The hallway was silent, except for the soft, rhythmic pounding of Elliot's heart in his ears. The infected figure was still advancing, its steps slow and unsteady, but relentless. The darkness seemed to close in around them, making the shadows feel like living things. The smell—decay and rot—was overpowering, but it didn't matter. None of it mattered anymore. They were running out of time.
Elliot's breath came in shallow gasps. His father had his rifle at the ready, his face set in grim determination. Ben, too, had his hand on his weapon, but his eyes flickered nervously toward the infected. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
Elliot's father turned to him, his eyes locking onto his son's with an intensity that made the air around them feel heavy. "You need to go," he whispered, voice low but urgent.
Elliot shook his head, his throat tight with panic. "No, Dad. I'm not leaving you."
"You don't have a choice," his father said, his voice hard but filled with a sorrow that Elliot could hear beneath the surface. "I'm not going to make it. But you—" He paused, swallowing hard. "You have to. You're the only one who can."
Tears blurred Elliot's vision, but he fought them back, pressing his lips together. His father couldn't be saying this. Not now. Not when they were so close to safety. He couldn't lose him. Not like this.
The infected was closer now, its hollow eyes scanning the darkness. Its body was jerky, twitching unnaturally, as if the virus inside it had taken all control. But it didn't matter how it moved. It was coming. And fast.
His father glanced over at Ben. The mercenary was tense, his grip on his weapon firm. There was no time for words. They both knew what had to be done.
"Go, Elliot," his father said again, his voice steady. "Now."
"No!" Elliot's voice cracked. He wanted to run, to escape with his father, to go somewhere far away from all of this. But he couldn't move. He couldn't leave him.
"Please, son," his father's voice softened, his hand reaching out to grip Elliot's shoulder. "I love you. I always will."
Elliot opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, the infected let out a low, guttural growl. The sound sent a shock through Elliot's spine, and in that instant, his father made his decision.
He shoved Elliot back, hard, pushing him toward the nearest doorway. "Run!" he yelled, his voice raw with desperation.
Elliot stumbled, his body slamming into the doorframe, but his feet didn't stop moving. He wanted to turn around. He wanted to scream, to beg his father to come with him. But the look in his father's eyes—one of love, and fear, and something else, something deeper—told him there was no other choice.
His father raised his rifle and fired. The shot rang out, loud and sharp in the silence. The infected collapsed, its body crumpling to the ground with a sickening thud.
But the victory was short-lived.
From the corner of his eye, Elliot saw his father's arm jerk, a spray of blood splattering across the floor. He had been too late. The infected's teeth had found their mark, sinking into his father's arm with terrifying precision. The pain was immediate. His father let out a sharp, strangled cry, but he didn't stop. He didn't hesitate. His eyes met Elliot's one last time, filled with a love that was so deep, it made Elliot's chest ache.
"Go," his father said again, this time quieter, the strength fading from his voice. "Please, son. Don't look back."
Elliot's legs felt like lead, his whole body frozen in place. He couldn't tear his eyes away from his father, who was now struggling to stay upright, the infected's blood dripping from his arm, staining the floor beneath him.
But then, with a final, anguished cry, his father collapsed to the ground, his body convulsing as the virus began to take hold. The sight of it—the way his father's body twitched and jerked, his face contorting into something unrecognizable—was too much. Elliot's stomach turned, and he forced himself to look away.
"Dad… No…"
The word was a whisper, but it felt like a scream in his chest. He took a shaky step back, and then another, his heart thudding in his chest as the tears finally came. His breath was ragged, his throat tight with the weight of what he was leaving behind. But there was no time. There was no choice. His father had made sure of that.
With one final, desperate look toward his father's fallen body, Elliot turned and ran.
He didn't look back.