His fingers were just beneath the band of her panties, the warmth of her wetness radiating like a beacon. One more second and he'd have been inside—touching her where she was hot, aching, ready.
But fate had other plans.
Cherry shifted, reaching out blindly for balance—and her palm knocked against something cold and hard.
A steel bottle.
It toppled, hit the concrete floor, and rolled.
CLANG—clink—clatter.
The sound was a gunshot in the silence.
She froze.
He froze.
His mouth stilled, his teeth still lightly grazing her spit-slick nipple before he slowly pulled back. The sound that followed was filthy—a wet, obscene pop as he unlatches from her breast, strands of saliva stretching from her skin to his lips.
Then silence.
A silence that cut sharper than any scream.
They both stared at each other, breathless, their pulse pounding in the heavy dark.
And then—they heard it.
Something outside.
Fast.
Inhuman.
Footsteps—too quick, too chaotic to be human—slapped against the ruined pavement just beyond the wall.
Then came the stillness.
That cursed, horrifying stillness where even the air held its breath.
And then—
BANG.
A vicious slam against the metal door.
Cherry yelped, jerking against him as the entire wall vibrated.
SCREEEEECH.
A sound like rusted steel mixed with animal fury and something worse—something aware.
Ross stood still, his body half-shielding hers, jaw clenched, one hand still tangled in her waistband. His mouth was still slick with her, but now his eyes were locked on the door.
Because that sound wasn't random.
It wasn't confusion.
It was hunger.
And the creatures outside?
They knew.
They'd heard.
And now—they were comming .Fast .Damgerous .
A Week Ago
The air inside the classroom hadn't moved in thirty days—thick with fear, sweat, and silence. No one dared to speak. Not the students. Not the teachers. The only sound was the relentless tapping at the door... the dead, still trying to get in.
Cherry sat slumped against the wall, her small frame swallowed by the dark, her breath shallow and shaky. The world felt toasted—burned to ash from the inside out. Her back pressed against the peeling plaster, rough and flaking every time something groaned outside or someone shifted too close beside her. It rained down like snow made of bone. Her fingers twisted the same strip of fabric on her shirt over and over until it felt like her only anchor. Her pants were raw, the fabric worn from restless movements that brought no comfort. Her heart thudded like it was trying to break through her chest—fast, terrified—but her limbs were slow, drained. Fifteen hours without food, and her body had started to eat itself. But worse than the hunger was the sound—the tapping... always the tapping.
The room reeked of wet, stale breath and the sickly stench of fear—like death had already chosen its seat in the crowd. That smell didn't come from the infected outside.
It came from the ones piled at the door.
Corpses—friends, classmates, even a teacher—pressed against the entrance, their cold bodies used as barricades. It wasn't strong. They all knew it. But there was nothing else to do. Nothing left to build with. Nothing left to believe in.
So they stayed quiet, holding their breath and their hope in trembling fists. Waiting for the door to break.
Along with corpses, the desks had been stacked high against the classroom door—wood cracked and legs bent, shoved into place with shaking hands and whispered prayers. It wasn't secure, not really, not against them. But it was something. And sometimes, in the dark, something was all they had.
Inside the room, thirteen souls clung to what was left of survival. Cherry. A handful of university students. A couple of professors who still wore their ID cards like they meant anything anymore. No one spoke unless absolutely necessary. Every breath, every glance, was soaked in the same question—how much longer?
Outside that thin, trembling barrier was the hallway. And in that hallway, just twenty feet away, stood a vending machine. Cracked and flickering, it was the last promise of calories, of sugar, of a few more hours of life. Its whirring hum echoed like a siren. Temptation.
But the hallway didn't belong to them.
It belonged to them.
The news called it a zombie outbreak, throwing that word around like it was familiar, like it could be controlled, understood. But what waited beyond that barricade wasn't mindless.
They were faster than hunger. Smarter than fear. Stronger than anything a human could imagine.
Not zombies. Not anymore.
Hunters.
And every breath the thirteen took?
It was stolen from prey.
They weren't zombies. No, the media lied. The world lied. Zombies were stupid, slow, hollow things. But these creatures? They were something else—something born from nightmares that had studied humans long enough to know how to destroy them properly.
They were fast—too fast to run from. They had strength that shattered steel doors like bones. And worst of all, they had minds. Minds that thought, learned, hunted. You couldn't predict them. Couldn't outrun them. Couldn't fool them. They were predators in the purest form. Not the undead… just something worse.
Inside, thirteen people clung to life like roaches hiding in a matchbox. Students, professors… Cherry. They all breathed the same thick air of waiting death.
And then there was Jonah
Loud-mouthed. Always talking. Always trying to take control. No one made him the leader, but that didn't stop him from pretending to be one. Behind his words, though, behind the smirks and forced confidence—was a boy crippled by fear. The kind that made your bones cold.
He had been sitting under a desk, whispering curses into his palm. But the tapping had grown louder, heavier. Something outside had moved too close. And Chana, puffed up with false bravery, rose to his feet like he had something to prove.
He crept toward the cracked window.
Just one glance.
He squinted through the shattered glass, the vending machine glowing faintly in the dark hallway. His dry throat tightened as he took a breath.
That breath was a mistake.
They heard it.
In less than a heartbeat, something launched at the glass—slammed against it with a sickening force. A face—if it could even be called that—appeared, split with too many teeth and eyes that gleamed with intelligence, not hunger.
It stared through the crack, straight into Jonah's soul.
His breath hitched. His knees gave out. He hit the floor with a thud, palms shaking, body slick with sweat. Huffing, gasping. All the bravado drained out in one second.
And the creature just kept staring. Watching. Waiting.
As soon as Jonah hit the ground, his body betrayed him—wracked with coughing, sweat beading down his temples like fever breaking. His breath came in short, panicked bursts, his chest rising and falling too fast. The silence in the room snapped.