The silence inside the airport was deafening. Every footstep echoed, making the place feel even more abandoned than it already was. The overhead lights flickered occasionally, casting brief flashes of light across the vast, empty space. Elliot's breath felt shallow, his pulse quickening as he glanced around, hoping for some sign of life, but there was nothing.
His father motioned for them to stay close, and they followed in a tight formation, moving slowly down the terminal. Max trotted along beside them, his ears alert, his body tense. The dog seemed to sense the unease in the air, but he didn't bark, didn't make a sound. It was as if even Max knew that noise meant danger.
"Where are the planes?" Elliot whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the broken lights.
His father didn't answer right away. Instead, he stopped at a desk, the name tag on the front half-buried in the dust. He ran his hand over the counter, his fingers brushing against something sticky. When he pulled them away, they were stained with something dark, dried up and old. Blood? Or something worse? It didn't matter.
"There should be planes here," he muttered, more to himself than to Elliot. "But... it's too quiet."
Ben, who had been walking ahead, turned around. His face was grim, eyes scanning the terminal. "Maybe they evacuated. Or maybe they just... didn't get the chance."
Elliot's stomach twisted at the thought. What if the planes had been there, but they were long gone? What if they were too late?
"Let's keep moving," his father said, snapping Elliot out of his thoughts. "We need to find a way out of here."
They continued down the hallway, passing empty shops and abandoned kiosks. It was hard to imagine this place as it once had been—a bustling hub, full of people coming and going, with announcements echoing over the intercom. Now, the air was thick with dust and the faint smell of decay.
Elliot felt a growing sense of dread as they walked. His eyes kept darting to every shadow, every corner. It was like the walls were closing in on them, and no matter how fast they moved, the emptiness felt like it was swallowing them whole.
They reached a set of stairs that led down into a lower level. The door at the top was half open, revealing a dark, narrow staircase. Without a word, Elliot's father moved toward it, rifle at the ready. Ben followed, and Elliot, despite his unease, didn't hesitate. There was no other choice. They had to keep going.
As they descended, the temperature dropped. The air grew colder, and Elliot could see his breath now, the fog swirling in front of his face. His fingers were numb, his legs stiff from the cold and exhaustion, but he pushed forward. There was something in him now—something deeper than fear. A quiet, gnawing desperation.
At the bottom of the stairs, they found themselves in a dark, sprawling basement. The only light came from a few flickering emergency lamps mounted on the walls. It was hard to make out much of anything, but there was a faint, musty smell in the air—something that reminded Elliot of old books and forgotten things.
"This place gives me the creeps," Ben muttered, his voice low. He was moving cautiously, his eyes scanning the room, every movement deliberate.
Elliot nodded, but he didn't speak. His mind was racing. What had happened here? Where had everyone gone? He couldn't shake the feeling that they were walking into a trap, but he didn't dare voice it. There was no room for fear now. Not when they were so close.
His father moved ahead, slowly, deliberately, like he was searching for something. He paused in front of a row of storage rooms, pushing open a door with a creak that made Elliot flinch. The room was empty, just like the others. It was nothing but dusty crates and old furniture. There was no sign of any survivors. No sign of help.
"Nothing here," his father said, frustration edging his voice.
Elliot's mind spun with possibilities. What if they were too late? What if the planes had already left, or worse, what if they had been grounded because of the outbreak?
"Wait," Ben suddenly said, his voice sharp. "Do you hear that?"
They all stopped. The silence was suffocating, and for a moment, Elliot wasn't sure if he'd heard anything. Then he heard it—a low, distant groan. It echoed through the empty halls, the kind of sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
His father's hand tightened on the rifle, and he motioned for them to stay quiet. "We're not alone," he whispered, his voice steady, but with a cold edge to it.
Elliot's heart pounded in his chest as they all crouched low, their breaths shallow, listening. The groan came again, louder this time, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Shuffling, dragging footsteps.
"Stay down," his father hissed. He was moving again, faster now, slipping into a nearby doorway that led to another hallway. They followed, trying to stay as silent as possible. The sounds of the infected were growing louder, closer, and Elliot could feel the panic starting to creep in.
The hallway was dark, the air thick with the scent of mildew and something else—something metallic, like blood. They crept forward, every footstep a gamble. The infected were close, and if they were caught in the open, there would be no chance.
They reached the end of the hallway, and Elliot's father signaled for them to stop. They pressed against the wall, trying to steady their breathing. The groans and shuffling were getting louder, and Elliot's heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst from his chest.
Then, just as quickly as it had started, the sound stopped.
A few seconds of eerie silence.
Elliot held his breath, waiting, praying that whatever was out there hadn't heard them. But then, a figure appeared at the end of the hall. A man—no, it wasn't a man anymore. It was one of them.
The infected.
Elliot's stomach turned, his legs trembling, but he didn't move. He couldn't. The infected figure shuffled closer, its eyes glazed over, its skin cracked and burnt, as if it were barely holding itself together.
It was coming toward them.