We only heard gunshots in the morning when we saw on the old TV the different broadcasts where the Yanquis and our allies went up in flames. If the bombs were to kill each other or to stop these things, nobody knows. And we ran where we could run. We had to get out of our homes, we escaped north… and we lost mom. Alone, we got onto public transportation and the rest is history.

We ran where we could run, as fast as we are running now. And it wasn’t fast enough.

I feel the vibrations. Soda is next to me.

My breath hitches, my heart pumps blood so hard I swear I can hear it coursing through my veins despite the noise. My pupils dilate rapidly. Our bodies adjust to running and to seeing in the dark. The streets that are in shambles are no match for our adrenaline, for our steps.

The vibrations arise from my feet to my head, my intuition sharpens like it never has. Even in this chaos, I can be sure. And if I'm wrong, I have a bullet for my brother at least. There are fewer coming from the south, thank God.

I lead Soda. Most likely we are going to die. Fewer steps seem to come from the south, but they come from everywhere. It is an opportunity, no matter how small, we have to take it.

What's the point? Shut the fuck up.

We run as fast as our bodies will let us, our school backpacks with supplies hitting our backs, rifle in my hands, side by side.

Soda moves his little feet.

What's the point? My brother has to live, that’s the fucking point.

The world moves up and down. I look over my shoulder. The light of the moon and stars lets me see how from the buildings around us hundreds of monsters are falling, ruthless now that they have heard a great noise. They smash glass, break balconies. Their bodies fall to the ground in a thunderous roar, they bounce and hit the ground again. Some remain motionless forever, they fucked up their brains, others after paralysis rise, broken, arms in odd positions, bones protruding from their legs.

And their bones hide in their flesh again. From the tips of these split, cracked, separated flesh move things that look like worms seeking to touch the heads of other worms on the other sides of the cracks. When these revolting worms touch their heads, they do not separate, and so on, until all the tissue is united. Arms rattle, bones creak as they settle, a cacophony of a thousand things that were once people clanking their hard parts together to the sound of the infernal march. They return to their position as if nothing has happened to them, their limbs functional once more. Their deformed skulls rearrange, their facial features human again, but no longer alive, not dead either, with some blood and uncontrollable silent rage, or is it pain?

If we had taken a second longer, if we had stumbled in these cracks, if we could not run as fast as we do, if there were no darkness to aid us, we would be dead. Those things barely miss their encounter with us by a matter of seconds.

Up ahead, movement is revealed as if the darkness itself is fluctuating in the street. Countless bodies moving, heading from the south to us, to meet us, to tear us apart and devour even our bones.

A horde, there must be hundreds.

Good, I was not wrong then. Fewer were coming from the south. Because elsewhere there are thousands, hundreds of thousands.

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

“Right, Soda!”

In this rumbling, in this thunder, in this darkness, in this symphony of broken glass and bodies exploding inside and bones breaking, my voice is drowned out, but it reaches my brother's ears.

We run in that direction, diagonally to gain time and keep facing south. There is no horde on this other street. Have the others seen us? Are they behind us? No time to see now, for there is one ahead.

Moonlight and starlight enhance his figure. He looks like a normal man, in his work clothes, a... power company employee, a municipal one. Earning a living, like anyone else.

He made a living when he had a life. This now, it's not life. It's not death either.

Why stay here and not follow the noise? Is he… trying to fix the power lines?

It sees us. It directs its silent anger towards us, runs like an athlete. Any hope I had of humanity left in him vanishes.

When they spot a person, they run like athletes, still uncanny, but like athletes, like those from the old Olympics that were stopped when I was a little child. Its steps like jumps, one foot, then the other. Several meters decrease for every second.

The rifle is already loaded, without the safety. Just like mom taught me. Leaning on the shoulder, feet at shoulder width. Left hand on the forestock, elbow down. Right hand on the handle, elbow slightly out. From a distance, I don't hit shit standing like that, more so in this darkness. I blink and the monster is in front of me, it covers the moon, part of the stars.

I shoot where it has the most mass, a small flash, the energy hits my shoulder.

Its momentum keeps up, not its balance. Soda pulls me, I jump to the side, it passes me by. It's because of Soda's pull that the thing doesn't run me over, it helped me trigger a reflex. But it's not over yet.

It squirms, it's in silent pain, it wants to get up. I turn around, fire again. More energy in my shoulder.

But the rumbling is more deafening than these shots.

It's not going to die, that which is neither dead nor alive. But it stays still, and that's all I need. If it moves now, if it moves its arms, it can break my legs. I get as close as I can, aim for the head, if I were a better shot I'd do it from a distance.

It flails its arms. I shoot. Terrible pain floods my feet, but they are not broken. Wounded they lose strength, then. Now I know.

And it doesn't move anymore. The undead, the monsters, can die again. My mother proved it with two revolver bullets saving my life, her last action in this world.

The hole in its head smells terrible. A mixture of burnt flesh and raw meat.

I have two bullets left. There is a horde on this street in front at a great distance, the fluctuating darkness gives it away. But we know how fast they move.

Soda yanks me up, my feet on the ground again, we run, we continue on our way, side by side. We need to get there, to that big place where we can hide.

The horde is much closer, much faster than we expected.

But we make it in time. We have the big place, the supermarket on our left. We go through the parking with few cars, we pass the destroyed glass doors, more hordes are coming from the side streets everywhere, we have no choice. The repellent white color of the place strikes the eye despite the darkness. We pass through the cash registers, we pass through the hunting section barely lit by the night light outside on our right.

The earthquake echoes all around us. Thousands of shadows interrupt the moonlight that barely enters the place.

We run down these aisles in almost complete blackness, our squeaking footsteps barely audible from the shaking, we stumble to where there is a pile of sweet bread, offers for Christmas impossible to buy.

That's it! It's the little stalls where the delicacy is printed on cardboard adorning the surroundings of a small table. It's hollow at the bottom, I lift the cardboard, Soda feels his way in, then he holds it from the inside and I get in.

We put the cardboard back in place again, coating ourselves in even more darkness. A window bursts, a monster runs through the corridors, the barely audible squeaking gives it away.

And it stumbles into our hiding place.

The dim light invades the place from the side, cardboard lifted by the movement. I see its feet, its hips, I see it arch a little, I can almost see its face… and it continues on its way. The cardboard and the little table, wobbling with us underneath, finally return to their place after a great swaying.

I hug Soda with one arm.

With my body on the ground, the vibrations of the floor become more confusing, they take my breath away, I arch my chest to breathe. I can't distinguish noises anymore, everything is mixed up. I don't know if the monsters are inside passing next to us, outside in the streets, on the ceiling, or even underground.

After counting to fifteen thousand, the tremor passes.

We... are still breathing.