Blue light floods over my cold skin.
My hair stands on end.
I slam the door shut behind me, shoving the key into my pocket. Taking a deep breath, I lift my gaze—to the bizarre sky stretching before me.
And then, my thoughts turn to my brother.
"Please be alive..." I whisper. "At least you mu––"
My body jerks involuntarily. A ringing tinnitus forms in my ears.
"Get the fuck away from me, you faceless motherfucker!"
An African American man, his voice carrying a distinct accent, screams as he lies on his back, gripping his firearm with both hands. He unloads his bullets into the creature looming over him, but the rounds bounce off as if they were mere Nerf darts.
My legs freeze as I catch sight of its suit. Faceless? Shit! Shit! Shit!
I inch sideways, my steps silent against the slick floor of the long corridor. I look from the second floor, feeling gnawing guilt. It isn't my fight. Rescue is futile.
On tiptoe, I hurry down the stairs, my arms moving faster than my legs.
The man's voice fades, replaced by the wet, visceral sound of tearing flesh. Bones snap. But what unsettles me most is the sickening, guttural slurping of blood.
I steal a glance over my shoulder. My fingers go numb. My hair turns gray.
The faceless creature stares at me like the ones from the television screen. Zombie-like figures stand behind it, their eyes empty voids. Glistening entrails drip from its gaping mouth. The corpse of the man has been quartered—limbs neatly separated.
Three differently colored zombies' claw at the remains, rending them apart, while the faceless one locks its gaze onto my flickering eyes. It lifts its clawed fingers—werewolf-like talons—and presses them against its blood-smeared abdomen. Green veins bulge across its cheeks as its mouth stretches grotesquely, splitting open to the ears. Blood—thick and red—drips like sweat. And then it laughs.
A haunting, unnatural laugh.
The blue, orange, and green zombies join in, their grotesque snickering filling the air.
I don't waste another second. My trembling legs move. My heart pounds three beats per second. My breath comes in desperate gasps.
I leap over lifeless bodies, my soles coated in crimson. My foot barely clears a rose-colored puddle.
"Goddamn it," I mutter, the words barely audible over my ragged breathing.
Wind hisses past my burning ears. I grip my baseball bat tight in both hands, the Colt M1911 strapped securely to my hip.
I've been running nonstop for half an hour, down the length of Samanta Street. My left hand grips a bat stained blue, while my right arm lags behind. I don't know if I've torn a muscle or just sprained something. My elbow bears no bruises—only an aching stiffness.
I keep biting the inside of my cheeks, though I haven't seen those things again.
Only four of the blue ones have crossed my path. I had to bash one in the skull. It was messier than I expected. Its head caved in like a beanbag, flesh collapsing inward.
Wiping away the splatter of blue blood on my chin, I fixate on a house in the distance. A modest home in what once was a quiet neighborhood. Now, it's a battlefield—littered with corpses, none of them moving. All of them drained pale, shriveled like raisins. Even the children.
I press on, dodging the vacant stares of the dead.
Please, just be the same damn shut-in you've always been.
Please be at your desk, buried in paperwork, glued to your screen.
I press my thumbs into my palms until my pulse dulls to a steady rhythm.
Then, with a single breath, my hope shatters.
The door stands ajar, smeared in crimson.
Pain forgotten, I charge inside, ripping my Colt M1911 free from its holster, dropping my baseball bat.
I don't care what's inside. I don't care if a legion of faceless horror waits for me. Let them rip me apart, let them devour me alive, let them drink me dry.
So long as Ren survives, it will have been worth it.
My toes dig into the wooden floorboards. My right thumb flicks the safety off. I raise the gun, barrel held just over half a meter from my eye.
I snap left the moment I step into the hallway, my knees slightly bent, adrenaline sharpening my senses. The room is dim, vacant. Cold light spills onto the floor, curtains billowing like sails in the wind.
I hesitate. I pivot sharply to the right.
I'm blind to any stench of blood or rot—I've drowned in it for too long.
For a brief second, I lower my gun.
My throat tightens under an unrelenting grip. My body flails like a child's. I drive my bruised elbow toward my attacker's ribs, twisting violently to break free.
I squeeze the trigger once—
Glass shatters. A cup I gave Ren for his eighteenth birthday explodes into shards.
My grip falters. The gun slips from my fingers, clattering to the floor.
A familiar voice dances in my ears.
I gasp, inhaling greedily as the pressure on my neck loosens. My eyes flicker with recognition.
"Ren!" I cry out, my voice cracking.
My arms wrap around his legs as I stagger upright, pulling him into a fierce embrace.
"You're alive!" I nearly sob with relief.
But my elation dims. His clothes—soaked in red and blue.
I clutch his arms despite the pain shooting through my own. My hands roam over his limbs, desperate for wounds.
I forget my surroundings.
I forget the darkness.
I see only him—the only family I have left.
He offers me a small, weary smile. "Not mine."