his hands, gas still pumping behind him, the city suddenly alive with movement—
and fifty dead things turning their way.