They didn't rush the front.
That was the first instinct—run to the windows, look, do something—but instincts were what got people killed now. Justin forced his feet to move slow, one careful step at a time, the way he'd seen his dad move through a room when he thought nobody was watching. Quiet. Measured. Like sound had teeth.
Ethan stayed close, shoulder nearly brushing Justin's as they eased past the aisles. The store was dim compared to the outside, the morning light cut into strips by dirty glass and half-shattered signage. Everything smelled wrong—gasoline drifting in from the pumps, old coffee, sweat, and underneath it all the faint sour stink of something that had been dead too long.
Caleb followed like a ghost. He kept wiping his palms on his jeans like he could scrub the memory off his skin. His eyes were too wide, fixed forward, like if he looked down he'd fall apart completely.
Justin held up a hand: stop.
They crouched low, close to the shelves, and crawled the last few feet to where the front windows gave them a view of the parking lot.
Justin lifted his head just enough to see.
His stomach dropped.
The lot was packed.
Not with cars. Not with people.
With bodies.
Zombies—dozens of them—wandered in slow, aimless loops, bumping into each other, dragging feet, swaying like they were half asleep. Some pressed their faces against the Jeep's windows, smearing the glass with saliva and blood, their mouths working like they were chewing air. Others drifted near the pump, drawn by the lingering noise that had already happened, by the scent of fresh fuel and fresh meat.
And then there was the center of it.
Janelle.
Justin didn't know her name from his own memory—he knew it because Caleb had spoken it like a prayer. But even without that, he would have known she'd been loved. There was something about the way her body lay that made it feel personal, like she wasn't just another victim in the street. Like she was someone who had been laughing an hour ago. Someone who had plans.
Now she was surrounded.
They weren't "eating" the way people said it in movies, neat and quick, one bite and done.
This was feeding.
This was tearing.
Three of them were on her torso, hunched like animals at a carcass. One had its hands buried in her ribs, fingers hooked and working like it was trying to open her from the inside. Another had its mouth on her shoulder, jaw grinding with wet, ugly determination. Each bite came with a sound—meat ripping, teeth clicking, a thick slurp when something pulled free.
Her shirt had been torn open. Skin shone slick with blood in the sunlight, a bright obscene red that made Justin's vision tunnel. One of the dead lifted its head, chewing, and something dark dangled from its lips before it swallowed hard and went back down.
A fourth had latched onto her thigh. It wasn't careful. It didn't care where it bit. It just bit. Hard. Then shook its head once like a dog with a toy, and Justin saw the leg move with it—saw how the body reacted, not with pain, not with life, but with the awful truth of physics.
Caleb made a sound behind them.
Not a scream.
A broken inhale that turned into a strangled whimper.
Justin glanced back sharply, finger to his lips, but it didn't matter—Caleb wasn't being reckless on purpose. His face looked like it might split.
"That's her," Caleb whispered, barely sound at all. His voice wasn't even fully there. It was like his throat had stopped working and the words were falling out anyway.
Justin turned back to the window before he could answer.
He forced himself to look at the Jeep.
The Wrangler was still there, angled near the pumps, cargo carrier on top like a cruel joke—ready to go, packed to survive—while the dead treated it like a centerpiece. Zombies bumped the tires, slapped the doors, dragged hands across the hood and left streaks of blood and fuel-sheen. The windshield was webbed with smears where faces had pressed close, mouths open, tongues dragging.
Justin's chest tightened so hard it hurt.
Mari.
Where are you?
He couldn't see her through the crush of bodies. Couldn't see Tally, couldn't see anyone.
He had left them in there.
It had been seconds. It had been nothing. It had been—
Everything could happen in seconds now.
Ethan shifted beside him and pointed, tight and urgent.
Gas.
Justin followed his finger and felt his stomach flip again.
The pump handle was still locked in place outside, still feeding fuel like a vein cut open. Gas poured out in a steady stream, splashing onto the pavement and running in thin shining rivers beneath dragging feet. It pooled in dark slick puddles near the pump base, shimmering rainbow in the light.
One spark.
One stupid scrape of metal.
One car alarm dying out somewhere.
And the whole place would go up like a funeral pyre.
Justin breathed through his nose, controlled, trying to keep his thoughts from scattering.
"Pump," Ethan mouthed.
Justin nodded once.
They stayed low and moved along the front wall toward the counter, using shelves as cover. Every step felt like it echoed even though it didn't. The store was silent except for their breathing and the low constant moans outside, muffled by glass but still present like a storm.
Behind the register, the air was hotter. Stale. The kind of heat that clung to your skin and made your clothes itch.
Ethan crouched beside Justin. "You remember how to shut it off from inside?"
Justin stared at the counter—buttons, toggles, dead screens. He hadn't worked a gas station a day in his life, but he'd watched people. He'd watched his mom pay at the pump. He'd watched attendants hit emergency shutoffs during drills. There were only so many options.
His eyes caught a red switch near the register area—a big plastic cover, the kind meant to be found in a panic.
He lifted it carefully.
Click.
The sound felt loud enough to summon the dead.
Justin's hands didn't shake. He wouldn't let them.
He flipped the switch.
Nothing happened for one terrifying second—then outside, through the glass, he saw it.
The stream slowed.
Stuttered.
Stopped.
The gasoline still pooled on the ground, still dangerous, still a bomb waiting for a match, but at least it wasn't continuing to spill.
Justin exhaled shakily.
Ethan let out a breath too, almost a laugh but not quite. Relief didn't fit in his face right now.
They slid back from the register and crawled toward the shelves again, keeping low, staying out of view.
Caleb didn't follow.
Justin glanced over his shoulder and saw him standing too still, staring at the window like his body had forgotten how to move. Tears slid down his face silently, cutting clean tracks through grime and dried blood.
Caleb's hands were clenched so tight the knuckles looked pale.
He watched Janelle being eaten.
Watched the dead lift pieces of her like they were nothing.
Watched the body that had been his wife become something unrecognizable.
And then something in him broke quietly—no dramatic wail, no huge outburst, just a collapse inward like a building losing its supports.
He turned away from the windows, shoulders shaking, and walked—staggered, really—back toward the rear of the store.
Justin didn't stop him.
Justin didn't know what to say that wouldn't be a lie.
Ethan's eyes flicked to Justin. "We've got an extra body," he murmured.
Justin nodded, throat tight. And no extra room. And no extra supplies. And no extra time.
He looked back at the parking lot.
He couldn't see Mari.
That fear was a blade inside him now, twisting every time he blinked.
He pictured her in the driver's seat, hands on the wheel, trying to keep everyone quiet while Tally exploded. He pictured her eyes, the way they had locked with his in that split second before everything went to hell.
If something happens to her…
Justin swallowed hard.
He needed a plan.
But plans required information.
And right now, the only information he had was that the Jeep was surrounded, the lot was crawling, and the dead weren't leaving.
Ethan shifted his weight like his body was suddenly remembering pain.
"Bathroom," Ethan said quietly.
Justin nodded once, still watching the lot. "Fast."
Ethan moved away, careful, silent. His boots barely made sound on the tile. He disappeared down the aisle toward the bathroom, leaving Justin alone with the view and the noise and the growing sickness in his gut.
Justin stayed crouched behind a shelf, peeking through the narrow gap between chip racks.
The dead moved differently in daylight.
At night they had felt like shadows that suddenly sprinted when you made noise.
Now they were visible. Fully.
Faces slack, eyes filmed, mouths hanging open with strings of saliva swaying from lips. Some were missing chunks—cheeks torn away, noses half-gone, skin shredded like it had been dragged across pavement. One had a jaw that looked dislocated, hanging lower than it should, teeth clacking uselessly as it moaned. Another wandered in circles with a leg bent wrong, bone showing through torn pants, the foot dragging behind it like an afterthought.
They didn't seem to care about pain.
They didn't even seem to know it existed.
Every so often one would jerk its head like it had heard something far away and then drift toward the sound. Another would bump into a car, press hands to metal, and just… stay there, swaying, like it was waiting for the world to tell it what to do next.
Except when there was food.
Then they were focused.
Then they were awful.
Janelle's body was smaller now—not in size, but in shape, in wholeness. The dead kept tearing, keep digging, keep eating like they could never get full. One of them lifted its head, blood coating its chin, and Justin saw something pale and stringy between its teeth before it swallowed. The zombie's eyes rolled once like it was savoring.
Justin forced himself not to gag.
If he gagged, he would make noise.
If he made noise…
The moans outside rose and fell, thick and constant.
A fresh wave of zombies drifted into the lot, drawn by the earlier scream, by the blood, by the smell. Some moved faster than others—some shuffled, some walked with purpose, like they were late for something.
Justin remembered Caleb's words.
They're fast. Some of them.
He didn't want to test that again.
From the back of the store, there was a soft, choked sound—Caleb, crying where he thought nobody could hear him.
It hit Justin in the chest in a way he didn't have time to deal with.
Because all Justin could think about was Mari and Tally and Kenzie and Barbie and the others trapped in that Jeep, surrounded by bodies that didn't sleep, didn't tire, didn't negotiate.
And Justin was inside the store, alive, and he still couldn't find a clean way out.
A minute later, Ethan came back.
His face was paler. Jaw clenched hard.
He didn't speak at first—he just moved like he was forcing his body forward through pain.
Justin's eyes flicked down.
Ethan's forearm was freshly wrapped now, gauze and tape neat but too tight, the kind of wrap that said I can't afford to bleed right now. His skin around it was red, angry.
Ethan leaned close and whispered, voice low and rough, "I cleaned it."
Justin's gaze sharpened. "How bad?"
Ethan swallowed. He looked away for half a second like he hated the truth. Then he leaned closer, just enough for Justin to hear without anyone else hearing.
"Four scratches," Ethan said. "Deep. Inflamed."
Justin felt his stomach sink.
Ethan's eyes stayed steady. "From earlier. When we were running. When she—" He didn't say Tally's name like he wanted to spit it. He just said, "When she pulled us through."
Justin held his breath.
"You think—" Justin started.
Ethan cut him off, voice tight. "I don't know. I don't feel sick. No fever. No shaking. Not yet."
Not yet.
Justin's hands clenched against the shelf edge.
Ethan exhaled slowly and muttered a curse under his breath, more anger than fear, like fear wasn't allowed.
Then he nodded toward the window. "They're still out there," he whispered. "Still feeding."
Justin glanced toward Caleb—still gone to the back, still broken.
Ethan's voice dropped even lower. "We've got three problems."
Justin looked at him.
Ethan held up fingers, one by one.
"One: we can't reach the Jeep."
Justin nodded.
"Two: we can't leave him," Ethan said, jerking his chin toward the back room where Caleb had disappeared.
Justin's throat tightened again.
"And three," Ethan finished, eyes hard, "we've got a parking lot full of dead bodies that don't get tired."
Justin stared through the glass again.
The Jeep was almost completely swallowed by movement now. The lot was a living carpet of death. The gas had stopped, but the smell of it still sat heavy in the air.
Caleb's wife—Janelle—was still being eaten.
And the dead still wandered like they owned the world.
Justin swallowed hard, eyes burning.
Somewhere behind the zombies, somewhere inside that Jeep, Mari was waiting.
And Justin had no clean way to get to her.
He stayed low, hidden, breathing slow.
And watched the parking lot like it was a nightmare that refused to end.