Part 3

Alex's eyelids were heavy. The world had been loud and dark and full of death, and now, finally, it felt like it might let him rest. He was just on the cusp of sleep when the mall, quiet for the first time since the chaos began, betrayed him.

Thud... thud... THUD.

His eyes shot open. Heart hammering. The sound was coming from the main entrance. Heavy. Deliberate. Not the soft, hungry shuffle of the undead. Something else. Something worse.

The others stirred, groggy and confused, blankets slipping from knees and shoulders. Then came a scream—a sharp, piercing scream that set Alex's teeth on edge.

Aliyah.

Her friends woke instantly, panic spreading like wildfire, little shrieks echoing across the dark mall.

"Shut up!" Alex hissed, crawling toward them, pressing a hand to Aliyah's trembling shoulder. "Your screaming's going to lead them to us!"

The girls clamped hands over their mouths, stifling sobs and whimpers. The pounding didn't stop. It only grew louder, more urgent, until Alex could feel it in his chest. And now, over it all, muffled voices. Words shouted. Taunts. Laughter.

Nathan crawled over to a window, careful, cautious. Peeking through the dim glass, he whispered back, "It's not zombies. It's people. A lot of them."

Alex's stomach turned. "Fuck. I don't know if that's better... or worse."

"Worse," Dacre said, voice tight. "Zombies are mindless. People... people can be worse."

And worse they were. The mall doors shattered. Glass flew like tiny bullets. A group of men poured in, armed, laughing like the world was theirs. Guns. Pipes. Knives. Faces twisted with cruelty.

"Hide!" Alex hissed.

Furniture became shields. Sofas, bedframes, tables—they vanished behind them, huddling like prey animals in a dark cave. Alex peeked from behind a mattress.

Aliyah clung to Keira, her fingers digging into the cheerleader's arm, eyes wide, trembling.

One of the men's eyes landed on the girls. His voice was low, leering, slithering through the silence. "Look what we've got here," he said, licking his lips. "Nice little cheerleaders. Bet they're good at—"

Alex didn't wait.

He stepped from behind the bed, chest forward, hands tight into fists, standing between the man and the girls.

The others froze, mouths open.

The man's laughter cut off.

The leader emerged then. Tall. Muscular. Scar across his left cheek. Eyes black with amusement, but sharp, like a predator sizing up a fight.

"Well, well, well," he said.

"Stay away," Alex said, voice steady despite the pounding in his chest.

"Or what, pretty boy?" The man mocked. His men snickered. "You gonna stop us from having some fun with these girls? There's more of us than you."

They moved closer, cocky and slow, letting the tension stretch.

Alex ignored them. Then, with a quick swing, he punched the leader square in the jaw. The man stumbled back, shock spreading across his face. His men froze.

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to stop.

Then rage exploded in the leader's eyes. A gun appeared in his hand, pointing at Alex.

"Shit, guys! Help!" Alex shouted, desperation slicing through him.

They came.

Dacre grabbed a metal pipe, Tyler hoisted a chair, Nathan's pocket knife glinted in the dim light, Stanley broke a bottle across his palm. They formed a line, shielding the girls, standing firm.

"Get ready to—" Alex started, but before he could finish, the men opened fire.

The sound was instantaneous. Glass shattered. Furniture splintered. Bullets screamed across the room.

Alex dove to the ground, hands over his head, stomach flat against cold tile. The chaos swallowed them whole.

Screams echoed. Shouts. Panic.

And then Alex saw it—one of the men had grabbed Aliyah by the hair. Pulled her away from the circle, dragging her across the tile like she weighed nothing.

Alex's scream tore out of him before he could think.

"No!!!"

He ran. Everything else—the gunfire, the screaming, the chaos—faded to a dull roar in the back of his skull. Only Aliyah. Only her terrified eyes and the small whimper she let out when the man dragged her away mattered.

The man laughed, a low, cruel sound that echoed off the walls like a knife sliding over bone. He dragged her toward an empty storefront, the fluorescent lights flickering above them in uneven staccato.

Alex reached the edge of the store. His chest heaving, lungs burning. The man spun, gun pressed hard against Aliyah's temple.

"Come any closer," he growled, "and I blow her brains out."

Alex froze. His heart was hammering so violently he could feel it in his throat. Aliyah was crying, silent little sobs that cut through the noise, her face pale and glistening with tears.

The man smirked, wicked and certain.

"Drop your weapon, pretty boy, and back off," he hissed. "Or watch this little bitch die."

Behind Alex, he could hear shouts—his friends. Voices slicing through the gunfire. But they might as well have been a mile away.

Alex swallowed hard. He felt the world tilt sideways, thought about giving in. But then he thought of Aliyah, trembling and trusting him with her life.

"Here goes nothing," he muttered, a whisper meant only for himself.

The wiffleball bat—the one absurd, childish thing he had grabbed earlier—flew from his hands. It hit the man square in the jaw with a hollow crack. The man staggered, stunned, blinking rapidly.

Alex didn't hesitate. He charged. A linebacker on fire. Shoulder into stomach. Knee into ribs. The man crumpled to the ground, gun skittering across the tile. Aliyah scrambled away, her sobs jagged, shaky, chaotic.

Then the world opened like a trap.

More men poured in, drawn by the commotion, shouting and laughing and swinging fists. The leader roared from the ground, grabbing Alex, punching him again and again in a frantic fury.

Alex tried to fight, but it was a losing battle. One man kicked him in the ribs. Another smashed a fist into his face. Bones screamed in protest. Blood ran in rivulets across his skin.

And then—he saw it. Aliyah. Being dragged again. Screaming. Screaming his name.

He tried to crawl toward her, but his body refused. Limbs burned, cracked, shattered. Every breath was a knife. Every heartbeat a hammer.

He could do nothing. Only watch. Only hear her cries, only feel the cold slap of reality as the men laughed cruelly and left him for dead.

When he finally woke, it was sunlight that brought him back.

He groaned. Pain tore through him from head to toe, relentless, unyielding. His face was a swelling, purple mess, lips split, cheekbones bruised. The sunlight streamed through the broken doors of the mall, long, crooked shadows casting him into a nightmare world.

He was alone.