Bodies pressed against one another, their movements sluggish but constant. It looked like people had tried to flee when the outbreak started, only to get trapped in the narrow stairwell. The result was a jam of undead, all stuck in place, some wedged between the railing and the walls, others crushed beneath the weight of the crowd. Arms twitched, heads lolled, jaws snapped weakly.

  There was no way through.

  Hugo’s pulse pounded. He let the door shut as quietly as he could, then backed away. His only escape route was blocked.

  Panic clawed at his chest. He turned back toward the office floor, scanning the darkened space. He needed another way down. The elevators were out of the question—no power meant no movement. But what about the shaft?

  He turned down another hallway, eyes darting from door to door until he spotted the sign: Maintenance Access - Authorized Personnel Only.

  Bingo.

  He rushed forward, testing the handle. Locked.

  Hugo gritted his teeth and yanked the crowbar from his backpack. Wedge. Pull. Crack. The door gave after a few tugs, swinging open to reveal a cramped storage space filled with old equipment. A rusted mop bucket, empty cleaning solution bottles, and a supply cart blocked his way.

  He stepped inside, scanning quickly. Then he saw it—an access hatch marked Elevator Shaft.

  Hugo didn’t waste a second. He pushed the cart, gripping the handle of the hatch and giving it a hard tug. It didn’t budge. He repositioned himself, bracing his feet on the shelf below and yanked again. The metal groaned before giving way with a loud clang.

  The sound made his stomach lurch. He froze, listening.

  The groans of the zombies in the stairwell remained the same, but somewhere behind him, something shuffled. Slow. Heavy.

  He had seconds.

  Hugo swung himself up into the open hatch, scrambling onto the metal platform above. He pulled his legs in just as the sound of something crashing echoed behind him.

  Too close.

  He exhaled sharply and turned to the shaft. Darkness stretched below, the dim emergency lighting barely illuminating the depths. The cables hung taut, disappearing into the abyss.

  He had two choices: climb down or stay trapped.

  With a deep breath, he gripped the nearest support beam and lowered himself over the edge.

  The climb was slow, careful. His fingers ached from holding onto the rough metal, his legs trembling slightly from the tension. Each movement sent a faint creak through the shaft, making his heart pound harder.

  He descended past one floor. Then another.

  Then—snap.

  The section of metal railing he had been gripping suddenly gave way, rusted bolts snapping clean off.

  Hugo’s stomach lurched as he dropped.

  For a brief, terrifying moment, he was weightless.

  Then his hand shot out, catching onto one of the thick elevator cables. Pain flared through his palm, but he held on, body swinging violently before slamming into the side of the shaft.

  He barely bit back a grunt of pain.

  Panting, he glanced down.

  The elevator car was just below him, stuck between floors. He could make it.

  Bracing himself, he let go and dropped the last few feet, landing hard on the metal roof. His knees buckled, and for a second, he thought he’d roll right off, but he caught himself. He lay there, breathing heavily, his pulse a thunderous rhythm in his ears.

  Then, above him, a sound.

  Something was climbing down after him.

  Hugo’s eyes widened. He scrambled forward, searching for the emergency hatch on the elevator roof. His fingers found the latch, but it was rusted shut.

  “Come on, come on,” he hissed, yanking at it.

  A guttural growl echoed above. Then, the sound of something dropping.

  He didn’t look. He didn’t need to.

  With one last desperate tug, the hatch popped open. Hugo didn’t hesitate—he dropped inside, landing in a heap on the dusty elevator floor just as something heavy slammed onto the roof above him.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  He didn’t wait to see if it would break through. He scrambled to his feet and forced the elevator doors open with the crowbar. They groaned in protest before finally parting.

  The lobby stretched before him.

  He was on the ground floor.

  Without looking back, he sprinted forward, tearing through the office entrance and bursting onto the street.

  The moment fresh air hit him, he stumbled, gasping. His entire body ached. His hands were raw, his muscles burned, but he was alive.

  He turned just in time to see a single, gnarled hand clawing at the edge of the elevator roof, struggling to pull itself inside.

  He didn’t stick around to see if it succeeded.

  The sun had set, leaving the city cloaked in darkness. Hugo stood in the shadow of the office building, his breath heavy, his limbs aching. His usual route home was too exposed, too risky now that night had fallen. He needed another way back.

  Sticking to the alleys, he moved carefully, each step deliberate. The dark twisted the city into something unfamiliar. The broken glass on the ground reflected faint moonlight like scattered stars, and the buildings loomed taller, their shattered windows like empty eyes watching his every move.

  Then, in the distance, a sound.

  A faint scuff of movement.

  Hugo froze. He turned his head, listening. The city was never truly silent, not with the dead wandering its streets. But this sound was different. Closer. Controlled.

  A survivor?

  He crouched low, gripping the crowbar tightly as he pressed himself into the shadows. His heart pounded as he scanned the darkness, his breath shallow. Something—someone—was nearby. But where?

  A rustling noise came from behind a burned-out sedan. Hugo squinted, trying to make out movement in the dim light. His body tensed, ready to spring into action if necessary.

  Then, a growl.

  His blood turned cold as a shadowed figure shambled forward. More followed, their outlines barely visible against the ruined cityscape.

  Zombies.

  They were slow, but in the dark, they were unpredictable. He couldn’t afford a fight, not with his body already exhausted. Hugo took a deep breath and moved carefully, staying low, weaving between debris as he navigated the ruined landscape.

  He spotted an old overpass, its supports still intact despite the wear of time. A collapsed section of roadway had created a natural slope leading down into a narrow tunnel beneath it. It wasn’t part of his usual path, but it was better than open streets.

  He ducked into the tunnel, the air immediately cooling around him. The darkness was suffocating. Each step echoed, his own breathing too loud in the confined space. The ground was uneven, strewn with rubble and abandoned belongings. He stepped over a discarded backpack, resisting the urge to check it—his priority was getting home.

  Then, his foot hit something soft.

  A body.

  Hugo recoiled, gripping his crowbar as he backed away. The corpse didn’t move, but its presence sent a shiver down his spine. Someone else had been here recently. And they hadn’t made it out.

  He exhaled slowly and pressed forward, ignoring the tight knot forming in his stomach.

  The scent of decay hit him hard. He was near an abandoned checkpoint, the remains of a failed quarantine effort. The barriers were toppled, sandbags torn open, and scattered bullet casings gleamed in the faint light, a scene of chaos unfolded before him. Multiple police cars sat scattered, some doors left wide open, their lights long dead. Bodies littered the pavement, slumped over barriers and sprawled across the cracked asphalt. The smell of dried blood and rot lingered in the warm night air.

  Gunshot wounds. Every single body had been shot in the head.

  Hugo crouched behind a car, scanning the scene. Whoever had been here had made a stand, a desperate one. Spent shell casings glinted in the dim light. Some bodies wore police uniforms, others civilian clothing. The officers had fought, and they had lost.

  Slowly, he moved forward, careful not to step on anything that might make noise. He reached the first police car and peered inside. The seats were stained, the radio dead. The glove compartment hung open, already looted.

  He moved to the next car. More of the same—emptied out. But in the trunk of one cruiser, he found something useful: a half-full medical kit. Bandages, disinfectant, painkillers. He grabbed it all and stuffed it into his bag.

  Further down, a police officer’s body lay against the hood of a car, a shotgun still clutched in stiff fingers. The barrel was empty, and the extra shells on the officer’s belt were already gone. He carefully unclutched the gun from the dead body. Finally, a gun. It was too bad that he didn't have any ammo, but it was still a good find. He could maybe bluff his way out of a situation if he met some unsavory survivors out there.

  After some more inspection of the cars and bodies, he came to a conclusion.

  Someone had been here before him. Someone thorough.

  As he was leaving the scene, something shiny caught his eye. Under one of the cars that had crashed into a streetlight, there was something metallic. Maybe another gun? He crept closer, only to find an empty metal can. But to his surprise, right next to it, there was a small backpack. After pulling it out from under the wreckage, he unzipped it and looked inside. There were some water bottles, an energy drink, and a box of 9mm rounds.

  He took the ammo, knowing it might come in handy later, even without a gun for now, and stuffed the rest of the supplies into his bag.

  As he finished looting, a distant sound reached his ears.

  A shuffle. Then another.

  Something was moving in the darkness beyond the checkpoint.

  Hugo tensed, his grip tightening on the crowbar. He turned his head slowly, eyes scanning the shadows.

  Something was watching him.

  Hugo remained perfectly still, crouched behind a police cruiser, his fingers tightening around the crowbar. The noise had come from somewhere past the checkpoint, in the deeper shadows where the streetlights no longer reached. His breath was slow, controlled, barely making a sound.

  Another shuffle. Closer this time.

  Not a single groan. No dragging feet.

  This wasn’t a mindless corpse.

  His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he strained to listen. Whoever—or whatever—was out there was careful. Too careful.

  A survivor? The same one from earlier?

  He weighed his options. He could wait them out, try to slip away unnoticed. Or he could take the risk and investigate. If they were human, maybe he could learn something. But if they weren’t alone, if this was an ambush—

  A soft metallic clink.

  Hugo’s eyes snapped toward the sound. He saw a faint glint of metal shifting near the husk of a burned-out car. A shoe scraped against pavement. That was it. He had to move.

  With slow, deliberate movements, he ducked lower and started creeping backward, staying behind cover. He kept his pace steady, resisting the urge to bolt. His best chance was to slip away before whoever was out there realized he was aware of them.

  He was halfway past the last police car when something in the darkness shifted again—faster this time. A sharp breath. The faintest rustle of fabric.

  Then—

  A voice. Low, tense. “Don’t move.”

  Hugo froze, his blood running cold.

  His instincts screamed at him to run, but he forced himself to stay still. His eyes darted to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of the person speaking.

  Footsteps approached, slow and deliberate.

  Hugo tightened his grip on the crowbar.

  Then the figure stepped into view.

  A man. Tall, wearing a tattered hoodie and cargo pants. A rifle slung across his back, a handgun held steady in both hands, aimed directly at Hugo.

  “Drop the bag,” the man ordered, his voice rough but controlled. “Now.”

  Hugo’s jaw clenched. His mind raced, calculating his options. He could try to talk his way out. He could fight. Or he could run.

  The man took a step closer, his gun unwavering. “You deaf? I said—”

  A sound tore through the night.

  A scream—high-pitched, guttural, wrong.

  It wasn’t like the usual screams of the infected. It was layered, a shrieking, wailing noise that made Hugo’s skin crawl.

  The man stiffened, his eyes darting toward the darkness. Hugo saw it then, the flicker of genuine fear crossing his face.

  The sound came again—this time answered by another.

  Then another.

  Then dozens.

  The air filled with a chorus of unnatural screeches, echoing through the empty streets.

  From the shadows beyond the checkpoint, figures emerged—fast-moving, twisted things, their emaciated frames hunched forward, sprinting on all fours like feral beasts. Their limbs looked too long, their movements erratic and unnatural. Their skin was stretched tight over their bones, gray and mottled with patches of blackened veins. Some of them had exposed muscle and tendons, as if their flesh had begun rotting away in patches while the rest adapted—mutated. Their eyes burned with a faint, eerie glow.

  Not regular zombies.

  Something worse.

  Hugo’s stomach twisted in horror.

  The second the man’s focus shifted, Hugo swung the crowbar. It wasn’t a perfect hit, but it was enough—knocking the gun aside just as Hugo lunged forward.

  The man grunted in surprise, stumbling back, but Hugo didn’t stick around to finish the fight.

  He bolted.

  Gunfire erupted behind him. Short, controlled bursts. The man was fighting back, but it wouldn’t be enough.

  The creatures shrieked, their bodies moving in unnatural jerks, almost insect-like in their speed. They pounced—launching themselves forward with terrifying agility.

  Hugo sprinted past the last police car, weaving between wreckage, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The shrieks grew louder, closing in. He risked a glance over his shoulder—dozens of them, clawing over each other in a rabid frenzy, their elongated fingers curling into twisted claws.

  But they weren’t chasing him.

  They had swarmed the man instead.

  Hugo didn’t slow down, didn’t stop to look back. His only thought was to get as far away as possible before they turned their attention toward him.

  He pushed harder, his legs burning as he darted through an abandoned alleyway, weaving past rusting dumpsters and wrecked cars. The street ahead was clear. Maybe he’d gotten lucky—

  A screech.

  Close.

  Too close.

  Hugo’s stomach twisted as he realized his mistake.

  One of them had noticed him.