Chapter 2: First Night of Hell
Ethan ran.
His lungs burned, legs aching with every step, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. The city had transformed into a nightmare—cars abandoned in the streets, their doors flung open as if their owners had fled mid-escape. Bodies littered the sidewalks, some unmoving, others twitching as the infection took hold.
The screams never stopped.
Some were cut short—guttural, choked off by teeth tearing through flesh. Others stretched into agonized wails before fading into silence. The distant sirens had already begun to die down, replaced by something worse. The sound of the infected. Groaning, snarling, their footsteps erratic as they hunted for fresh prey.
Ethan had no idea where he was going. He had no destination, no plan. He only knew one thing—he needed to hide.
After what felt like hours, he stumbled into an alleyway, his legs barely able to hold him up. He collapsed against a dumpster, gasping for breath. His clothes were drenched in sweat, his hands trembling violently.
He had never run that fast in his life.
A distant shriek made him flinch, his entire body going rigid. He peeked around the corner. The street was still filled with the undead, their bodies twitching with unnatural movements as they shambled forward. There were dozens of them, maybe more.
If he hadn't run, he would have been one of them.
The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a game.
People were dead.
People he knew.
And no one was coming to save him.
He forced himself to move, searching for shelter. Stores had already been looted, their windows shattered. Some buildings were on fire, the flames crackling as thick smoke rose into the darkening sky.
Then, he saw it.
A small convenience store, its doors still intact. The windows were cracked but not broken. More importantly, it looked empty.
Ethan didn't hesitate. He sprinted across the street, heart hammering as he reached for the door handle. It was locked.
"Shit, shit, shit…"
He glanced around desperately. A metal pipe lay near the curb, likely ripped from a collapsed street sign. He grabbed it, hands shaking as he wedged it against the door. With a grunt, he shoved—once, twice—until the lock snapped.
The door swung open, and he darted inside, slamming it shut behind him.
Darkness swallowed him.
Only the faint glow of streetlights through the broken windows allowed him to see the rows of overturned shelves and scattered supplies. The store had been ransacked, but there was still food left—bags of chips, cans, bottles of water.
His stomach growled. He hadn't realized how hungry he was.
Ethan grabbed the nearest bag of chips and tore it open. He shoved a handful into his mouth, barely chewing, his body screaming for energy.
Then he stopped.
The sound.
A low, guttural noise.
Not from outside.
From inside.
His breath hitched. He slowly turned his head toward the storage room door in the back. It was slightly ajar. A shadow moved behind it.
He wasn't alone.