Chapter 19

After confirming the horde had halted under moonlight, we finally exhaled.

Another family meeting.

"Zombies move at human jogging speed. We can outrun them in a car."

"We need their exact trajectory to pick an evacuation route."

Evacuation route. The term felt foreign.

Then—a buzz from outside.

A drone hovered by our window, a walkie-talkie dangling from it.

The guy in Unit 15 (call sign: Red Wolf) spoke first.

"Hey. Guess you’ve noticed—it’s just you and me left."

"I’ve got supplies. I can hold out alone, but if we need to move, I want in."

"I can handle myself in a fight."

No denying it—his skills would be an asset.

"We can trade supplies too," he added.

One glance at my parents, and the decision was made.

"You’re here because of the horde, aren’t you?" I asked.

A grunt of confirmation.

"That horde’s headed for Shelter No. 2."

My pulse spiked. Shelters existed?

"I spotted it on a long-range drone run. Non-official, packed with people—basically a zombie buffet."

"We might cross paths. We need to prep now."

Between monitoring drones and scouting, exhaustion weighed on us.

We struck a deal—parents on day shifts, Red Wolf and I on nights.

Rations tightened.

But the horde kept advancing, their ranks thinning as corpses collapsed—rotted or picked off by survivors.

Their movements defied logic.

One night, my hands shook so badly I could barely steer the drone.

Go north, I begged silently. Just go north.

Then—engine roars.

Four soldiers in camouflage, launching flares.

The horde turned.

All at once.

A soundless, grotesque pivot before charging.

The soldiers peeled away on motorcycles, leading the horde north.

Toward the distant boom of an explosion.