The parking garage was a tomb, its concrete walls muffling the storm's rage but amplifying every drip, every scrape.
Ethan Kane crouched behind the rusted sedan, the crowbar slick in his palm, his breath fogging in the damp chill.
The toxic rain hammered outside, a relentless drumbeat that drowned out the city's usual groans.
But the scream he'd heard—human, desperate—still echoed in his mind, pulling him toward danger he knew better than to chase.
He tightened his grip, cursing the part of him that couldn't walk away.
The gunfire came again, closer now, a staccato burst from the street beyond the garage's entrance.
Three shots, precise, followed by a woman's voice, sharp and commanding: "Move, damn it!"
Ethan edged toward the ramp's lip, peering into the rain-soaked gloom.
Shadows flickered in the street—zombies, their jerky silhouettes unmistakable, and something else, a figure moving with lethal grace.
The gunfire flared again, muzzle flashes cutting through the storm, and a zombie dropped, its skull cratered.
Ethan's instincts screamed to stay hidden, but the paramedic in him—the ghost of who he'd been before the outbreak—pushed him forward.
He crept down the ramp, keeping to the shadows, the crowbar raised.
The rain stung his face, acidic droplets searing tiny pinpricks into his skin.
He pulled his jacket's hood tighter, ignoring the burn, and slipped into an alley flanking the street where the fight raged.
The scene unfolded like a nightmare painted in shades of gray and green.
A woman stood in the center of the street, surrounded by a dozen zombies closing in like a noose.
She was tall, lean, her movements fluid as she spun, a combat knife in one hand, a pistol in the other.
Her dark hair was pulled into a tight braid, soaked and plastered to her neck, and her eyes—sharp, unyielding—scanned the horde with a predator's focus.
She fired twice, dropping two zombies with clean headshots, then drove her knife into a third's temple, yanking it free with a spray of black ichor.
Ethan froze, mesmerized.
He'd seen fighters before—raiders, mercenaries, survivors hardened by the apocalypse—but this woman was something else.
She was a storm of her own, cutting through the undead with a precision that bordered on art.
But she wasn't invincible.
A zombie lunged from her blind side, claws raking her thigh.
She hissed, stumbling, and the pistol clicked empty.
The horde tightened, sensing weakness, their moans rising into a fevered wail.
Ethan's heart lurched.
She was outnumbered, and the storm was closing in, the rain now a steady hiss that smoked where it hit pavement.
He should've turned back, should've let her fight her own battle.
But Lily's face flashed in his mind—her small, trusting smile—and he was moving before he could stop himself.
"Hey!" Ethan shouted, stepping into the street.
He swung the crowbar at a zombie's skull, the impact jarring his arms as the creature crumpled.
The woman's eyes flicked to him, narrowing, but she didn't pause.
She drove her knife into another zombie's neck, twisting it down.
Ethan swung again, cracking a second zombie's jaw, and kicked it back into the horde, buying her a moment to regroup.
"Get out of here!" she snapped, her voice low and rough, edged with an authority that made Ethan bristle.
She yanked a fresh magazine from her belt, slamming it into the pistol with a practiced flick, but her leg was bleeding, dark blood soaking her cargo pants.
"Not leaving you to die," Ethan shot back, dodging a zombie's claws.
He wasn't a soldier, but he'd learned to fight dirty in ten years of survival.
He hooked the crowbar under another zombie's arm, yanking it off balance, and smashed its head against the pavement.
The woman glanced at him again, her expression unreadable, then fired three shots, clearing a path through the horde.
The zombies were relentless, more pouring from the shadows—drawn by the noise, the blood, the chaos.
Ethan's arms burned, his breath ragged, but he kept swinging, keeping the undead off her flanks.
The woman moved like a machine, her knife and pistol a blur, but the gash on her thigh slowed her, her steps less steady.
Ethan saw it—the moment the horde would overwhelm her if they didn't break free.
"Alley!" he yelled, pointing to the narrow gap he'd emerged from.
"We can lose them!"
She didn't respond, but her eyes flicked to the alley, calculating.
A zombie lunged at her, and Ethan tackled it, the crowbar sinking into its spine with a sickening crunch.
The woman nodded, just once, and sprinted for the alley, Ethan on her heels.
They ducked into the narrow passage, the zombies' moans echoing behind them.
The alley was a choke point, littered with debris—rusted pipes, a toppled dumpster, coils of barbed wire from some forgotten barricade.
Ethan grabbed the woman's arm as she stumbled, her leg buckling.
She yanked free, her knife flashing up instinctively, stopping an inch from his throat.
"Touch me again, and you're dead," she growled, her eyes like steel.
Ethan raised his hands, the crowbar dangling.
"Just trying to help."
She didn't lower the knife, studying him—his patched jacket, the pack slung over his shoulder, the blood and rain streaking his face.
"You're not a raider," she said, more to herself than to him.
"What's your angle?"
"No angle," Ethan said, glancing back as the zombies' claws scraped the alley's entrance.
"We need to move.
Now."
She hesitated, then sheathed the knife, limping toward the alley's end.
Ethan followed, his mind racing.
She was ex-military, maybe special forces, judging by her gear and the way she fought.
Her pistol was a Beretta, well-maintained, and her knife was a custom job, not scavenged.
But the distrust in her eyes was pure survivor, the kind forged in a world where betrayal was currency.
They reached the parking garage, slipping inside as the zombies bottlenecked in the alley, slowed by the debris.
The woman leaned against a concrete pillar, catching her breath, her pistol still in hand.
Ethan scanned her injury—blood oozed from a deep gash above her knee, the fabric torn.
Infection was a death sentence out here, and she'd bleed out if it wasn't treated soon.
"You're hurt," he said, slinging his pack off.
"I can patch it.
I'm a medic.
Was, anyway."
Her eyes narrowed again, suspicious.
"I don't need your help."
"You'll need a leg to keep running," Ethan said, kneeling to dig through his pack.
He pulled out the antiseptic cream he'd scavenged, a roll of gauze, and a strip of clean cloth he'd boiled days ago.
"Your call, but those things aren't giving up."
She glanced at the garage's entrance, where the zombies' moans grew louder, their shapes visible in the rain.
Her jaw tightened, and she nodded curtly.
"Make it quick."
Ethan worked fast, his hands falling into the rhythm of his old life.
He cleaned the wound with water from his canteen, ignoring her sharp intake of breath as the antiseptic hit.
The gash was deep but hadn't hit an artery—lucky.
He stitched it with a needle and thread from his kit, his fingers steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through him.
The woman watched, silent, her pistol resting on her knee, aimed vaguely in his direction.
"Name's Ethan," he said, tying off the bandage.
"You got one?"
She didn't answer right away, her gaze flicking to the crowbar at his side, then back to his face.
"Zara," she said finally, the word clipped, like giving it cost her something.
"Zara," he repeated, packing up his kit.
"You're welcome."
"Don't get used to it," she said, standing with a wince.
She tested her leg, her movements still fluid despite the pain.
"Why'd you help me?
People don't just risk their necks out here."
Ethan shrugged, wiping blood from his hands.
"Didn't feel like watching you get torn apart."
She snorted, a dry, humorless sound.
"Hero complex.
That'll get you killed."
"Maybe," Ethan said, meeting her gaze.
"But you're alive."
The zombies' moans grew louder, their claws scraping the garage's entrance.
Zara's eyes hardened, and she checked her pistol's magazine, her fingers moving with mechanical precision.
"Storm's too thick to move far," she said.
"We hold here until it eases.
Barricade the ramps, watch the exits.
You good for that, medic?"
Ethan nodded, grabbing a length of rebar from the debris.
"I've made it this far."
Zara's lips twitched—not a smile, but close.
"Then don't screw it up now."
They moved to the ramp, dragging rusted car parts and broken concrete to block the entrance.
The zombies were close, their silhouettes shambling through the rain, drawn by the scent of blood and the echo of gunfire.
Ethan's mind flickered to that strange, disjointed memory from earlier—the lab, the voice warning about "trackers."
It felt like a splinter in his brain, sharp and foreign.
He pushed it aside, focusing on the task.
Survive.
Always survive.
But as he worked beside Zara, her knife glinting in the dim light, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just stepped into something bigger than a fight with zombies.
Something that might not let him walk away.