The road ahead wasn't a road.
Cracked asphalt, framed by burnt-out skeletons of buildings—glassless windows, collapsed walls. We pedaled through the ruins like ghosts of a lost world, shadows flickering under the half-moon and lightning strikes ripping the sky apart like angry gods throwing punches.
Our bikes rattled over debris—discarded bags, torn barricade tape, shattered street signs. Every pedal stroke was a heartbeat. Every breath stolen time.
Insha led, hair tied tight, scarf wrapped around her face. Zayn and Aaron flanked her, eyes sharp, scanning every shattered storefront and dark alley. I brought up the rear, hands shaking on the handlebars, grip tightening every time the wind screamed.
No one spoke. The storm's roar swallowed all sound. Silence became our armor.
But it cracked.
"Insha," Zayn whispered, voice sharp, "we're close. I saw the terminal tower past that half-ruined complex. If we cut through it, we'll see the airport."
We turned onto a street that felt like a memory. Once a bustling marketplace. Now a horror movie set—upturned stalls, mannequins twisted in the wreckage, burnt delivery trucks.
Then, through the cement pillars of a collapsed building—no walls, just skeletal bones—we saw it.
The airport.
Faint lights blinking on runways. A green-white airline logo glowing faintly on a battered terminal wall.
Insha raised her hand, stopping us. "That's it," she whispered.
Hope hit us like a thunderclap.
Then—
CLANK.
A sharp, wrong sound.
We snapped toward it.
Insha's eyes went wide as she looked down.
Her keychain—a tiny crescent moon—had slipped from her bag and hit the concrete, echoing in the ruin.
Two seconds of frozen silence.
Then—
Low groans.
Shadows stirred.
Figures slouched and twitched from the wreckage—nightmares crawling back to life.
"Go!" Aaron snapped.
We scattered.
Zayn yanked me left, down a narrow alley with exposed pipes and rusted dumpsters. Insha and Aaron veered right past the shattered pharmacy skeleton.
Footsteps pounded. Growls rolled in behind us like a tide of teeth.
"Don't stop!" Zayn yelled, gripping his bike, weaving wildly.
"I'm not dying today!" I snapped, heart hammering.
We skidded into a parking lot, storm wind slapping us hard. Abandoned cars sat like tombstones—burned, bloodstained, silent witnesses.
Zayn dove behind an overturned SUV. I hit the crushed red hatchback.
Across the lot, Aaron and Insha mirrored us behind forgotten sedans.
"Where'd they go?" I whispered.
"I don't know," Zayn hissed, peeking over the hood. "Lost 'em… or they're still coming—"
SNAP.
Glass broke.
Two zombies limped into view, twitchy and confused, noses sniffing the air.
One missing an arm. The other glass-scarred.
I held my breath.
Then—
CRACK.
A silenced shot. Muffled but deadly.
The glass-face zombie collapsed. The other twitched once, then fell.
From behind a sandbag and razor wire barricade, two soldiers emerged.
One, tall and masked, rifle raised, nodded at us.
"The one with the moon key," he murmured into a radio. "Almost got toasted."
A crackling voice came through a walkie-talkie near a parking meter—connected to their channel.
"Get up. Quietly. One at a time. Head to main gate. Don't look back. Run only if we shoot."
Zayn's eyes widened. Two fingers to his eyes, then he pointed at the soldiers.
Aaron moved first, crouched low, weaving between cars. Then Insha. Then me.
Halfway across, the wind shifted, and the sharp scent of blood hit me.
A scream tore the air.
Three more zombies.
Zayn dashed toward the fence.
Insha grabbed me as I stumbled on a parking block.
Footsteps behind us.
"Go! Go!" the soldier shouted.
We sprinted. Boots pounding concrete, lungs burning. The gate loomed, metal and ozone thick in the air.
Suddenly—
A screamer lunged at Insha from behind a truck.
Before it could touch her—
PFFFT!
A silenced shot.
Its head snapped sideways. The body hit the ground.
Insha froze. I shoved her forward.
"MOVE!"
The soldier who fired gave a thumbs up, gestured ahead.
Beyond the gate, razor wire, and barricades—two soldiers yanked open the checkpoint door as we raced in.
"CLEAR!" someone yelled.
The door slammed behind us.
The outside world's noise dimmed.
Our ears rang. Legs wobbled.
Inside.
Insha gasped.
Aaron shouted for help.
Zayn staggered, dropped to his knees.
My vision spun, breath caught, the floor rushed up.
Last thing I heard:
"We need a medic—NOW!"
Then black.
I woke to iron and blood.
Probably mine.
Cold stung my forehead. My body felt twisted, wrong. I blinked against harsh fluorescent light—no moon here.
A curtain moved.
"Insha," I croaked.
She was there. Exhausted. "You fainted. Head was bleeding bad."
I tried to sit.
Pain zipped through my skull.
"How's Zayn?"
"Worse. Deep gash on his back, maybe from a nameplate edge. They're stitching him now."
Memory came in jolts—zombies, gunfire, the sprint.
But the injuries? A blur.
"Shock," she said softly. "Adrenaline carries you through. Once you're safe, pain hits."
Around us—cots, sandbags, tents, guns, radios.
This wasn't just a hideout.
It was a warzone base.
And somehow…
we made it