Isko knelt on the cold, blood-slicked ground, cradling Lydia’s lifeless body as if she might still wake up, his face streaked with grief and shock. Around him, the world was a relentless, shrieking nightmare—screams tore through the air, gunshots echoed, and the infected pushed closer, their bloodshot eyes and foaming mouths fixed on anything that moved. But for Isko, all that noise was muted, drowned out by his own heartbeat as he held Lydia to his chest, rocking her gently, as if she could still feel his touch.

Nearby, Elaine was clutching Lucia tightly, her hands covering the little girl’s eyes. She was barely holding back tears of her own as she fought to keep Lucia from seeing the unimaginable—her mother lying dead in her father’s arms. The sense of betrayal and fear weighed heavily on her as she remembered Rio’s panicked retreat, leaving them all behind in the chaos. She could still see him turning to flee, his face set, his gaze meeting hers for a fleeting second before he disappeared into the stampede. She felt her heart sink, but there was no time for those feelings now—not with gunfire raining down indiscriminately, with bodies dropping all around them.

Just then, Maxine and Florence slipped through the chaos toward her, crouching low to avoid drawing attention.

“Hey, what… what happened here?” Maxine’s voice was tight with horror as she took in the scene, her eyes lingering on Lucia, whose small frame trembled in Elaine’s arms, and Isko, holding Lydia’s lifeless body.

“They shot… they shot Miss Lydia. Right in front of her daughter…” Elaine’s voice shook, her words barely audible over the relentless gunfire and screams. The shock was settling in, pressing down on her, each word like a weight on her chest.

Florence’s face twisted with anger. “In front of the kid? And that guy who was with you—the one with the windbreaker—he just… ran?” He scanned the scene, his eyes narrowing as if looking for Rio would bring some explanation, some reason for his abandonment.

Elaine couldn’t bring herself to answer, her gaze blank and unfocused as she stared into the chaos, clinging to Lucia, who was too stunned to cry. The little girl clutched her stuffed bunny, Bun-Bun, so tightly that its ears were fraying at the seams.

Maxine glanced over her shoulder at the police checkpoint, where officers were firing into the crowd with cold, almost mechanical precision. The infected were closing in, but the police weren’t just targeting them. They were shooting anyone who got too close—innocent evacuees, mothers with children, even the elderly who stumbled in the frenzy. “We can’t stay here like this. They’re killing everyone, and those infected are about to close in on us,” Maxine said urgently, pulling at Elaine’s arm. “We have to get that little girl out of here.”

Elaine looked at Isko, her heart wrenching at the sight of him, his face buried in Lydia’s blood-streaked hair. “I know… but I can’t just leave him. She’s already lost her mom. If we go now… what if he never follows?”

“We won’t survive if we don’t move,” Maxine urged. She turned to Florence, nodding for her to help Elaine. “Look after them for a sec, okay? I’ll go talk to him.”

Florence knelt beside Elaine, one hand on Lucia’s head, smoothing down her tangled hair. “Shh… it’s going to be okay,” he whispered, though his voice shook. His other hand clutched her shears tightly, his knuckles white. “I know you’re scared, sweetheart. I’m so, so sorry,” he murmured, his own eyes wet as he kept a watchful eye on the infected advancing through the crowd.

Maxine moved slowly towards Isko, her footsteps muffled by the thick pools of blood staining the ground. She tried to swallow her revulsion as she took in the sight of Lydia’s wound—a ragged, brutal gunshot that had taken everything from her in a split second. The blood surrounding them had transformed the asphalt into a grotesque mosaic of red and dark brown, the faint metallic scent of it clawing at her throat and making her stomach churn.

She crouched beside Isko, her heart racing as she took in his blank expression, his eyes lost in a haze of despair. “Sir, we have to go,” Maxine urged, her voice trembling but urgent, slicing through the cacophony of screams and gunfire. She glanced at Lucia, who was huddled against Elaine, the weight of loss suffocating the child. “Your daughter isn’t safe here. Look at her—if we don’t leave now, she could be next—”

In that moment, Isko’s hand moved instinctively to his leg, fingers wrapping around something cold and hard. With a sudden, jerking motion, he pulled out a revolver. Maxine’s breath hitched as he leveled it at her, his voice cracking under the weight of grief and fury. “Shut up! Putang ina, I’m not… I’m not losing her, too!”

“Alright, alright—wrong choice of words,” Maxine murmured, raising her hands slowly and backing off. Her eyes never left the gun. “But, Isko, if you’re going to point that, aim it where it’ll protect your daughter, okay? Not at me.”

Isko’s hand trembled, the revolver heavy with the grief and rage he barely held back. He glanced at Lydia’s body, her lifeless form a brutal reminder of what had been stolen from him. Emotions warred within him—anger, love, despair, and a sickening feeling of helplessness. He swung the gun away from Maxine, the barrel now pointed at the police officer who had taken his wife’s life.

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“She… she didn’t deserve this,” he whispered, his voice barely rising above the chaos surrounding them. “None of us did. She was just… she was just trying to keep us safe. And they took her from me.” Each word felt like a dagger, twisting in his chest, amplifying the ache of loss that consumed him.

But as he stared down the sights, his hands began to shake. He tried to steady himself, to pull the trigger, but something held him back. Would Lydia want this? Would killing him bring his wife peace? What would her daughter think if she saw his father kill a person—would she love him the same or would she be scared of him? The questions spun in his mind, twisting the anger into confusion, and still his finger lingered, paralyzed.

Meanwhile, Elaine’s grip on Lucia tightened as a new horror emerged from the edge of the crowd—an infected, wild-eyed and feral, saliva dripping from its mouth as it muttered furious, incoherent words. It staggered toward them, arms outstretched. Florence, hearing the threat, spun around, heart hammering as he forced himself to stand his ground. The infected lunged, and with a shout, he shoved it back, plunging his shears into its abdomen again and again until it crumpled, twitching, at his feet.

“Hey, hurry! More of them are coming!” Florence shouted, voice tinged with desperation as he pulled the shears free, panting, his hands sticky with blood.

At that moment, the police officer, frenzied by the waves of evacuees swarming him with makeshift weapons and the approaching infected, swung his rifle erratically, firing into the mass of bodies without pause. But then, through the smoky chaos, he noticed the glint of metal—Isko’s revolver aimed squarely at him. Eyes wide with alarm, the officer immediately turned, redirecting his aim.

“No, no, no!” Maxine’s voice cut out as she dropped to the ground, scrambling for cover as the officer opened fire. The deafening sound of gunshots cracked through the night, each one sharp and unforgiving. Isko staggered back as the first bullet struck him square in the chest, his body jerking as more shots followed, tearing through him with brutal force. The impact was overwhelming, and he staggered but managed to pull the trigger, his own shots ringing out into the night, hitting the officer in the arm.

“Fuck!” Maxine screamed, covering her ears and crawling across the asphalt, her heart pounding as stray bullets whizzed past her head, ripping into the air around her.

The officer clutched his injured arm, pain etched across his face as he dropped his rifle, momentarily distracted by his wound. Though the bulletproof vest had stopped most of Isko’s shots, one had found its mark, biting into the exposed flesh of his arm. He cursed, gritting his teeth as he struggled to lift his rifle again, his gaze seething as he turned back toward the huddled group.

The atmosphere turned unbearably thick as the life faded from Isko’s eyes. In his final, trembling breaths, his fingers traced Lydia's hair, a last, desperate attempt to feel her warmth. "Lucia..." His gaze drifted to Lucia in Elaine's arms, his voice now a rasp, barely above a whisper. He didn’t even have the strength to say goodbye. He fell still, joining Lydia in death on the cold asphalt, while Elaine watched in anguish, helplessly clutching a sobbing Lucia.

“Sir Isko… no… Miss Lydia, please, don’t leave her. Don’t leave Lucia alone,” she whispered, voice choked. Tears blurred her vision, each one falling for the little girl now robbed of both her parents. “She needs you.” The pain was palpable in her voice, her hands wet with Lucia’s desperate sobs as she held the girl tighter, willing her not to see.

But Lucia slipped from her grip, leaving her stuffed rabbit behind on the road, her wet palms escaping Elaine’s grasp as she stumbled forward, eyes locked on her parents lying motionless in their blood. She didn’t fully understand—but she knew enough. She knew that something was terribly wrong.

“Lucia, no!” Elaine’s voice cracked as she lunged forward, reaching, but Lucia was already there.

“No, stop her!” Florence shouted, rushing after her. Maxine, returning just in time, scrambled to block the way, but it was too late.

“Papa! Mama!” Lucia’s voice was a heart-wrenching cry as she fell beside her parents, her tiny arms wrapping around them, oblivious to the blood staining her hands, her cheeks. She clung to their bodies, desperate, uncomprehending, her sobs lost in the uproar around them.

The officer who had shot Isko, now nursing his bleeding arm, looked up to see the girl huddled over her parents. For a moment, something broke in him. This wasn’t what he had signed up for; he was a man of duty, not cruelty. But the order was clear—and he had gone too far to turn back.

“What… what have I done…” His voice shook as he raised his rifle, his gaze wavering as he trained it on Lucia. His fingers trembled on the trigger, guilt clawing at him. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

“Lucia! Get away from there!” Elaine’s scream tore through the air as she saw what was happening. Her feet moved instinctively, but she knew she wouldn’t reach in time.

Just as the officer’s finger tightened on the trigger, an arm shot out, clamping around his neck. Before he could react, a flash of silver pressed into his lower back. The cold blade of a knife plunged into his body. Stunned, he jerked forward, his finger pulling the trigger in wild spasms. A stray bullet whizzed past Lucia, grazing her cheek, leaving a raw line of red.

Gasping in shock, the officer twisted, his face a mask of disbelief as he struggled. But the assailant was relentless. The attacker yanked the blade free and drove it into the officer’s neck, again and again, until blood spurted, soaking the attacker’s sleeve, painting the gray windbreaker in a dark, sticky sheen. The officer’s knees buckled, his mouth foaming with blood, wet and choking, as he collapsed forward, life draining from his eyes.

When the officer finally fell, Maxine, Elaine, and Florence stared, frozen in horrified disbelief. The figure behind him, standing tall in the dark, was drenched in blood—his own face smeared crimson, his eyes hollow, empty.

It was Rio.

“Rio…” Elaine’s voice quivered, barely audible, as she took in the scene. The composed, level-headed man she thought she knew was gone. In his place stood someone haunted, someone consumed by violence and exhaustion, someone willing to kill non-infected people to survive.