Harley's breath was ragged as he stepped over the debris of shattered glass and crumpled paper from the wrecked shelves. The weight of the sledgehammer felt heavier with each step, as if the universe itself was pressing down on him. He paused just before the door, glancing over his shoulder one last time at the chaos inside the store—the remnants of the struggle, the bodies of the fallen zombies, their glassy eyes staring back at him, frozen in death.
His heart pounded with an instinctual fear of what was beyond those glass doors. The sounds of the streets outside were worse than anything he'd ever imagined—screams that tore through the air, the frantic and panicked shuffling of feet, and the distant, haunting groans of the undead. It felt like a twisted nightmare that had no end. And in that moment, Harley wasn't sure whether he was still in the middle of a bad dream or if this was his new reality.
He opened the door, the broken glass crunching under his boots as he stepped onto the sidewalk. The world outside had changed, as though some dark hand had reached down and torn the very fabric of life as he knew it. It was the same street, the same city, but everything felt off. The buildings were still standing, but the windows were shattered, the streets littered with abandoned cars, some still running with their engines on but unmanned. Smoke billowed from distant fires, and there was a smell—foul and heavy in the air, a mix of burnt rubber, gasoline, and something much worse.
As Harley walked out, the silence between the screams of the dying seemed endless. He knew he couldn't stay in the open. It wouldn't be long before more of the undead would come through, drawn by the noise. The thought of them closing in on him was enough to push him into motion. His legs carried him down the street, the sledgehammer now a comforting weight in his hand as he picked up speed.
A group of people stumbled into view, dragging a man along who was clearly injured, blood soaking his clothes. They were desperate, but they had no idea what they were facing. The terror in their eyes was immediate. One of the figures, a woman, screamed and pointed toward him, shouting for help, her voice trembling.
Harley slowed down, his instincts kicking in. He had to make a choice—help them or keep moving. His mind screamed at him to keep going, that his only chance of survival was to keep moving forward and not get caught in any more distractions. But something inside him, something buried deep beneath the panic and fear, wanted to help. He couldn't stand the thought of another person being dragged into this nightmare. Not if he could do something about it.
He approached them cautiously, his eyes scanning their faces. The woman looked about his age, with disheveled dark hair and wide, frantic eyes. The man she was dragging was bloodied but still alive. He was barely conscious, and Harley could see the gash on his leg—deep and jagged. It looked like it had already been infected, the edges of the wound turning a sickly purple.
"Hey," Harley said, keeping his voice steady, but even he could hear the fear laced in it. "Get off the street. Zombies will be here soon. You need to move."
The woman looked at him with desperation. "We... we can't leave him. He's hurt... he can't—"
"There's no time for that," Harley snapped, his eyes darting around. "Help me carry him to the alley. We'll figure something out, but we need cover. Now."
She hesitated for a heartbeat before nodding. They moved quickly, pulling the man into the alleyway where the shadows hid them from the open street. The stench of the city was even stronger here, the air thick with decay and the scent of burning rubber. Harley's skin prickled with the sense of being watched, but there was no time to stop and think.
They set the man down against the brick wall, and Harley immediately began looking for something useful. He spotted a dumpster further down the alley and rushed toward it. Inside, there were old, half-ruined tarps and a few boxes. The woman was sitting beside the man, trying to keep him awake, whispering calming words that didn't seem to help either of them.
"This is all I've got," Harley said, pulling out the tarp and laying it over the man's leg. It wasn't a proper bandage, but it would have to do for now. He ripped off a piece of fabric from his own shirt to tie it around the injury, trying to slow the bleeding. "Stay with him. I'm going to check for supplies."
The woman's eyes were wide, and she nodded. Her hands trembled, clutching at the man's. Harley didn't want to look at her—he couldn't afford to feel guilty for not doing more. But in that moment, a bitter realization hit him like a punch to the gut: he was just one person. There were too many people in need, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't save them all.
He sprinted further down the alley, quickly scanning the few shops that still had intact doors or windows. Every so often, he'd hear the low, spine-chilling groan of a zombie nearby, their shuffling footsteps growing louder. His grip tightened around the sledgehammer, his mind screaming at him to find something—anything—to give him an advantage.
He ducked into the open door of a corner store. The bell above the door rang faintly as he entered. The store was eerily quiet, the shelves disheveled and half-empty, though a few bags of canned goods were still stacked on the shelf. Harley didn't bother to look for anything more. He grabbed what he could—canned food, a couple of first-aid kits, and a box of matches.
Just as he turned to leave, the sound of footsteps reached his ears. Harley froze. The slow, agonizing shuffle of the undead—dozens of them, more than he could fight off alone.
With a curse, he bolted toward the back exit, pushing open the door just as the first zombies appeared in the doorway. They were slow, but there were so many. Harley could feel the weight of every decision pressing down on him. There was no easy answer. No right way to survive.
The alley was only a few steps away, and as he sprinted back, he could already hear the sound of moaning getting closer.
The world outside was a battlefield, a wasteland, and Harley was starting to realize—there would be no clean way out of this. Not for anyone.