Part 7

The front door didn't open so much as explode inward.

Wood splintered. Cold night air rushed in, sharp and filthy, and with it came two men holding guns. Everything stopped. Every breath. Every thought.

Hands went up without anyone saying a word.

The men moved fast, eyes sweeping the room, trained and practiced—soldiers, or something close enough to it. Then they saw Alex.

He lay crumpled on the floor, blood pooled beneath him like a dark shadow.

The taller one stepped forward. He had a scar slashed across his cheek, pale and shiny in the low light, like something carved there on purpose. He took it all in and smiled.

"Well, I'll be damned," he said lightly. "Looks like we found him. The leader of the little group that killed our men."

Mary made a sound and tried to shift closer to Alex, but the scarred man was already there. He knelt beside Alex's body, close enough that Mary could smell him: sweat, smoke, something metallic.

She backed away, hands shaking, slick with blood.

The man pressed two fingers to Alex's neck. His smile widened.

"Still kickin'," he said, rising to his feet. He turned to the other man—a shorter guy with ice-blue eyes that didn't blink enough to seem human. "Grab him."

The blue-eyed man nodded and moved in.

The scarred man drew his gun again, slow and deliberate, and aimed it at the group. "Nobody gets any ideas."

They didn't. No one could.

The blue-eyed man hooked his arms under Alex's shoulders and hauled him up. Alex's head lolled, blood trailing behind him in a smeared, ugly line.

Sadie screamed. She lunged forward, but Stanley caught her, wrapping his arms around her as she fought him, sobbing and clawing.

The scarred man crossed the room in two long strides and backhanded her.

The crack echoed.

Sadie hit the floor, stunned, a red mark blooming across her cheek.

"Try that again," the man said calmly, aiming his gun down at her head, "and I'll redecorate the floor with what's inside that pretty skull."

No one moved. Not even Sadie.

The blue-eyed man dragged Alex toward the door. His heels thudded uselessly against the floor, each sound like a countdown.

"Let's go," the man said. "Boss is waitin'."

Outside, the night swallowed them whole.

Alex didn't feel the cold air. He didn't feel the gravel biting into his back when they tossed him into the van. He didn't hear the doors slam shut.

The engine roared.

And just like that, Alex was gone

Alex came back to the world the way a man comes back from a bad dream—slowly, unwillingly, with pain doing most of the talking.

His head throbbed like something inside it was trying to claw its way out. Every breath sent fire through his chest and belly. The gunshot wounds still bled, warm and sticky beneath crude bandages that smelled faintly of oil and old cloth. Whoever had wrapped them hadn't done it out of kindness—only necessity.

Cold metal pressed against his cheek.

The van shuddered and rattled around him, every bump in the road jarring his body hard enough to drag a groan from his throat. He tried to move and found his hands locked behind his back, wrists screaming as plastic zip ties bit into his skin.

So. Not dead. Not lucky either.

The van screeched to a halt.

The engine died.

Silence followed, thick and expectant.

A door opened. Footsteps crunched closer—slow, confident. The back doors flew open, flooding the van with harsh white light. The scar-faced man grinned down at him like he was admiring a prize fish.

"Look who decided to wake up."

Rough hands yanked Alex out of the van. His feet dragged uselessly as they hauled him across cracked concrete and into darkness. The building swallowed them whole.

A warehouse.

Big. Empty. Dead in the way abandoned places always were, like the soul had been sucked out and left only dust. The air reeked of oil, rust, and something faintly rotten. Tall shelves rose on either side, crowded with tools, weapons, crates—everything a man might need to outlive the end of the world.

"Where am I?" Alex growled, anger cutting through the pain.

"Our little hideout," the scar-faced man said cheerfully, dragging him along. "Boss wants a word."

"The boss?" Alex asked.

"Yeah," the blue-eyed one said, giving Alex's leg a sharp kick. "The boss. You'll recognize him."

They shoved Alex through a doorway into a wide, open space lit by hanging work lamps. In the center stood a man who didn't belong in a place like this.

He was bald. Immaculate. Dressed in a tailored suit untouched by grease or blood. His smile was thin and knowing, like he'd already read the ending and enjoyed it.

"Ah," the man said softly. "The guest of honor wakes."

He circled Alex slowly, footsteps unhurried, eyes cold and measuring.

"I am Victor Johnson," he said. "Your host."

Alex stared.

"No," he whispered. Then louder, disbelief cracking his voice. "Victor Johnson? My global history teacher?"

The smile sharpened.

"Correct," Victor said. "Though I prefer 'Mr. Johnson' outside the classroom. I always knew you were special, Alex. Never thought you'd prove it like this."

He snapped his fingers.

The zip ties were cut. Alex's arms dropped uselessly to his sides, numb and burning.

"What is this?" Alex demanded. "What do you want?"

Victor spread his arms, indicating the warehouse. "This is about survival. Power. Order. When the world burns, someone has to decide who lives through the fire."

He leaned in close, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for Alex.

"And I need someone like you."

A knife appeared in his hand—quick, casual. The blade kissed Alex's throat, cold and intimate.

"Go to hell," Alex hissed.

Victor laughed softly. He traced the knife along Alex's jaw, drawing a thin red line.

"Oh, you will," Victor said. "But not yet. You see..."

He pulled out his phone.

The screen lit up with a photo that crushed the air from Alex's lungs.

Mary. Aliyah. Keira. Dacre. Avril. Bound. Gagged. Eyes wide with terror in a dark, concrete room.

Alex made a broken sound in his throat.

"No..."

"Yes," Victor said pleasantly. "So here's the lesson, Mr. Protagonist. You join me, or your friends die slowly. Creatively."

The knife pressed harder. Blood slid warm down Alex's neck.

"Choose wisely."

Then—

BOOM.

The warehouse doors slammed open.

Everyone froze.

Heavy footsteps echoed, slow and deliberate. Guns came up. Victor stiffened, his smile faltering as the blade dug deeper into Alex's skin.

A figure stepped into the light.

Stanley.

His clothes were torn, soaked with blood that wasn't all his. His face was bruised, eyes wild and burning. He held a stolen shotgun with a shattered stock, knuckles split and raw.

Behind him, Sadie emerged from the shadows, gripping a crowbar with trembling hands, her face streaked with tears and dirt.

Nathan followed, jaw tight, eyes murderous, holding the gun Alex recognized all too well.

"They escaped?" Alex rasped.

Victor's fingers tightened in his hair, yanking his head back just enough to make the knife kiss skin again. "Looks that way," he growled. His men fanned out, guns snapping up, red dots dancing across chests and faces. "How touching. A reunion."

He leaned close, breath hot and sour. "Drop the weapons, or I finish him right here."

"Don't!" Alex shouted, panic breaking through the pain. "Don't listen to him—take them out!"

The moment shattered.

Stanley fired.

The shotgun roared like thunder in a closed room. The scar-faced man went down hard, surprise frozen on his face as his body hit the concrete. Nathan moved at the same instant, clean and precise, firing once—just enough to send the blue-eyed man's gun clattering away. Sadie followed through with a scream that sounded torn from her chest, swinging the crowbar with everything she had.

It was over in seconds.

Victor snarled, rage twisting his features. The knife bit harder. "You stupid—"

He dragged the blade.

Alex cried out as warmth spilled down his neck, vision flashing white at the edges. Victor laughed—high, wild, unhinged. "Die for them," he hissed. "Die knowing you failed."

BANG.

Victor jerked backward as if yanked by an invisible rope. Blood bloomed across his shoulder. The knife slipped from his hand and skidded across the floor.

Stanley stood there, shotgun smoking, eyes wide and feral. "NO!"

Alex collapsed to his knees, coughing, choking, air scraping through his throat. "I'm—" He swallowed hard. "I'm okay."

"You are not okay!" Stanley tore off his jacket and pressed it against Alex's neck with shaking hands. "Don't you dare—"

Alex grabbed his wrist. "Where are the others?" His voice trembled. "Tyler. Mary. Dacre. Keira. Aliyah. Avril."

Stanley's face fell. "We... we were kept somewhere else."

Sadie knelt beside them, hands hovering uselessly, eyes glassy. "We'll find them," she said, though it sounded like a prayer more than a promise.

Victor laughed from the floor, wet and ugly. "You think you've won?" He coughed, clutching his wounded shoulder. "My people had your friends. Had time with them."

Alex's stomach dropped.

The warehouse doors slammed open again.

Boots. Voices. Laughter.

Victor's men dragged them in.

Mary first—bent, breathing hard, but still glaring like she could kill with a look. Tyler followed, bloodied and swaying. Dacre limped badly, jaw clenched in silent fury. Keira stumbled, pale but upright. Aliyah clung to Avril, both shaking like leaves in a storm.

Alive.

Barely.

"No," Alex whispered. It felt like the word ripped something loose inside him.

They were thrown to the ground. Mary cried out, curling inward, one hand protectively over her ribs. Tyler wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. Dacre tried to stand and failed. Aliyah's eyes found Alex's, wide and terrified.

Victor pushed himself upright, eyes blazing with sick delight. "Ah," he said. "There they are."

He crossed the room and grabbed Mary by the hair, forcing her head back. "I've waited a long time to break someone like you."

"Leave her alone!" Alex shouted, trying to rise, only to be shoved back down.

"She's just an old woman," Alex pleaded.

Victor smiled. "Exactly."

The knife appeared again, pressed beneath Mary's chin. She didn't scream. She didn't beg. She just stared at Alex, steady as stone.

"Now," Victor said, turning slowly so they could all see, "here's the game. I kill her." He shrugged. "Slowly. Or—one of you steps forward and takes her place."

Silence crashed down like a held breath.

Alex didn't hesitate.

"Me," he said, forcing himself upright. "Take me."

"No!" Stanley shouted. Sadie grabbed Alex's arm. Mary shook her head once, sharp and furious.

Victor's eyes gleamed. "You'd die for her?"

"Yes."

Victor shoved Mary aside and seized Alex, dragging him forward. "Good," he said softly. "I like students who volunteer."

"Run!" Alex yelled over his shoulder. "Get out—now!"

They hesitated—every one of them.

Then Keira pulled Mary up. Nathan grabbed Tyler. Dacre leaned on Avril. Aliyah clutched Sadie's sleeve.

They ran.

Stanley didn't.

Victor forced Alex to his knees, the cold floor biting through his pants. The knife hovered at his throat again.

Alex looked back once—just once—and met Stanley's eyes.

"Stanley..." Alex whispered, his voice already thinning, like sound traveling through water. "You have to go."

Stanley shook his head hard, tears carving clean lines through the grime on his face. He looked from Alex to the others disappearing into the dark and back again. His hands trembled. His feet wouldn't move.

Victor sneered. "Run along, little boy," he said pleasantly. "Watch from afar while he dies."

The knife began to move.

Something broke in Stanley then, like a bone giving way under too much weight. He screamed and launched himself forward, slamming into Victor. They hit the concrete hard. Stanley's fists came down again and again.

Victor's laughter rang out, shrill and delighted.

Men rushed in. Hands grabbed Stanley, yanking him back. He fought like something feral, teeth bared, refusing to let go.

Gunfire exploded.

Stanley jerked as bullets tore into him, each impact snapping his body like a marionette with cut strings. He screamed—once—and then the sound dissolved into a wet gasp. Victor stood, brushing himself off, still laughing.

Alex dragged himself forward, elbows scraping, fingers slipping in blood. "No," he rasped. "No... I told you to run..."

Stanley's eyes found his. They were already dimming, but they softened when they met Alex's face.

"This... this takes me back," Stanley wheezed, blood bubbling at his lips. "Without you... Global History was fucking boring." A broken smile twitched. "I'm glad... I'm glad you were there."

Victor kicked Stanley away like discarded trash.

The knife came down once. Clean. Final.

"You fucking monster!" Alex screamed, the word tearing itself out of him.

"Language," Victor tutted, stepping back to Alex, kneeling so they were eye to eye. He pressed the blade beneath Alex's chin again. "Now... where were we?" His smile widened. "Ah. Yes. I was killing you."

"Do it," Alex said. There was no fear left now. "Do it."

Victor's eyes glittered. "As you wish."

The knife sank in. Deep. Too deep.

Alex's breath hitched, then shattered. Blood poured down his chest, hot and unstoppable. The world narrowed to pain and sound and fading light.

"Any last words?" Victor whispered.

Somewhere—somehow—Alex found one last spark. His fist cracked into Victor's jaw. The impact stunned him just long enough.

Alex staggered up and ran. Or at least tried to run.

Each step felt like dragging a mountain. Gunfire erupted again. Bullets punched through his back, his legs. His body folded, skidding across the concrete.

"Fuck," he breathed, the word barely there.

Victor limped over, shadows stretching long behind him. He knelt, knife poised over Alex's chest.

Alex's eyes drifted to the entrance. He couldn't see them—but he knew. He felt them there.

"If you can hear this..." His voice was wet, broken. "Dacre... take care of her. I trust you most... Take care of Aliyah..."

Hidden in the dark, Dacre did hear. The sound crushed him. He clamped a hand over his mouth, tears spilling freely. "No," he whispered. "Please. No."

Victor smiled.

The knife plunged down and twisted.

"Leave him," Victor said calmly as Alex's body went still. "Let the dead have what's left."

Alex's chest shuddered once.

Then didn't move again.