As the group rushed into the shop, relief washed over them, but it was short-lived. The atmosphere inside was thick with tension, amplified by the macabre décor—taxidermy animals lined the walls, their bulging eyes and sharp teeth almost seemed alive in the dim light. Wolves, bears, and reptiles hung like trophies, their lifeless stares menacing, giving off an eerie sense that they were still hunting. Every corner was a display of death. Steve, limping on his crutches, jumped as his back pressed against the mounted head of an alligator. His heart raced when he felt the jagged teeth pierce his skin of his pointy finger, drawing blood. He quickly placed his bleeding finger into his mouth, silencing his pain, but a slow drip of blood marked his trail.

The man, standing before them with a shotgun, looked even more dangerous than the taxidermized beasts. His eyes darted between each member of the group, the gun trembling in his hands, ready to fire at the slightest provocation. His sweaty brow and shaky hands were signs of a man on the brink, driven mad by his paranoia. Paris, sensing the rising tension, raised her hands, pressing them together in a pleading gesture. "We thank you for helping us, sir, please we just need a moment, just a moment to rest" she said softly, but it seemed to agitate him more. His finger hovered over the trigger, and his gaze hardened as he waved the gun between them all. “Are you here to take from me?” Hunter said, while becoming even more tense.

"We're not here to rob you," Eli said, stepping forward cautiously. "We're just passing through."

The man’s eyes flickered with suspicion, while asking the group once again. "Passing through? Are you here to take what's mine? To rob me?" His voice cracked with madness. The group looked at one another, confused.

Steve, despite his fear, managed a weak smile. "Man, does it look like I can rob anyone?" He gestured toward his broken leg with a sarcastic chuckle, hoping to lighten the mood, but the man was unmoved.

"What happened to him?" the man asked, pointing the gun directly at Steve.

Steve swallowed hard, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "I—I fell. Tried to escape a ZedHead on a ladder. It came crashing down on me."

"ZedHead?" The man’s expression twisted with confusion and suspicion. His grip on the trigger tightened as he took a step closer.

Janice, sensing the situation was about to spiral out of control, stepped between Steve and the barrel of the shotgun. "Please," she begged, her voice calm but firm. "You don’t have to do this. We’re not your enemy." The man did not flinch.

Martha, desperate to de-escalate the situation, took a bold step forward. "Young man, please. Help us. We're just trying to survive, just like you." Her voice quivered with urgency. "Think of your mother. Would she want this?"

At the mention of his mother, something in the man's demeanor cracked. His gun slowly lowered, and his face contorted with pain. Tears began streaming down his face. Martha took another step closer and gently placed her hand on his shoulder. "It's okay," she whispered. The man, overwhelmed with emotion, collapsed into her embrace, sobbing into her shoulder like a lost child.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The group exchanged glances, each one silently relieved that the gun was no longer pointed at them. Martha continued to pat his back as he wept, his body shaking with grief. It felt like hours passed, but in reality, it was only a few minutes. When the man finally pulled back, wiping his tear-streaked face on his dirty tank top, he looked at them with apologetic eyes.

"I’m sorry," he choked out, still sniffling. "I—I don’t trust anyone. My parents were murdered when this all started. I couldn’t save them."

Paris's heart ached for him. She knew the weight of guilt and loss. They all did. The door rattled behind them as ZedHeads began to pound against it, groaning and clawing for entry. The group tensed, but the man seemed confident. "They won’t get through that door," he muttered, wiping his nose.

Steve, ever the opportunist, spotted a gleaming spear displayed in the corner. His eyes widened, and he limped over with an awkward enthusiasm. "Whoa! Is that a—"

The man managed a smile, the first sign of humanity they’d seen from him. "Go ahead. Take a look." The names Hunter, by the way.”

Steve, grinning like a child, grabbed the spear and twirled it around, his crutches discarded on the floor. "Man, this thing is awesome!" he exclaimed, momentarily forgetting the world outside.

Hunter glanced back at him and chuckled. "Is he always like that?" he asked, shaking his head.

Janice smiled, a rare moment of levity. "Yeah, that’s our Steve."

Paris, watching the exchange, felt a warmth spread through her. Despite everything, they were becoming more than survivors—they were becoming a family. She smiled softly at the thought.

Steve’s laughter died down as the man turned back to the group, his face growing somber again. “My parents... they owned this shop. We were supposed to lock it up, get out of town. But before we could, someone broke in. They... they killed my mom and dad, I just missed it by minutes."

Hunter’s voice cracked as the memories flooded back. "I was too late. I couldn’t stop him." His fists clenched, the knuckles turning white.

Janice, always the nurturing soul, placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

Hunter looked away, the pain still fresh, but before he could respond, Jake, suddenly stiffened. He leaned in toward Eli and Travis, whispering, "Do you hear that?"

Both men stopped talking, their faces scrunched in concentration. There it was again—a soft scratching sound, coming from the back of the shop. Jake’s face paled. It was growing louder, more insistent.

Without a word, Jake moved toward the source of the noise, his ears honing in on the sound. The group continued to talk to Hunter, oblivious to the growing danger. As Jake reached the door at the far end of the shop, the scratching turned into a low groan, a sickening sound that sent a chill through his bones.

He pressed his ear against the door. Groans. Clawing. Something—or someone—was behind it.

Meanwhile, in the front of the shop, Hunter, still lost in thought, muttered, "The military... they lied to us. They’re not here to help."

Janice’s head snapped up. "What do you mean?" “My family is with them.”

Hunter looked at her, his eyes filled with fear. "Don’t trust them. Don’t go to their camps. They’re hiding something."

Paris’s blood ran cold. She had heard those words before—from Dr. Devo. But before she could ask what he meant; Hunter’s head jerked toward the back of the shop. "Where’s that other guy that was with you all, and where’s Steve?" he asked, panic creeping into his voice.

What is behind that door? Why is Hunter warning them about the military? And will they ever get the answers they need? The group is on the edge of a revelation, but danger is clawing at their heels... quite literally.