The storm didn't just howl—it screamed. Thunder cracked the sky like a shotgun blast. Every lightning bolt tore through the alley, spotlighting us like stars caught in a cosmic horror show. Rain battered the rooftops and concrete, sharp and unforgiving. Redemption? Too late.
We crouched behind water filters and moldy storage crates, barely breathing, backs pressed to grimy walls. The emergency exit we'd just slipped through hung half-shut, its rusted hinges groaning like a forgotten beast. The air was thick with rust, dust, and a metallic tang that made our stomachs twist.
Insha clutched the map like it was a holy relic. At this point, maybe it was.
Across from us, the apartment's back wall loomed—barely a meter away. A narrow alley, tall and lifeless. No doors. Just a cold barrier.
"Guys," Zayn whispered, eyes flicking up. "We climb."
No one argued. Not because it was a good plan—because it was the only one.
The storm cracked louder as we scaled the wall, as if the world was warning us not to hope.
We dropped into the backside parking lot like ghosts—silent, shivering, soaked to the bone. But alive.
Aaron knelt by a rusty fence, wiping rain off his face. "Where now?"
"Crash here," Zayn muttered. "Wait out the rain."
"Rain's the least of our problems," Insha said, eyes scanning the dark.
Wind howled through broken windows. Trees bent like they were bowing to madness. This night felt like the end of a movie—without credits.
Then we saw it.
A maintenance room, door hanging by one hinge. Inside—cobwebs, trash, rotting cardboard. But also… tech.
Aaron yanked a tarp off a metal shelf. A crusty, dust-covered battery-powered radio.
"No way this works," I muttered.
Zayn smacked it. Once. Twice. On the third try—life. Static buzzed.
A voice crackled through:
"...This is Command Echo-6, broadcasting on open frequency 4.2.7. If you are receiving this message, you are not alone. Repeat, you are not alone…"
The room shifted. Our backs straightened. Hearts pounded harder.
"...We regret to inform all citizens Camp Delta and Echo sectors have been compromised. Infection rates exceeded containment protocols. All ground safe zones classified RED. Survivors advised to head for international airports where allied forces initiate evacuation protocols..."
Static cut the message briefly, then returned:
"Repeat: international airports are now the only functioning extraction points. Survivors urged to make way via any route. You are not alone. Help is above. End transmission."
We stared at each other in dead silence.
The camps—our last hope—were gone. Infected. Burned.
No more illusions. No more waiting.
Airport. Our final act.
Aaron laughed, disbelief mixed with surrender. "So now we cross six kilometers of undead city to get to an airport?"
Zayn snorted. "Basically."
"Doable," Insha whispered, pulling out the map again. "Barely."
That's when we saw them.
Two bicycles.
Dusty and chained near the far wall, covered by a rusted sheet. Zayn ran toward them like a kid on Christmas.
"Holy crap. They're intact," he said, testing tires and pedals. "One's got a basket."
A bone thrown by the universe.
"Okay," I breathed. "Let's gear up and ride out before the sun wakes."
We worked fast.
Everything in that room became survival gear.
Newspapers wrapped as armor padding, tucked inside jackets and around arms and legs.
Duct tape sealed it all tight, wrapped around hands, shoes, even mouths.
Chains tied at waists—whips, distractions, weapons.
Rusted rods gripped as heavy, crude weapons.
Old uniform jackets became windbreakers, masks, armor.
The radio wrapped in a grocery bag, tossed into the bike basket alongside the map and dry snacks.
Final prep before the boss fight.
Eyes locked, focused. No room for mistakes.
No checkpoints. No retries. No respawns.
We rolled the bikes out. Tires crunched broken glass. Thunder shook the sky again. Rain slowed, but lightning still ripped the clouds like divine fury.
The parking gate was bent open just enough to slip through.
Before leaving, we looked back.
Not at the building.
At the silence behind us.
At the people we lost.
At the cold dinners and cramped floors.
At the jokes that died too soon.
"I hope they made it somewhere," Insha whispered.
No one answered.
Sometimes silence is respect.
And hope? Just pain wearing a mask.
We hit the main alley.
Bikes splashed through puddles. Armor rustled with every move. The city sprawled before us like a dark beast—breathing, watching, waiting for us to falter.
We didn't.
We rode.
Every pedal stroke punched fate in the face. Every turn of the wheel was rebellion.
The radio crackled again:
"...Extractions begin at 0500 hours. Repeat, extractions begin at 0500 hours. Access only through authorized terminals. Airport fences locked. Reach Gate 3. Only open point…"
We exchanged a glance.
No second guesses.
No waiting for help.
Help was leaving.
We had thirty minutes.
This was it.
The Final Ride.
No red carpet.
No guide.
Just two bikes.
Four souls.
A city that wanted us dead.