Stopping Wasn’t An Option -Finn
Thirty
Stopping Wasn’t An Option -Finn
Ihit the street at a sprint, then dropped low, boots barely scraping asphalt as I shifted into a crouch.
Stay small. Stay fast.
Down the block, the alarm screamed—sharp, relentless, ricocheting off brick and glass. It pulled them like a current: heads snapping, bodies dragging toward the sound, mouths agape, arms slack at their sides as they shuffled south in that horrible, jerking gait.
Good.
Stay with it.
I hugged the wall, sliding along the brownstones, cutting from stoop to stoop, pressing myself into every shadow and overhang. Each step was deliberate, controlled. Don’t slip. Don’t trip. Don’t make a single goddamn sound you don’t have to.
Breath even.
Heart hammering—but leashed.
You’ve done worse.
Yeah.
Not like this.
Not with them everywhere.
I buried that thought and kept moving.
Halfway there.
Then—movement. Right in front of me.
It stepped out from between two parked cars as if it had been standing there for hours. Maybe it had. No way to tell with them—no logic, no pattern, just dead stillness until something tripped a wire inside the rotted meat where its brain used to be.
Close.
Way too close.
Its head wrenched toward me. The neck moved wrong—too far, too loose, like the tendons had started to separate. Those eyes locked on. Clouded. Milky. But aware. Hungry in a way that had nothing to do with real thought.
“Shit—”
I brought the Glock up, finger tightening—
No.
Too loud. Too many.
Knife.
My hand moved before the thought finished, drawing it free in one smooth motion as I stepped in instead of back.
Commit. Always commit.
It lunged—slow, clumsy. Its jaw unhinged before its body even caught up. A thick rope of blackened saliva dripped from its lower lip.
I drove the blade up and in, straight through the left eye socket.
Resistance hit first—a sickening, rubbery pressure against the tip of the steel—then gave.
A wet, hollow pop. Then suction—the blade sinking deep, something soft and rotten collapsing around it. Fluid burst across my knuckles, dark and thick, reeking of copper and decay, running down my wrist in warm streaks.
The body seized once. A full-body twitch, fingers splaying wide, mouth still gaping.
Then nothing.
I ripped the knife free. Didn’t wait for it to drop. Stepped past while it crumpled, already moving, already scanning.
No time to watch it fall.
No time. No pause.
I wiped the blade once against my jeans and pushed forward, eyes locked on the Suburban.
Ten yards.
Eight.
The alarm still dragged everything south. I could hear them—shuffling, groaning, that awful wet clicking sound some of them made, like air escaping through torn throats.
Don’t look. Don’t count them.
Just move.
I darted the last stretch, keeping low, head on a swivel—nothing else in my path.
I reached the driver’s side. Quickly slid my hands under the front tires. Keys. Where Libby said they would be.
“Thank you, Jim.” I let out a slow breath. Grabbed the door handle. Pulled.
The door swung open with a tiny squeak of metal that made my teeth clench.
I dropped into the seat fast, easing the door shut with just enough force to latch—no slam, no bang—hands already moving.
Key in.
Turn.
The engine roared to life.
Too loud.
Way too fucking loud.
My eyes snapped to the mirror.
A few of them turned. Heads twitching. Bodies pausing mid-shuffle, that horrible slow pivot as damaged necks cranked toward the new sound.
Not fully locked on yet—but noticing.
“Move,” I muttered.
I threw it into reverse and hit the gas. The tires spun for half a second before catching, the Suburban lurching backward with a groan of suspension.
No finesse now. No subtlety.
Speed. That’s all that mattered.
I swung hard toward the house, adrenaline flooding every nerve as the first of them started shifting in my direction.
The Suburban slammed into place against the stoop so tight that the taillight nearly sheared off on the railing.
“Let’s Go! Let’s Go!” I shouted, throwing the door open, jumping out, gun up.
The front door blew open, and they came pouring out, boots crashing down the steps toward the back of the truck.
“Move!” I yelled, stepping into the open, putting myself between them and the street.
They turned.
Coming.
Drawn by the engine, the shouting, the frantic scramble of living things. It was as if they could smell us—the panic, the sheer fact of our warm blood pumping through our veins.
I could see them now—not just silhouettes. Faces. What used to be faces. One missing its lower lip, teeth and gums locked in a permanent grin. Another dragging a leg bent the wrong way at the knee, bone white through blackened skin, and it didn’t slow down.
“Faster!” I hissed.
Fiona and Lily threw themselves at the back—totes crashing in, backpacks hurled after them. Hands shaking, fumbling, but moving.
“Almost—almost—” Fiona’s voice was a ragged gasp.
Libby stood at the rear, frying pan raised, body angled toward the street. Jaw set. Knuckles white. Ready to swing. Ready to fight. Not backing up an inch.
“Get in!” I roared.
She turned—
The girls scrambled inside.
The hatch slammed.
Then it came from the side.
Out of the blind spot I hadn’t cleared—the narrow gap between the stoop and the neighbor’s, a space too small for a person to stand in comfortably, but they didn’t care about comfort. They didn’t care about anything.
It launched itself at her.
“Libby—!”
Fingers locked into her arm. Gray. Bloated. The nails torn down to the quick, caked black with dried blood. It yanked—and she flew sideways.
She went down hard.
The pan clattered to the concrete. She twisted, fighting, kicking, shoving at it as it clawed its way over her. Its mouth snapped open and shut—mechanical, relentless—teeth slick with dark, crusted blood, strings of something rotten stretching between its jaws each time they parted.
The smell hit me from six feet away. Sweet and putrid. Rotting meat left in the sun for days.
“I’ve got it—!” she choked, arms shaking as she tried to hold it off, her hands pressed against its chest where the ribcage had partially caved in, her fingers sinking into flesh that gave too easily—
Too risky for the gun. She and the thing tangled together, limbs overlapping—no clean shot.
No shot—
“Hold on!” The words ripped from my throat.
I sprinted. Closed the distance in three strides, adrenaline obliterating everything except the image of that mouth inching closer to her throat.
It had her pinned now. Full weight bearing down, its face inches from hers, jaw working, that wet gurgling sound pouring out of it—not a groan or a scream, something worse. Something involuntary and broken.
A thick bead of dark fluid dripped from its mouth onto her cheek.
I hit it full force.
Shoulder first.
The impact jarred through my body as I drove into it, ripping it off her. Both of us crashed onto the pavement. My elbow cracked against the ground, and the pain radiated upward.
It twisted toward me instantly—faster than the others, fresher maybe—its head whipping around, mouth already open, already reaching—
I didn’t give it a chance. I jumped to my feet.
I planted my boot and drove my heel down into its face.
Once.
Bone cracked. The nose flattened with a crunch.
It jerked. Fingers scrabbling at the ground, body spasming.
Again.
Harder.
Something collapsed this time—caving inward with a sound like stepping on a wet paper bag full of gravel. Thick blood erupted across the concrete, across my boots, spattering up my shins in hot flecks. One eye burst from the pressure, deflating into the ruined socket.
It stopped moving.
I didn’t look down again.
“Up!” I snapped, grabbing Libby by the arm, hauling her to her feet.
She stumbled. Breath ragged. Eyes wide. A smear of that dark fluid across her cheek where it had dripped on her.
“I’m good—” she choked. Trying not to think about what just happened.
“We need to move!”
More coming now.
Too many. Too close. I could hear them converging—that dragging, shuffling chorus closing in from every direction.
I shoved her toward the open door.
“In! Now!”
She climbed in fast, scrambling over the seat. I spun, backing up, gun raised as the first of them closed within arm’s reach.
One got too close—
I fired.
The crack split the air, echoing off the brownstones. The round punched through its forehead and blew out the back in a spray of dark matter that painted the car behind it. It dropped straight down as if someone cut its strings.
“Go!” Fiona screamed from inside.
I threw myself behind the wheel, slammed the door, and shoved the Suburban into drive.
Floored it.
The Suburban fishtailed hard left before the tires caught. My head thudded against the headrest. Someone behind me slammed into the window; the impact was a dull, heavy thud that shook the frame.
One of them hit the passenger side as we passed—hands dragging across metal with a sound like a key raked down a car door, leaving dark smears across the window before falling away.
Inside the Suburban—silence.
Except for breathing.
Fast. Ragged. Shaky.
I glanced over.
Libby sat in the passenger seat. Blood on her sleeve. That dark smear still on her cheek. I reached over and grabbed her hand. She looked at me.
Still here.
I exhaled.
“Everybody good?” I asked, my voice tight.
A chorus of shaky “yeahs.”
I nodded once.
Didn’t say anything else.
Just drove.
Because stopping wasn’t an option anymore.