Chapter 8: The End Begins (4)

A tempest raged over Seiryo University. Rain swept down in relentless sheets, turning courtyards into floods and smearing the world beyond the glass into a slate-grey blur.

Ren watched water snake down the window in rivulets, each catching the sickly red glow of the city across the cove.

They’re everywhere. The others hadn’t realized it yet, but he did. He’d seen enough already. In less than an hour, the school—maybe the entire city—was lost.

That man’s face returned. Eyes bulging, mouth frozen mid-scream, sweat streaking down his brow. He would’ve been better off behind that door.

Ren flexed his fingers, scar tissue tugging tightly across pale skin. The classroom door stood half-ajar. Desks had been piled into a ramshackle barricade, a lopsided fortress against the horrors prowling outside.

Haruka sat against the far wall, arms draped over a battered bat she must have picked up along the way. Midori crouched beside her. He murmured something she didn’t seem to hear. Across from them, Kurobane paced near the barricade, sneakers tapping the tile, muttering curses under his breath.

Reina cradled Lilly in her arms. The girl curled into her sister’s chest, small fists clutching fabric, shoulders trembling. She stroked her hair, whispering promises too soft for Ren to catch. When her head lifted, her swollen eyes met him for a moment before darting away, as though ashamed.

He edged closer until his knee brushed her skirt, refusing to let her slip from his sight. You found her, hero. Now what?

“We’ll have to be twice as careful now,” Yuka said. She sat on an overturned desk, a crumpled tissue pressed to the cut at her temple. “It’s likely we’re all that’s left.”

“You’re saying everyone’s dead,” Kurobane muttered. “It’s only going to get worse. It only ever gets worse.”

“I’m saying survivors are rare. We’re lucky to be alive. We should act with that in mind.”

The hush thickened, pressing against the four walls. The door creaked louder because of it. Shion stood outside. She’d gone to scout alone, of her own accord.

Midori and Kurobane shoved a desk aside, letting her slip back inside before closing the door all the way. She walked to the center, her expression eerily calm under the flashing light.

The broom she’d fashioned into a makeshift spear dripped scarlet, fat drops pattering onto the tiles. Shion didn’t seem to notice. “If we wait any longer,” she said, “this place will mark our grave.”

“I guess we don’t have much of a choice. We’ll keep moving and stick to the plan.”

“And what plan is that?” Shion asked.

As Midori began to lay it out—a last-ditch escape across the island—Ren felt a tug at his sleeve. He looked down again. Reina’s fingers clutched the fabric, shaking. Her voice came low, meant for him alone. “I’m so happy you’re okay.”

The dead man’s face flickered at the edge of his sight. Ren blinked it away and kicked himself mentally for the thought. He reached down and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. He wasn’t sure if it was for her sake, or his.

“It’s risky,” Shion said. “But that’s a given.”

Midori squared his stance. “I’ll take point. Makabe will follow. Ms. Fujimori, Haru, and Ren in the center. Aokawa, keep your sister close. Kuro, take the rear.” One by one, they nodded.

Ren slid his arm around Reina’s back. She leaned into him, her trembling eased by a fraction. Lilly clung tighter. Across the room, Haruka’s gaze finally lifted, catching his. He held her eyes a beat too long before tearing away.

The storm raged on.

* * *

Yuka bit her lip. The halls were empty, eerily quiet save for the steady drumming against the windows. For a moment she almost saw them as they had been, alive, buzzing with chatter and laughter. She almost believed it was still there. But the motionless bodies slumped against walls and in doorways shattered the illusion.

The ache in her chest was beyond words. The kind of pain that would scar forever if she lived long enough to carry it. She glanced at the figure beside her. His focus wasn’t here—he was miles away. That same look he’d carried into her office a year ago. Session after session, it never broke. Nothing reached him.

But here, surrounded by corpses, another thought whispered: maybe this—all of this—was already his world. What happened back at the gate? No one should have had that kind of strength. And the way he’d appeared, as if from nowhere…

Her heel slid into a trail of blood. Even through her shoe she felt it—seeping through as if it touched bare skin. Her stomach flipped. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to look ahead. For their sake, she had to look strong.

They turned a corner.

The stench hit—sour, rancid, choking.

Yuka gagged before she could stop herself, tears stinging her eyes. At her side, Haruka froze, one hand clamped over her mouth. Kurobane doubled over, retching noisily against the wall. Midori’s lips pressed into a thin line, his whole body trembling as though sheer will alone kept his stomach down. The floor squelched beneath her shoes. The walls wept with stains, streaks of something too grotesque to name.

“Keep walking. Don’t look down.” Ren’s voice cut through.

She snapped her gaze upward, desperate to look anywhere else. A drop struck her cheek. Not water. Her chest heaved shallow and fast. They emerged into clean tile at last, stumbling. She bent against the wall, dragging in dry, heaving breaths.

Ren never cracked. He wiped a single crimson droplet from his cheek with the back of his knuckles.

“NO!” a desperate cry split the air.

Yuka flinched, heart thundering, sure it would carry beyond the storm, and worse, to whatever else still prowled inside.

Midori’s head snapped toward the sound. “This way!” he barked, already sprinting. Haruka ran after him without thinking. Kurobane cursed and bolted in their wake, leaving the rest of them behind. Water splashed beneath their feet as they ran down the hall, lightning flaring through shattered windows in jagged bursts.

“Wait—!” She called, but they were gone.

* * *

Up ahead, two people fought for their lives. A man’s glasses were fogged, one lens greased with gore. His chest heaved with ragged breaths as he swung a battery-powered handsaw, its motor shrieking in protest.

The spinning teeth chewed through flesh, sparks spitting when they snagged bone. More blood sprayed across his shirt as he wrenched the blade free, arms quivering with exhaustion. He either didn’t know or didn’t care that the noise was drawing more his way.

Shion surged forward. The broom in her grip was split nearly in two from the force of her blow, jagged shards jutting outward, slick with gore. The corpse shuddered and toppled sideways. Her boot crashed into its chest, skidding the body across the tiles. She pivoted smoothly, never breaking stride, and skewered another skull in the same breath. “Fall back,” she ordered.

“Not without her!”

The same scream ripped down the corridor. A woman knelt in a widening pool of blood. Blue hair clung to her cheeks, her nails raking over her own arms as if she could strip her skin raw.

“It’s not mine! It’s not mine!” Her frantic scrubbing only smeared the filth further. Across her uniform, her legs, her trembling fingers. She slipped, knees skidding through gore, palms smacking the tile with a wet crack. When she dragged them up to her face, crimson streaked her cheek and tangled in her hair. “It’s all over me—I—I—” She gagged, shaking her head and broke into sobs, unraveling into a wail.

The infected moved toward her cries, jerking closer in spasms of hunger. Kurobane barreled in, shoulder slamming the corpse back as he seized the sobbing woman by the arm. She collapsed against him, clinging, her nails digging into fabric as she shook against his chest.

Midori ripped the bat from Haruka’s grasp and swung in a brutal arc. The crack of bone echoed sharp against the storm. His lips pressed into a hard line, pity flickering across his face before he swung again.

At the rear, Yuka pressed terror-stricken fingers to her mouth. Her other arm swept outward on instinct, shielding Reina and Lilly behind her.

Do something. Ren’s hand flexed at his side. Heat coiled beneath his skin, something begging to be unleashed. He could have ended it in a heartbeat—cleared the hall, stopped the panic.

But he didn’t.

Shion weaved, jagged wood tearing through another skull. Every motion was precise, as though she were practicing drills.

It was done.

The man’s voice cracked the stillness. “Th-thank you… thank you.”

No one relaxed. They all knew.

It was faint at first. The drag of uneven feet. Nails scraping tile. The sound swelled, echoing down the hall, louder than the storm outside. From the far corridor, dozens of shadows pressed shoulder to shoulder, staggering into view. Dead gazes gleamed in the light.

A horde.