Dean stood in silence, staring at Malcom and John—two human parasites posing as leaders. The knife in his hand felt heavier than usual. He imagined it sliding across their throats, clean and fast. It would be easy. One stroke for each.
But easy was too kind.
He lowered the blade, sighing. Then turned to Peter.
"If you were given the chance… what would you do?"
Peter looked hollow, his shoulders slumped like a man carrying his own grave on his back. "I don't know what you want from me," he muttered. "I just want things to go back. Before the outbreak. Before the betrayal. But… it's too late now."
Dean studied him for a moment, then gave a slight nod.
He looked at Marcus and Robert, who had been watching silently from the edge of the room. One sharp nod from Dean, and they gathered close, forming a tight circle.
Marcus was the first to speak, fury barely contained. "We should kill them. All of them. Those bastards out there aren't soldiers. They're cowards. Traitors. Worthless runaways who spit on their oath."
Robert nodded. "They're beyond saving."
Dean kept his voice low. Calm. Focused. "I planned it the moment they walked in. This ends tonight."
There was no hesitation in his tone—no doubt. This wasn't revenge. This was justice.
Then, Dean turned back to Peter. He pulled out his knife and cut the ropes binding him. "You're free. I need you to go out there and call Bruce and Will. Just them. Tell them to meet you in the garage. Once they're inside—whatever happens, whatever they hear—they stay put."
Peter's expression shifted. He wasn't shocked. He knew what was coming.
Peter nodded solemnly. "Understood."
He exited through the main gate. The soldiers outside barely paid him any attention, too busy smoking or chatting in their little cliques. He scanned the yard and found them—Bruce and Will—sitting near a rusted Humvee, half-disassembled.
"Bruce. Will."
Both turned to him. "Pete?" Bruce asked, raising a brow. "What's up?"
Peter walked up quickly, glancing around. "Come with me. Now."
Will squinted. "Where?"
Peter stopped. His eyes locked with Bruce's. "You trust me, right? Like brothers?"
Bruce nodded slowly. "Of course."
"Then follow me. To the garage. Don't ask questions."
Will hesitated. "What the hell is this about?"
Peter took a deep breath. "Everyone's going to be massacred."
Both Bruce and Will froze. "What?! What do you mean massacred?" Bruce demanded.
Peter didn't blink. "The leader here—Dean. He knows everything. I told him everything. What Malcom and John did. What's really been going on."
Bruce clenched his jaw. Will looked pale.
"I see," Bruce muttered. "It was only a matter of time."
They followed Peter inside. By the time they entered the garage, Sister Maria was already there, setting down bowls of hot broth on a table. A few crates of rationed bread, canned beans, and dried fruits sat beside a makeshift stew pot warmed by a salvaged burner. The scent of garlic and onion filled the air—a rare comfort in these times.
They sat, began to eat, trying to calm the growing anxiety in their chests.
Then the world exploded.
BANG! BANG! BRRTT-BRRTT!
The garage shook with the echoes of gunfire and explosions. Screams. Crashes. Then silence. Then more.
Bruce, Will, and Peter sat frozen, bowls halfway to their mouths, their hands trembling, chewing forcefully through the stew as if it were ash.
Sister Maria simply closed her eyes and prayed.
Twenty Minutes Earlier
Dean stood before the teens and young adults who had survived with him through fire and blood. They looked up at him—some with fear, others with steely eyes. All of them trusted him.
"This won't be easy," Dean said. "We're not fighting the infected tonight. We're fighting humans. Armed ones. Some of them might hesitate. Some of them might not. If anyone here can't go through with this, go back to the bunker now."
No one moved.
Dean smiled—dark, proud.
"Alright. Here's the plan."
He pointed to a crude drawing on the table.
"We'll strike from two sides. Robert, you'll take the south flank, come in through the tool shed. Marcus, the north, behind the vehicle yard. We wait for my signal—the outer lights will go out. That's when we strike."
"Focus on their rifles first. They get a chance to return fire, we're screwed. Silencers first, bombs after. Once they're scattered, push in, clear the yard. No survivors outside Bruce and Will."
They nodded.
"Kill fast. Kill clean. Leave no loose ends."
Back to the Present
The blood was still wet on Dean's shirt when he returned.
Malcom and John were on their knees, hands bound, faces pale. Screaming could still be heard in the distance. Distant, dying.
Dean knelt in front of them, eyes wild with something primal. Malcom tried to speak, but Dean cut him off with a laugh.
"Oh no, no… Not yet."
He leaned in, inches from Malcom's face.
"I'm not giving you an easy death after everything you've done. After the girls you hurt. After the people you abandoned. After the friends you betrayed."
John whimpered. "We were just trying to survive…"
Dean smiled—wide and twisted. "So am I. But I don't hurt people to do it."
He stood.
"You're going to wish I'd slit your throats."
The evil grin that spread across Dean's face chilled even the Marcus standing guard nearby.
The sun began to rise, casting a bloody hue over the fortress grounds. The air was thick with gunpowder and smoke, and the scent of burnt flesh and spilled blood lingered like a haunting curse. The massacre was done. Silence reigned.
In the garage, Peter sat with Bruce and Will, staring blankly at the table. The bowls of stew had gone cold. Sister Maria moved quietly between them, placing a blanket over Peter's shoulders, whispering prayers under her breath. None of them spoke—they didn't need to. The gunfire had said everything.
Then, the metal door creaked open.
Dean walked in, his boots soaked with blood up to the ankles. His shirt was torn, cut in places, soaked in red. A gash ran along his cheek, but he didn't even seem to notice. His eyes scanned the room, then fell on Peter.
"It's done," he said.
Peter looked up. Bruce and Will followed.
"Where are the others?" asked Bruce.
"Dead," Dean answered bluntly. "Every last one."
No one responded. Will clenched his fists. Peter just nodded.
Dean turned to Peter, walking closer. "Now it's time to deal with the last two."
Peter swallowed hard. "What are you going to do to them?"
Dean didn't blink. "That depends on you."
Peter looked at Bruce and Will. Then back to Dean. "I don't want to kill them."
Dean's brow raised.
"I want them to suffer."
---
Back in the prison room
Malcom and John were no longer arrogant. Their faces were bruised, bloodied from being thrown to the concrete floor and kicked around like the cowards they were. They were tied to steel poles, stripped of their weapons, uniforms stained with blood and piss.
Dean entered first, dragging a chair. He slammed it down, sat, and stared at them.
"You like controlling people?" he said softly. "You like hurting women? Sending civilians out to die while you sit on your fat asses pretending to be soldiers?"
Neither answered.
Peter followed in behind, holding a battered duffel bag. Inside, a rusted wrench, a hammer, and a roll of barbed wire. Bruce and Will stood at the door, silent. Watching.
Dean leaned forward. "Tell me, Pete. What do you want to do first?"
Peter opened the bag and pulled out the wrench. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from decades of repressed rage bubbling to the surface.
He knelt down in front of Malcom. "You remember Carl?" he asked, voice low and steady.
Malcom said nothing.
Peter lifted the wrench—and brought it down on Malcom's knee. A sickening CRACK echoed through the room, followed by a scream that made the birds flee the trees outside.
"One for Carl," Peter said, eyes wet but unwavering.
He turned to John.
"One for my brother."
Another CRACK.
Dean stood and walked to the back, leaving Peter alone in the room with them. Before he exited, he paused by Bruce and Will.
"When he's done," he said, "clean up the bodies. And bury what's left."
Bruce nodded.
Dean walked out into the morning air, took a long breath, and looked at the horizon. The sun was rising higher now—casting light over the blood-soaked ground of the fortress.