The alley felt tighter with each passing second, the air growing heavier, saturated with the acrid smells of burning rubber and decaying flesh. Harley's heart pounded in his chest, but his focus remained on the task at hand—getting the injured man stabilized. He handed the woman the first-aid kit, giving her a curt nod to show that she needed to bandage the wound properly. It was far from ideal, but it was the only option they had.
As she worked, Harley's eyes constantly flicked to the entrance of the alley, searching the street for any signs of movement. The zombies weren't fast, but they were relentless. The fear of being surrounded again gripped him tightly, gnawing at his insides. His thoughts raced as he mentally went over the next steps—finding shelter, securing food, and figuring out how to keep moving forward.
They couldn't stay here. Not for long.
The woman looked up from the man's leg, her face pale and streaked with dirt. "What happens now? What do we do?"
Harley wanted to lie. He wanted to give her something—anything—to cling to. But the truth was too raw, too real. The kind of truth that could crush hope in an instant.
"I don't know," Harley admitted, his voice low. "We have to keep moving. Stay quiet. Don't make a sound."
Her eyes were filled with doubt, but she didn't argue. She didn't have the luxury of questioning anymore. Not when everything was falling apart around them.
He glanced back down the alley. The street ahead was still eerily silent, save for the faint sound of shuffling footsteps somewhere in the distance. That was the worst part—never knowing where the undead would come from. It could be any corner, any shadow. They were drawn to noise, to movement.
Harley slowly crouched down, his eyes scanning the alley once more. The woman looked over at him with a mix of concern and disbelief. "You think it's safe?"
"No," Harley said, his voice tight. "But we don't have a choice."
He helped her lift the man up, supporting most of his weight as they made their way deeper into the alley. Every sound, every flicker of movement, sent his senses on high alert. His grip on the sledgehammer was so tight it was starting to hurt, but there was no room for hesitation. No room for weakness.
They moved quickly, though as quietly as possible. Harley's thoughts kept returning to his old life—the office, his team, the mundane day-to-day routine that now felt like a distant memory. He wondered if the others were still out there, if anyone else had survived. The questions were useless, but they wouldn't stop invading his mind. The dead had taken everything. No amount of preparation, no amount of survival skills, could have readied him for this.
The alley opened up into a small park. The trees, once full of life, now stood as dead sentinels, their branches brittle and lifeless. A small bench was tipped over, an abandoned dog leash tangled up in its metal frame. Harley stopped at the edge of the park, motioning for the others to do the same.
"There," he said, pointing to a building across the street—a small pharmacy with boarded-up windows. It was a potential safe spot. "We need to get inside. It's not perfect, but it's better than being out here."
The woman nodded, her face a mask of exhaustion. She gave her injured companion a quick, pained glance. "He won't make it much longer."
Harley didn't need to hear it. He could see it in the man's labored breathing, the pale color of his skin. Time was running out for them all.
They crossed the street quickly, moving behind a series of dumpsters to keep their presence hidden. Every step felt like an eternity as they neared the pharmacy. Harley was acutely aware of every rustling leaf, every distant groan that echoed through the air. His pulse quickened, but he forced himself to remain focused, every muscle in his body screaming for rest, yet he pushed forward.
The door to the pharmacy was locked, but it wasn't reinforced. Harley grabbed the metal rod he found in the alley and wedged it between the door and the frame, applying enough force to break the lock. The door creaked open, and the stale air inside greeted them.
They stepped into the dark, musty interior of the pharmacy, and Harley immediately moved to the windows, carefully pulling the blinds down to cover their presence. The woman sat her injured companion down behind the counter, her hands shaking as she tried to comfort him.
"Keep an eye on the street," Harley ordered, his voice firm despite the knots in his stomach. He didn't want to acknowledge the fear clawing at him, didn't want to give it a voice. But there was no denying it. He was terrified.
The sound of his own breathing was deafening in the silence of the pharmacy. As he looked around, the shelves were mostly empty, but there were a few bags of medical supplies left, and the faded cans of food didn't seem as if they had been touched in weeks.
Suddenly, the low moans of zombies outside grew louder. Harley's heart skipped a beat as he turned toward the window, but they didn't come from the direction he expected. They were coming from behind the pharmacy, from the alley that led up to the back entrance.
"Shit," Harley cursed under his breath, moving swiftly toward the door. He reached for a nearby fire extinguisher and positioned it by the door to use as an improvised weapon if necessary.
"They're closing in," he muttered, glancing back at the woman. "We're not alone in here."
He stepped into the back of the pharmacy, his senses on high alert, every creak of the floorboards amplified in the stillness. The sound of the undead grew louder, closer. It wasn't just a few—there were dozens, maybe more.
He could hear their shuffling steps, could almost feel their cold presence behind the walls. And then, it came—an overwhelming, guttural growl from just outside the door. His breath caught in his throat. The undead were right there.
A tremor ran through him as he grabbed the sledgehammer. They weren't going to let them have even a moment's peace.
It was time to fight.