The horn went off once.
One full, blaring scream of sound—too loud, too long, too human—ripping out of the Jeep and across the parking lot like a flare shot straight into the sky.
And then it stopped.
But the damage didn't.
Because the dead answered anyway.
From inside the store, Justin felt it before he saw it—the way the air outside changed shape, like the whole lot inhaled. The moaning that had been lazy and scattered thickened into something urgent. Feet scuffed asphalt. Bodies bumped metal. A chorus of throats that didn't need oxygen swelled into a hungry, rising wall of sound, as if the single blast had flipped a switch in every ruined brain within earshot.
Ethan's head snapped toward the front windows.
Caleb—who'd been sitting in a slack, shocked fold against the back room shelves—jerked like someone had hit him with a live wire.
"What—" Caleb rasped, eyes glassy. "What is that?"
Justin didn't answer. He was already moving.
He went low, fast, shoulders hunched beneath the window line as he crossed the aisle. The store smelled like old coffee and dust and sugar gone stale, but underneath it was that sharp, lingering gasoline bite from earlier—like the lot still had fuel soaked into its skin. Every nerve in his body buzzed with the same message: that sound is going to bring them.
He reached the front, lifted his head an inch, and looked.
The Jeep was surrounded.
Not slowly. Not gradually.
Surrounded like the world had been waiting for an excuse.
Bodies pressed against the vehicle in a shifting ring—arms slapping tinted windows, palms sliding down glass in greasy streaks, jaws opening and closing as if they could chew through air. Their faces were too close. Breath fogged the windows. Teeth clicked against metal when they leaned in and bit at nothing. Tongues dragged across glass, leaving milky trails that made Justin's stomach twist.
They weren't smart.
But they didn't need to be smart to swarm.
Justin's eyes searched, frantic.
There—Mari's silhouette behind the wheel. Hunched low. Still. A dark shape pressed down behind her seat—Tally, he realized with a spike of rage so sharp it made his vision flash. In the back, bodies tucked and frozen. A cluster of fear packed into one enclosed box, trying to stay quiet in a world where quiet was the only armor.
They were alive.
For now.
Ethan leaned beside Justin, careful not to rise too high.
His voice came out like a curse breathed through clenched teeth. "That's… a lot."
Justin's hands curled into fists. "We have to move them. Now."
Caleb stumbled up behind them, too loud, too fast—panic forgetting the rules of sound. Justin reached out and caught his sleeve, yanking him down before his head cleared the counter.
Caleb's eyes were wide. Wet. Locked on the lot like he was watching a nightmare replay itself in a different parking lot, a different morning, but the same ending waiting at the curb.
"That's my—" Caleb swallowed. "That's where she—"
Justin didn't let him finish.
"Look at me," Justin said, low and hard. "Caleb. Look at me."
Caleb's gaze flickered, unfocused, then finally grabbed Justin's face like a lifeline.
"You want to live?" Justin asked.
Caleb's throat worked. He nodded once, barely.
"Then you do exactly what I say," Justin told him. "No yelling. No sudden moves. No running until I say. You hear me?"
Caleb nodded again, shaking. Tears fell, but he didn't wipe them—like touching his face would crack him open.
Justin looked back out.
The bodies were slamming the Jeep now—hard enough to rock it. The suspension dipped and bounced under the weight of hands and forearms and dead torsos pressing in. The windows didn't break—yet—but Justin could see the stress in the flex, the faint trembling shimmer where glass bowed under repeated impacts.
Testing.
Wearing.
Persistence wasn't intelligence, but it mimicked it well enough to kill you.
Justin's mind went cold and clean with adrenaline.
They were trapped in a geometry problem with teeth.
The store was safe—barely.
The Jeep was not safe.
The space between them was death.
And they couldn't just run out and start shooting. Gunfire would turn the whole south side into a lighthouse. It would pull every wandering corpse off every side street and out of every burned building. It would empty the gun before it emptied the lot.
They needed a distraction.
Not a small one.
A big one.
Something louder than a heartbeat. Something uglier than breath.
Justin's eyes flicked around the store.
His gaze landed on the propane rack.
Two large tanks were missing—dropped out there somewhere near the pump. But there were smaller canisters inside the store. Camping ones. The kind meant for weekend grills and tailgates and cheap heat.
Justin's mouth went dry.
The gasoline spill from earlier wasn't running now. But the smell still clung to the air and the pavement, sharp and sickening. A spark could still turn this place into a torch.
That was the problem.
Or—
It could be the solution.
Ethan followed Justin's stare.
"No," Ethan said immediately, reading the thought on Justin's face. "If you light anything near the pump, we all die."
Justin nodded once. "Not near the pump."
He pointed toward the far side of the lot—the back edge where a half-collapsed dumpster enclosure and a line of abandoned cars created a dark pocket of space, away from the Jeep and away from where fuel had pooled.
"We lure them," Justin said. "We pull them there."
"With what?" Ethan demanded, voice tight.
Justin's mind raced.
Noise. Motion. Something that kept going even if they stopped.
His eyes caught the metal shopping cart near the entrance—left behind by someone who'd tried to flee with groceries they didn't have time to keep. It was tipped on its side, wheels bent, but it could still roll.
He scanned further.
Glass bottles behind the counter—useless for drinking, perfect for breaking.
A metal chain near the utility closet—used for cages and locks and things people thought they'd have time to secure later.
Justin's pulse kicked harder.
"We build a rolling noise bomb," he said.
Ethan stared at him like he was insane.
Justin didn't care.
"We tie bottles to the cart," Justin continued, already moving. "We shove it out the side door and let it crash down the lot. Glass breaks. Metal rattles. They follow. We use the gap."
Caleb shook his head, voice cracking. "They're too many."
Justin stopped in front of him.
"Then we die," Justin said simply.
Caleb flinched like the words slapped him.
Justin's voice dropped, fierce and quiet. "But if we try, we might live. And if we live, we can keep moving. And if we keep moving, maybe I find my little sister."
At Ella Belle, his throat tightened. His whole chest did. Like the name itself was a hand squeezing his lungs.
Caleb's eyes filled.
He nodded.
Ethan exhaled hard through his nose and cursed under his breath. "Fine. Fine. Do it."
Justin didn't waste another second.
They moved fast and low.
Justin dragged the shopping cart upright with a squeal that made all three of them freeze—like the store itself had screamed.
They listened.
The moaning outside swelled, but it didn't shift toward the building yet. The dead were still focused on the Jeep, still drinking in the movement, the bodies inside, the promise of warm breath.
Justin kept going.
Ethan yanked open the case of bottles and started tying them with the chain in quick, practiced loops—hands moving with an efficiency that told Justin Ethan had done ugly things in ugly places before. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just survival work.
Caleb hovered, shaking, until Justin shoved him gently toward the utility shelf.
"Grab anything metal," Justin whispered. "Anything that will bang. Cans. Tools. A pan. Anything."
Caleb swallowed hard, nodded, and began grabbing items with trembling hands. The clatter of each object seemed too loud, even when he tried to set them down gently.
Within two minutes, they had it: a shopping cart weighted with clanging objects, bottles dangling from chain, a few metal tools wedged in the basket so they'd rattle with every bump.
It looked ridiculous.
Like a prank.
Like something you'd see online with people laughing in the background.
Except outside the glass was a sea of death pressing its hands to the Jeep like it wanted in.
Justin wiped his palms on his jeans. "Okay. Here's how this goes."
Ethan leaned in.
Justin kept his voice low. "We open the side door—quiet. We shove the cart out hard, toward the far end of the lot. It rolls. It crashes. It makes noise. They follow."
"And if they don't?" Caleb whispered.
Justin didn't blink. "Then we're dead."
Caleb's breathing went shallow. He nodded anyway, like he didn't have the strength left to argue with truth.
Justin looked at Ethan. "We don't all go out. One of us pushes. Two cover from the door."
Ethan immediately said, "I push."
Justin shook his head. "No. I push."
Ethan's jaw tightened. "You're the driver. You're the—"
Justin cut him off. "I'm the brother."
That was all it took.
Ethan's eyes flicked away, just for a second, and when they came back, something had shifted.
He nodded.
Justin reached for the side door handle.
His fingers paused.
He listened.
Outside was the constant chorus—hands on metal, bodies shifting, teeth clicking against glass. The Jeep rocked again.
Mari, Justin thought, hold on. Please. Just hold on.
Justin eased the door open.
A thin slice of cold air slid inside, carrying the full stench of the lot—smoke, rot, gasoline, and something wet and unmistakably human. The scent hit the back of his throat like a gag.
He didn't look directly for the body in the lot. He couldn't afford it. Not now.
He shoved the cart.
Hard.
It rolled out of the doorway and clattered down the concrete.
For one second it moved smoothly.
Then it hit a crack in the pavement.
The cart lurched, tipped, and the bottles smashed.
Glass exploded across asphalt like a gunshot made of a hundred shards.
The sound was incredible.
Metal screamed.
Tools clanged.
Chain rattled.
Bottles shattered again as the cart bounced and rolled crookedly toward the far edge of the lot, still making noise, still promising chaos.
The dead reacted instantly.
Heads snapped.
Bodies turned as one.
And the horde began to peel away from the Jeep—drawn by the new, louder, uglier sound like hungry dogs chasing a thrown bone.
Justin's stomach dropped with relief so intense it almost made his knees buckle.
"It worked," Caleb whispered, disbelieving.
"Move," Ethan hissed.
They slammed the side door shut, locked it, and ran low through the store toward the front entrance.
Justin risked a glance out the window.
The ring around the Jeep was thinning. Not empty, but opening. Gaps formed. Bodies shuffled away in a hungry drift, following the cart's metallic trail.
But it wasn't perfect.
Some stayed at the Jeep.
Some were still pressing their faces to the glass, moaning, hands splayed, refusing to let the meal go.
They had seconds.
Justin's brain went cold and clean.
"Ethan," Justin whispered, "you go first."
Ethan's eyes widened. "No."
"Yes," Justin snapped. "You're armed. You're faster. You get to the Jeep and cover the door."
Caleb shook his head violently. "I can't—"
Justin grabbed Caleb's collar, not rough but firm—just enough to anchor him.
"You can," Justin said. "You do it or you die here alone."
Caleb's eyes crumpled with terror. Then he nodded.
Justin looked at Ethan. "Go."
Ethan stared at him for a fraction of a second, then nodded once—sharp and final.
They moved.
Ethan cracked the front door, slipped out low and fast, and sprinted across the open gap toward the Jeep—boots slapping asphalt, weapon tight in his hands.
A dead thing turned its head toward the motion.
Justin's heart seized.
But the cart crashed again in the distance—metal shrieking, more glass popping—and the dead turned back toward the louder sound.
Ethan reached the Jeep.
He slapped the passenger side window twice—signal—and ducked down toward the door.
Inside the Jeep, Mari's silhouette shifted. She lifted her head.
The passenger door cracked open.
Ethan shoved it wider, slid in halfway, and barked something—too quiet to hear but urgent enough to make Mari move.
Justin didn't wait.
He shoved Caleb forward.
"Now," Justin whispered.
Caleb bolted.
Not graceful. Not quiet. Pure panic, pure grief, running on fumes.
A dead thing near the Jeep turned fully this time, drawn by sprinting feet.
Its mouth opened.
Caleb's breath hitched—he didn't scream, but his face did something like it, silent and raw—
And Ethan exploded out of the doorway, yanked Caleb by the arm, and hauled him inside like a man dragging a drowning swimmer onto shore.
The door slammed.
Not hard enough to horn. Just hard enough.
Bodies nearby shifted.
Moans rose.
They were noticing.
Justin's turn.
He ran.
He sprinted toward the Jeep, feet light, breath held, eyes locked on the gap.
The world narrowed to a tunnel:
Jeep.
Door.
Mari's shadow.
Hands reaching.
He was almost there—
A dead thing lurched out from behind a car.
Justin swerved, shoulder clipping the vehicle, and the zombie's fingers caught his jacket—fabric tearing, threads snapping—close enough that Justin felt the pull but not the skin contact.
No scratch.
Just a violent tug that nearly yanked him backward.
Justin kept moving.
He reached the Jeep—
And the dead surged.
Not all of them. Not yet.
But enough.
The cart's noise was fading now, stuck somewhere, its chaos no longer traveling. The dead were starting to realize the better meal was here.
Bodies converged again, moaning louder, faster.
Justin's hand hit the Jeep door handle—
And then he saw it.
The gas pump nozzle.
Still in the Jeep.
Still hooked.
A heavy black hose running from pump to vehicle, taut and ugly.
If they drove off like that, they'd rip it out.
If it snapped wrong—sparks.
If sparks—
Justin's brain screamed warnings too fast to line up.
Ethan shouted something from inside. Mari's face turned toward Justin, eyes huge, mouth moving—praying? pleading? cursing? Justin couldn't tell.
Justin made the decision without thinking.
He didn't climb in.
He grabbed the hose.
With both hands, he yanked it low, dragging it toward the ground to keep it from whipping metal into metal. He could feel every ounce of tension in the line, like it wanted to snap back and punish them.
The dead rushed closer.
A hand slapped the Jeep hood.
Another hit the roof.
The vehicle rocked.
Inside, someone sobbed—sharp and muffled.
Justin didn't have time to look.
He had time for one move.
He looked at Ethan through the glass and shouted, "RELEASE IT!"
Ethan's eyes widened, understanding.
Justin fumbled for the latch at the nozzle.
His fingers slipped.
His hands were shaking.
A dead thing grabbed the back of his jacket and yanked.
Justin stumbled backward hard, pain flaring in his shoulder, jacket tearing again—but still no scratch, no skin break, no teeth.
He elbowed backward, hit something wet, and forced his focus back to the nozzle.
He found the release—
He pulled—
The nozzle popped free.
A small drool of gasoline spilled out, splashing the pavement in a thin ribbon.
Justin froze for half a heartbeat, terror spiking—spark, spark, spark—
Nothing ignited.
No explosion.
Just that sharp, nauseating stink of fuel, stronger now, like the lot was breathing it in.
The Jeep rocked harder.
Bodies slammed into it, drawn by the movement and the fear inside.
Mari's eyes were locked on Justin through the glass.
She shook her head violently.
"Justin," she mouthed.
Ethan shouted, "GET IN!"
Justin grabbed the nozzle and threw it away from the Jeep, away from the pump, away from the most dangerous place it could be. It hit the pavement with a dull clank.
He lunged for the door—
A dead thing slammed into him from the side.
Not a bite.
A full-body collision, like a tackle.
Justin hit the pavement hard.
Concrete scraped his palms. His ribs protested. The world flashed white.
He rolled, shoved up—
And saw the horde re-forming.
They weren't drifting away anymore.
They were coming back.
The cart's noise was dead now. The dead had found the living sound again—his feet, their breathing, the Jeep rocking.
Fifty bodies turning toward the Jeep like a tide reversing.
Justin realized something awful in one clear thought:
If he climbed into the Jeep right now, the dead would follow.
They would swarm it again.
They would trap it again.
And if a window broke—if even one—
everyone inside would be ripped open.
He couldn't lead them to the Jeep.
He couldn't.
Ethan was half out of the passenger door, reaching for him.
Mari's face was twisted with panic behind the wheel.
Justin stepped back.
Shook his head once.
Ethan's mouth formed a word that looked like a scream.
Justin lifted his hand, palm out.
Stop.
Then he turned.
And ran.
Not away from the danger.
Toward it.
Toward the side of the building.
Toward open space.
Toward the only chance he had to pull the dead away from the Jeep long enough for them to move.
Justin sprinted around the corner of the store.
His boots hit gravel.
His lungs burned.
Behind him, moans shifted—bodies turning toward his footsteps, drawn like iron to a magnet.
The dead followed.
Justin didn't look back.
He ran harder.
Around the building—
And hit the wall.
A horde.
Not scattered.
Not wandering.
Packed tight in the alley like they'd been waiting for a reason to move.
Dozens. Maybe more.
Some burned. Some bleeding. Some missing pieces that should've made movement impossible.
But they moved anyway.
They surged.
They turned as one.
Justin skidded to a stop, heart detonating in his chest.
For half a second, the world went silent.
Then the dead rushed him.
Justin spun and ran—
Straight back into smoke, shadow, and the press of bodies.
Hands grabbed his jacket again.
Fabric tore.
He stumbled, caught himself, kept running.
The alley swallowed him.
The horde closed in behind him, moans rising, bodies piling into the narrow space until the air itself seemed to vibrate with hunger.
And then—
From the Jeep, Mari saw him disappear.
Not behind a car.
Not into safety.
Into the dark.
Into the press of bodies.
Into a place where the dead moved too fast and too many.
A moment later, the alley filled completely.
Justin was gone.
No scream.
No gunshot.
No sign.
Just the sound of the horde surging—wet footsteps, hungry moans, the scrape of hands against brick—
and then, slowly, the noise shifted deeper, as the dead poured after him.
The last thing Mari saw was a scrap of fabric—dark cloth—snagging on a broken fence post before it tore free and vanished into the moving mass.
And the worst part wasn't the chaos.
It was the silence after.
Because silence meant one thing now:
The sound had stopped.
Which meant the thing making it…
might have too.
Mari pressed her forehead to the steering wheel, shaking so hard she couldn't breathe.
Inside the Jeep, someone whispered a prayer.
Someone else sobbed.
And outside, the dead drifted back toward the vehicle in slow, starving circles—
like they were waiting for the next noise.
Like they knew there was still warm life inside.
And like they had all the time in the world.