The alley was closing in on them.
Max gripped the newly acquired hunting rifle, but his gut told him it wouldn't be enough. The walkers at the alley's entrance were slow, but their numbers were growing. More were spilling in from the street, drawn by the sound of breaking glass from the gun store.
"Shit," Lena breathed, raising her pistol.
She had **six bullets** left. Not nearly enough to handle this many.
Max quickly checked the rifle—**not loaded**. He cursed under his breath and shoved it onto his back, drawing his knife instead.
They had **one chance**—they had to move fast and break through before they were completely surrounded.
"Stay close," Max ordered. "We push through and don't stop. No second-guessing."
Lena nodded, though her hands trembled slightly around her pistol.
Then the first walker lunged.
### **A Desperate Escape**
Max **sidestepped** the attack, stabbing his knife straight through the walker's temple. It let out a wet gasp before crumbling to the pavement.
Lena fired—**one shot, clean through a walker's skull**—but the gunfire only drew more attention.
They surged forward.
Max kept his knife moving, stabbing, slashing, shoving walkers aside as they tried to break through the bottleneck. The alley wasn't wide, but that meant the walkers had to funnel in, giving them an opening if they moved quickly enough.
Lena fired again—**another headshot**—but her next shot missed, grazing a walker's cheek instead.
"Shit, shit—"
Max shoved the wounded walker aside, **ripping his knife free from another's skull**. Blood splattered across his arm.
Two more steps and they were almost clear.
Then it happened.
**Lena tripped.**
### **A Fatal Mistake**
Her foot caught on a piece of broken concrete, and she went down hard, her pistol clattering from her grasp.
Max spun, reaching for her—but she had already hit the ground.
"Get up!" he shouted.
But the second she fell, the walkers **swarmed her**.
Hands grabbed at her legs, her arms—**rotting fingers clawing, pulling, dragging her down**.
"No—NO!"
Lena **screamed** as the first walker bit into her shoulder. Blood spurted, dark against the grimy alley walls.
Max **lunged**, driving his knife into the closest walker's skull, **ripping it free in a spray of black blood**.
Lena thrashed, fighting desperately, but there were **too many**.
Her screams turned into **shrieks of agony** as another walker sank its teeth into her abdomen, ripping away flesh.
Max grabbed her arm, **pulling with everything he had**, but she was already **being dragged under them**.
Her eyes met his—wild, desperate, pleading.
"**Max—RUN!**" she screamed.
Max froze.
His heart **pounded against his ribs**, every instinct screaming at him to **save her**—but he knew the truth.
**She was already dead.**
There was nothing left to save.
Another walker bit down—**her scream turned to gurgling**.
Max clenched his jaw, eyes burning as he stumbled back.
And then, he **ran.**
### **Alone Again**
He didn't stop.
Didn't look back.
His legs burned, exhaustion clawing at his every step, but he pushed forward, darting through another alley, cutting across an abandoned street.
The echoes of Lena's screams followed him.
Her voice—once so stubborn, so determined—now a sound he would never forget.
By the time he finally stopped, he was deep in a different part of the city.
His lungs **heaved**, sweat and blood soaking his shirt. He collapsed against a rusted dumpster, hands shaking uncontrollably.
**Lena was dead.**
Just like that.
Another name to add to the growing list of people he had lost.
Another failure.
Max wiped his face with a trembling hand, trying to push down the raw anger burning in his chest.
But the world didn't care.
The city was still full of the dead.
And he was still alive.
He had to **keep moving.**
### **A Shelter for the Night**
With no clear direction, Max searched for a place to rest. His legs felt like lead, exhaustion hitting him in full force now that the adrenaline was wearing off.
He spotted an **abandoned bookstore**—one of the smaller ones, tucked between two buildings. The windows were **boarded up**, and the front door looked solid.
He tested the handle. **Locked.**
That was good.
Carefully, he pried open a side window and climbed in, landing softly on the dusty floor.
The place was **quiet**, empty of any signs of movement. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with novels and manuals that no one would ever read again.
It felt… safe.
For now.
Max slumped against the counter, gripping his knife tightly in his lap.
His hands were still shaking.
Lena's scream played over and over in his mind.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
**Don't think about it.**
**You did what you had to.**
But the guilt was suffocating.
He had **abandoned her.**
No.
He had **listened**.
She had told him to run.
She had known there was no saving her.
And if he had stayed, they'd both be dead.
Still, it didn't feel like the right choice.
It didn't feel right **at all.**
### **A Bitter Reality**
Max's stomach growled, but he ignored it. He pulled out the **cans of beans** from his bag, but the thought of eating made him nauseous.
Instead, he grabbed the rifle, checking it again.
**No bullets.**
The box of ammo he grabbed earlier wasn't for this rifle.
That meant he had:
- **A rifle with no rounds.**
- **A 9mm pistol with four bullets left.**
- **A knife covered in blood.**
That was it.
He wasn't in good shape.
His energy was gone. His body was screaming for rest.
But sleep felt dangerous.
He had to keep going.
Yet, his eyelids were heavy, his mind clouded with exhaustion.
**He needed sleep.**
Even if it was just for an hour or two.
Reluctantly, Max moved to a corner where he could see both the front and back entrances. He leaned against the wall, gripping his knife in one hand, his pistol in the other.
His eyes flickered shut, his body finally succumbing to the exhaustion.
But even as sleep took him, he knew—
**Tomorrow would be even worse.**
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