Alex and Maddox, two of the thirteen, the survivors , inside, immediately stood up, instinct stronger than fear. They moved toward him, worried, ready to help—
But before they could reach, Jonah shoved them back, his voice cracking but sharp.
"I'm fine!" he snapped, eyes wide, lips trembling. "I don't need anyone's help!"
His voice echoed louder than it should have.
The room froze.
Everyone knew what that kind of noise invited.
Jonah pushed himself to his feet, chest still heaving, but pride puffing out stronger than fear. He began pacing the room, his boots heavy against the broken tiles.
"Tch... cowards," he muttered under his breath, loud enough for everyone to hear. "No one's doing anything! Just sitting here like corpses waiting for a funeral. At least I think! At least I try!" His voice sharpened with every word, eyes darting toward the cracked hallway window. "I'm the only one even considering going to the damn vending machine. You all just wanna rot in here!"
But then—his foot hit a box.
It was small. Harmless. It shouldn't have made much sound.
But it skidded violently across the floor and slammed into the barricade—desks, corpss, everything they had stacked.
The top desk fell.
CRACK!
The sound tore through the silence like a gunshot.
Then another desk slipped. And another. The barricade began crashing down in a chaotic domino of wood and metal, each fall louder than the last.
Everyone froze.
Faces turned pale—deathly pale.
Meera backed away instantly, her back hitting the far wall. She dropped to the floor, curling into herself, hands clutching her knees. Her breath caught in her throat as she bit her trembling knuckles, her eyes wide and brimming with silent terror. Her mouth moved without sound—prayers or pleas—no one could tell.
The room turned to stillness once more, but not the safe kind.
From outside…
Footsteps.
Not human. Not lost.
Creatures
And they had heard.
They were coming.
The air turned heavy. Breathless.
Everyone froze.
Not a whisper. Not a breath. Not even the twitch of a finger.
Whatever that sound was… it wasn't a footstep.
Not the familiar scrape of a scavenger's boots.
Not the dull drag of someone exhausted.
Not even the twitchy shuffle of one of the infected.
No—this was different.
It was a groan.
Low. Thick. Wet.
Like something dying—but not quite dead.
Cherry felt her stomach drop. That sound was too close. Muffled by nothing but the walls between them. Maybe even less.
Jonah moved first.
Slowly. Cautiously.
He crawled toward the barricade—a wall of desks stacked two high, a chair wedged awkwardly across the top—and peered through a narrow crack between the wood. His fingers curled around the desk's edge like claws.
Cherry saw the color drain from his face.
Completely.
"Oh f—fuck," he whispered, barely louder than a breath.
Then it came again.
Scrape.
A long, slow drag. Like claws or bones or teeth raking across tile. Deliberate. Patient. Not blind rage—intent.
Cherry's hand shot out in the dark, reaching blindly for something familiar. Mira's fingers met hers.
They were ice-cold.
Across the room, Dr. Whitlock straightened. His voice came low and steady, the kind of voice that didn't shake—even when everything else did.
"Stay calm," he said. "Don't speak. Don't move."
But the sounds grew.
One became many.
Shuffling.
Clicking.
Creaks of skin stretching over bone where it shouldn't.
A wet pop. Then a crack, like a shoulder dislocating and grinding back into place.
Then came the pounding.
Thump-thump-thump.
Fast. Four-limbed. Heavy. Not human.
Cherry's breath caught in her throat.
And then—the third sound.
A scream.
Not human. Not animal.
Worse.
Shrill and warped, like something trying to copy a human cry and getting it wrong. A throat full of broken glass and bile.
It echoed down the corridor like it was hunting, not warning. A siren made from pain and rage.
A shadow tore past the small rectangle of reinforced glass in the center of the door.
Then another.
Then two more.
Blurs. Fast. Barely seen. But they were there.
And then—
Silence.
The kind that draped over the room like plastic over a corpse.
A silence that made every heartbeat feel like it echoed too loud.
Then—
The barricade shifted.
One of the desks groaned, the wood flexing. Something pushed it from the outside.
Alex reacted instantly.
He didn't speak. He didn't hesitate.
He moved. Fast.
He lunged for the barricade, both hands slamming into the top desk just as it began to tip forward. His body collided with it with a grunt, stopping it from crashing down.
He pushed. Hard. His shoulder dug into the edge.
Maddox was right behind him, no questions asked. Eyes wide, lips parted but silent, he shoved another desk into place beside Alex's.
Together, they worked like instinct. No words. Just panic and pure action.
Jonah didn't move.
He stood frozen a few feet back, paralyzed. His legs refused to respond. His eyes were locked on the glass like he was already seeing his own end written on the other side.
Alex grunted under the strain as he shoved the second desk tighter into position. The legs scraped painfully against the tile, echoing in the stillness.
Maddox climbed slightly, carefully, placing a chair on top. His hands trembled as he wedged it in to brace the desk from being pushed over.
They held.
Barely.
But the door—
The damn door was still ajar.
Not wide. Just cracked.
But enough. Enough for something fast to see it.
Alex and Maddox looked at each other. They didn't have to speak.
They lunged together, hands out, reaching for the door—only a few inches left to seal it—
Then—
BANG.
The door exploded inward as something slammed into it.
Hard.
A weight that didn't belong to anything human crashed against it like a wrecking ball.
The barricade shattered.
The top desk launched backwards. The chair flipped in the air and crashed sideways. Wood split. Legs broke.
All of it—all of it—came down in a splintering, unforgiving avalanche.
Alex and Maddox were buried in it.
The impact knocked the wind from the room.
Cherry screamed.
Glass rattled. The lights flickered once.
And then—
The door creaked open on its hinges.
Wide.
Welcoming.
Whatever was on the other side… was already inside.
BANG.
The door shook violently—like something had thrown its full body into it.
No warning. No time.
Just the splintering crack of wood and the sharp shriek of bending metal.
Then—
Everything collapsed.
The barricade they'd built—desks, chairs, benches, even the stacked bodies—gave out all at once, as if the impact had punched the bones out of it.
Alex only had a second to move.
He didn't make it.
The top desk broke loose first. It tilted forward, faster than gravity should allow.
The corner slammed into his forehead.
A sick, solid crack.
His head snapped back. Blood burst from the wound, painting the floor beneath him in long, scattered streaks. He dropped with a grunt, the second desk catching him mid-fall and crashing into his thigh.
Pain exploded through his leg.
His body hit the tile hard, breath knocked out of him.
Then came the bench.
It flipped over, heavy and brutal, the metal frame slamming straight down across both his legs.
He yelled—deep and raw—but it was swallowed by the chaos.
The bench pinned him. His right leg twisted, caught between the broken frame and the leg of the desk, locked in place like it had been trapped by steel jaws. He tried to move, to push himself up, but nothing gave.
He was stuck.
And bleeding.
The blood mixed with the pools already there—dark, thick, half-dried.
That's when he saw them.
The bodies.
They had been stacked at the top—cold, stiff, and silent. More weight. More bulk to keep the door shut.
Now they were falling.
The first one hit the floor beside him, sliding off the pile like a bag of soaked clothing. Its skin peeled as it landed, the meat beneath grey and sloughing off the bone.
Then another corpse dropped.
And another.
Right onto Maddox.
The first smacked into his shoulder—a torso missing its legs, its ribcage open like a cracked cage, its mouth stuck in a frozen scream.
Maddox stumbled back, hands raised too late.
Then a full body—bloated, torn, face half-missing—crashed onto his chest, knocking the air out of him with a hard thud.
He lost his footing.
His boots skidded over the blood-slick floor.
He fell backwards.
His head hit the corner of a desk on the way down with a sickening thwack.
He didn't even scream.
His body dropped and stayed there, buried beneath the corpses. Arms flailed once, weak and wide, then went still. A smear of red bloomed beneath his skull on the tile.
Alex turned his head toward him, vision blurred.
"Maddox—" he rasped, but his voice came out cracked.
He reached out, fingers trembling, trying to move.
But the desk still pressed down across his leg. He couldn't shift it. Couldn't even bend enough to see how bad the damage was.
He didn't need to.
It felt broken.
His fingers shook as they curled around the edge of the bench, trying to lift—just a little. Just enough to crawl out. To crawl toward Maddox.
He couldn't.
His muscles trembled.
His vision spun.
Pain was crawling up his spine now—slow and heavy, like it wanted to reach his lungs next.
Then he heard it.
A sound so soft it should've been nothing.
But to Alex, it was everything.
The door creaked.
Not because of wind.
Not because it had come loose.
Because something was pushing it open.
The hinges groaned.
The shadows shifted.
Alex's heart thudded in his throat. His fingers slipped off the desk. His body went cold, blood soaking into his jeans, legs numb from the weight and pain.
He could hear it breathing.
Close.
Inside.
They were in.
And all he could do was lie there, trapped under broken furniture and bodies that smelled of death, staring toward the open door with blood in his eyes and no way out.