Sean and the others made their way down the stairs, dispatching the few zombies they encountered with practiced ease.

When they reached the first floor, Sean glanced back at the crowd trailing behind them—dozens of people, all wide-eyed and jittery. He frowned but said nothing, just turned and kept moving.

They cut through a few dorm buildings and entered a patch of greenery. Up ahead, a cluster of zombies was circling a hidden speaker, heads twitching in confusion. The recorded human voices playing from it had clearly thrown them off—sound without a source was more than their rotting brains could process.

Sean raised a hand, signaling the group to follow him around the perimeter.

The crowd obeyed, moving as quietly as they could. Everyone knew the stakes. No one dared to breathe too loud.

But with this many people, screw-ups were inevitable. Someone stepped too close and clipped the heel of the person in front of them. That person stumbled, fell—and like dominoes, several others went down in a clatter of limbs and muffled curses.

"Goddammit," Sean hissed.

Sure enough, a dozen bloodshot eyes snapped toward them. The zombies froze for a beat, then let out guttural snarls and charged.

Panic hit the group like a wave. Some people bolted in random directions, tripping over each other in blind terror.

"Stop! Anyone runs, I'll kill you myself!" Sean barked, voice like a whip crack. "Weapons out! Get ready!"

Sean and his two companions didn't flinch. They'd been through worse. In one smooth motion, they pulled out their modified steel tubes—sharpened at one end, deadly in the right hands.

The others hesitated, startled by Sean's fury, but seeing him already in position jolted them into action. Fear still clung to them, but they forced it down.

There were over fifty of them. The zombies? Maybe fifteen. The numbers were in their favor—on paper, at least.

The undead closed the distance fast. Sean and his crew struck first, their steel tubes driving straight into the necks of the leading zombies. The weapons punched through rotted flesh and brittle bone with sickening ease.

Experience made the difference. Each of the three landed a clean kill.

The rest of the group wasn't so lucky. Their weapons were a mess—some had kitchen knives, others makeshift clubs. A few, unbelievably, had brought nothing but backpacks and laptops.

The zombies crashed into them. Some fought back, swinging wildly. Others froze, legs trembling, eyes wide with horror.

Online, they'd all talked big. In real life, most of them folded like wet paper.

Still, numbers mattered. With Sean's trio anchoring the fight, the group managed to bring down the last of the zombies.

But it wasn't without cost.

Six people had been bitten.

Sean looked at the wounds—ragged, bloody, already starting to swell—and his face darkened.

"You've got two choices," he said flatly. "Leave now, or I kill you myself."

"No! There's gotta be a way—I won't turn, I swear!" one of them cried, voice cracking with panic.

"Yeah, don't give up on us! There has to be a cure, right?" another pleaded.

But the rest of the group had already started backing away, putting distance between themselves and the infected like they were radioactive.

"Go on your own," someone muttered. "At least that way it's... cleaner."

"You can't do this!" one of the bitten shouted. "We're supposed to stick together! We were all heading to the dining hall!"

No one answered. They just stared, silent and cold, like they were watching a funeral in slow motion.

Then the change began.

The infected started to twitch. Their skin blistered and split. Their eyes turned a deep, glowing red. Pain twisted their faces into masks of agony.

The crowd recoiled.

Sean didn't hesitate.

He and his crew stepped forward, steel tubes flashing. In a blur, they drove the weapons through the necks of the infected, one after another. The bodies dropped, twitching, then went still.

The rest of the group stood frozen, horrified. No one said a word. No one dared.

Sean turned, voice like gravel and fire. "If you want to make it to the dining hall alive, get your shit together. If anyone screws up like that again, I'll put a hole in your throat myself."

With that, he turned and kept walking.

The rest followed, silent and shaken. A few more zombies crossed their path, but Sean's trio handled them without breaking stride.

Then, just as the dining hall came into view, they saw it.

A massive horde of zombies—easily over a hundred—was chasing a group of survivors. The runners were screaming, stumbling, barely staying ahead.

Sean's face went pale.

"Fall back!" he snapped.

But it was too late.

The fleeing survivors spotted them and veered toward the group like drowning men spotting a lifeboat.

"Help us!"

"Please! There's too many!"

"Shit," Sean growled. Then to Big Mike and Skinny Pete: "Run. We're not saving anyone."

The three of them bolted.

The rest of the group didn't need to be told twice. They turned and ran too, the thunder of a hundred undead pounding behind them.

"We're not gonna make it, Sean!" Big Mike shouted, panic rising in his voice as the horde closed in behind them.

Sean didn't hesitate. "Library. Go!"

He veered sharply, sprinting toward the library, and the rest of the group followed without question. Wherever Sean ran, they ran.

They tore across the campus, dodging scattered zombies along the way. The few that got in their path were quickly taken down by Sean and his crew, steel tubes cracking skulls with brutal efficiency.

By the time they reached the library, everyone was gasping for breath—but the door was locked.

"Break it down!" Sean barked, already swinging his steel tube at the lock with everything he had.

The door didn't budge.

Big Mike and Skinny Pete rushed over to help, slamming their weapons against the lock in unison. The metal groaned but held.

Screams rang out behind them—raw, terrified. The horde had caught up.

"Faster!" someone yelled, voice cracking.

"Then stop yelling and help!" Sean snapped.

"Oh—right!"

More people joined in, hammering at the lock with whatever they had. Finally, with a sharp crack, the mechanism gave way.

Sean threw the door open. The crowd surged inside, shoving and stumbling over each other in their desperation.

But not everyone made it.

A few stragglers were still outside, caught in the chaos, screaming as the zombies reached them. Sean didn't wait. He slammed the door shut.

"Block it! Tables, anything!" he shouted.

People scrambled, dragging over desks and chairs, piling them against the door as the first thuds hit—heavy, relentless.

"Open up! You can't do this! We're still out here! You're killing us!"

"Please! I don't wanna die! Open the door!"

The screams outside were gut-wrenching. Some inside flinched, faces twisted with guilt. But no one moved to open the door.

Not one.

In the end, survival won out over sympathy.

The pounding slowed. The screams faded. Then, silence.

Inside the library, only about thirty people remained. They'd lost over twenty in the chaos. The air was thick with shock and despair.

And they still hadn't reached the dining hall.

That was the worst part.

The library had no food. No supplies. It wasn't even as comfortable as the dorms. Just books and silence and the sound of people trying not to cry.

Regret settled over the group like a fog. If they'd known it would turn out like this, most of them wouldn't have left at all.

Sean stood near the door, jaw clenched, eyes hard. He hadn't expected this either.

"What now, Sean?" Skinny Pete asked quietly.

Sean didn't answer right away. Then, "We wait. See if the horde moves on."

"Fucking hell," Big Mike muttered. "This is bullshit."

"It's not just bad luck," Sean said, voice low but sharp.

"What do you mean?"

"If Ethan were here, he wouldn't have let all those people tag along."

...

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