We stood there, letting out a complicated sigh—relieved they were safe, but the anger bubbling inside was no longer containable.
Then, the silence broke.
Not from us.
From the room next door—the one where the so-called elite survivors had slammed their doors shut in our faces hours ago.
We heard it. Screaming. Begging. Chaos.
Zayn rose slowly, jaw tightening. "Wait… that's them."
Aaron pressed his ear to the cracked concrete wall. "Yup. Room 103. It's burning down."
A crash. Then shrieks—panicked, frenzied.
And then it hit us.
The guy who barked at us earlier—the one who tried to hijack our food mission—he hadn't made it out clean.
He got bit.
Somewhere in the stampede, one of those monsters must've grazed him. Instead of warning his group, he ran back. Hid the truth.
Now? He'd brought the apocalypse to them.
From the other side of the wall, we heard infected rampaging—flesh hitting drywall, fists on metal, bodies dragged.
The same door they slammed in our face… was now their coffin lid.
Brutal. Tragic.
Poetic.
They shut us out when we needed them. Now, no one would open their door.
We just listened.
Because sometimes silence isn't guilt. It's survival.
The screams died—not suddenly, but slowly, like a candle struggling in the wind before snuffing out.
A ringing filled our ears. A weight settled in our chests.
Then, through cracked windows, past the smog and fire and broken skyline—
The sunset.
Filtered through smoke and ash, it painted the sky in golds and bruised purples. Broken light bled through shattered glass, casting long shadows on the floor where our barricade stood strong.
For a moment, the world seemed paused—not peaceful, just still.
We sat down. No words.
Zayn reached into the bag they risked their lives for and tossed us each something: biscuits, juice, a squished energy bar—the little things that now meant everything.
"Insha," I said softly, breaking a biscuit in half, passing it to her. "You pulled it off."
She didn't smile. Just nodded, eyes fixed on the horizon.
"They shut the door on us," Aaron muttered, unwrapping a candy bar slowly. "And now…"
"They got locked in with a monster they raised," Zayn finished. "Karma ate first."
The silence wasn't empty anymore. It was full—of justice, grief, something too heavy for words.
We chewed slowly beneath the thunder-hued sky, realizing something brutal and beautiful:
This was revenge. But it didn't taste like victory.
It tasted like survival.
And that was enough.
We finished what little we had—broken crackers, half-flattened snacks, juice boxes tasting like metal. But tonight, it was a feast. Not for the food, but for being here to eat it.
No one said much after that. Our eyes were heavy. Minds heavier.
Insha laid back first, bag as pillow, arms folded behind her head, eyes searching the ceiling like it held answers.
Zayn and Aaron followed, sinking onto dusty mattresses.
I stayed up a moment longer, watching them—the people I never expected to mean so much.
People who didn't run.
Who fought.
Who stayed.
Outside, the last streak of sunlight faded into cold ash.
Inside, we curled up in silence—not comfort, but exhaustion.
Maybe someone would come.
Maybe help was on its way.
Or maybe not.
Still, we let our eyes close, holding onto one fragile prayer:
We made it through today.
And maybe—just maybe—we'd make it through tomorrow too.
Suddenly, Zayn's phone beeped once—the sound we hadn't heard in ages..