The house was deathly silent, save for the soft patter of blood dripping from their clothes and the distant moan of ZedHeads outside. Inside the cramped living room, the group huddled together, hearts pounding in their chests. Each breath felt like it was borrowed, stolen from the same dead air that filled the house. Hunter leaned against the wall, a haunted look in his eyes. The bite on his side throbbed like a brand, but no one dared speak of it.

“Board up the windows,” Eli muttered, his voice barely breaking the tension.

Travis immediately grabbed the remnants of a shattered door, his fingers trembling as he tried to hammer it over the busted window. Each bang of the hammer felt like it would call the dead. Martha shoved a small size cabinet against the back door, her face set in grim determination, but even she could feel the gnawing dread in her gut.

Hunter, standing motionless by the wall, was no longer the man they met. His eyes darted around the room, as if searching for something—maybe salvation, maybe a final escape. Paris couldn’t look at him without feeling the weight of what was coming. Every glance toward his wound was a reminder of how much time they didn’t have.

"Hey... you alright?" Jake asked, though his voice was thin, uncertain. His machete still dripped with ZedHead blood, a cold reminder of how close they’d all come to dying just minutes ago.

Hunter didn’t answer. His gaze lingered on the boarded-up window, lips twitching as if forming words he couldn’t bear to say. He pressed a hand over the festering bite, sweat dripping down his forehead. His breathing grew shallow, labored, and he swallowed hard. The room felt smaller with each passing second.

Paris stepped closer, trying to keep her own voice steady. “Hunter… we need you with us. Can you make it?”

His eyes flickered toward her, but there was something missing. The man whom they met back in the shop was already starting to slip. He didn’t answer, just stared down at his shaking hands.

“I think we should keep moving,” Steve blurted, fear lacing his words. He had never been one for heroics, but now his voice quivered with desperation. “If we wait too long, the ZedHeads will surround us.”

Eli shook his head. “We need rest. We can’t outrun them like this. Not again.”

But the truth hung between them, thick as the rot in the air: They weren’t just fighting the dead anymore. They were fighting the clock ticking down on Hunter.

A loud thud rattled the door. Everyone froze. The ZedHeads were at the doorstep now, scratching, scraping, hungry.

"How long before they break through?" Janice whispered; her hand white-knuckled around her knife.

"Not long enough," Paris muttered, checking her crossbow. “We’re out of time.”

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Hunter stirred then, his eyes glassy and distant. He lurched away from the wall; his movements sluggish, unnatural. It was the bite; they all knew it. He was burning from the inside, his mind cracking under the fever.

His voice, when it came, was hoarse, hollow. “We have to get out of here. I… I know a way.”

Paris stepped forward. “Hunter, you can barely stand.”

“I’ll lead you,” he rasped, wiping sweat from his brow. His voice was broken, his words barely more than a whisper, but there was a finality in them, like the dying echoes of something long lost. “We head for the camp. I know the route.”

Nobody moved. Nobody wanted to admit that Hunter’s time was running out. His skin was paling, his hands trembling more violently now. The infection was spreading faster than any of them had expected.

The group shared a look—no one said it aloud, but they all knew what had to happen if Hunter turned before they reached safety.

"Lead the way then," Eli finally said, gripping his shotgun tighter. He didn’t look Hunter in the eye.

The group gathered their weapons, hearts heavy and limbs aching. The air felt thick with the stench of decay, their breaths shallow as they prepared to step back into the nightmare outside.

Hunter led them through the quiet streets, his steps faltering but determined. The town had become a graveyard—shattered homes, overturned cars, the wreckage of what had once been life now an open tomb. ZedHeads lurched in the shadows, their groans growing louder with each block.

As they neared the outskirts of town, Hunter stumbled, his legs buckling beneath him. Paris rushed to his side, trying to steady him, but his skin was cold and slick with sweat.

“Hunter,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “We’re almost there, hang on.”

But Hunter’s eyes were glazing over, the infection racing through his veins. His breathing became ragged, uneven, like he was drowning on dry land.

They reached the edge of the town, where the road stretched out into the woods—a path that led to the military camp. It was supposed to be safety. But for Hunter, it was too late.

Suddenly, lights cut through the trees, blinding them. The roar of engines filled the air as military trucks came barreling down the road, tires screeching to a halt. Soldiers spilled out, their weapons trained on the group.

One of them stepped forward, his face hardening as he spotted Hunter. “Well, look who it is,” he sneered, lowering his gun. “Thought you’d run off for good.”

Hunter, struggling to stay upright, lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot, his face a mask of pain. “I tried…” His words were barely audible.

The soldier’s expression shifted, realization dawning as he noticed the bite on Hunter’s side. He stepped back, his voice sharp with authority. “He’s turning! Get back!”

Paris’s heart dropped. She moved to stand beside Hunter, but before she could reach him, the soldier raised his weapon and fired.

The gunshot echoed through the trees, cutting through the night. Hunter’s body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

A heavy silence fell over the group. Paris couldn’t tear her eyes away from Hunter’s still form. He had led them this far, and now he was gone, just like that.

The soldier lowered his rifle, his voice cold. “Let’s go. We’ll take you to the camp.”

Eli stared at the soldier, anger simmering beneath his calm exterior. “You didn’t have to do that,” he growled.

The soldier shrugged. “He was gone the moment he got bit. You know that.”

They had no choice but to follow. Hunter was gone, and now they were at the mercy of the military.

As they were herded into the trucks, Paris cast one last glance at Hunter’s body lying in the dirt, a hollow pit forming in her chest. They were alive—for now—but at what cost?

The truck doors slammed shut, and the convoy roared to life, speeding off into the darkness. Hunter’s sacrifice would not be forgotten, but as they drove toward the camp, one question burned in their minds: What kind of salvation awaited them there?