Dean moved cautiously through the darkened apartment building, his boots barely making a sound against the dust-covered stairs. The elevator was out of service, its doors pried open to reveal nothing but an empty shaft. That left the stairs—the long, winding, dangerous stairs.
With his M4 Carbine at the ready, Dean ascended carefully, stopping at every floor to listen for movement. The building was eerily silent, save for the occasional groan of the undead echoing through the halls. His muscles tensed as he continued upward, counting each floor, knowing Marcus' apartment was on the tenth.
By the time he reached the ninth floor, Dean paused, hearing the unmistakable sound of shuffling feet. He pressed himself against the wall as two zombies stumbled out from an open apartment door. Their decayed faces twitched at the scent of fresh blood, and their sunken eyes locked onto him.
Dean took a deep breath.
Pop! Pop!
Two clean shots to the head, and they collapsed lifelessly to the floor. No time to waste. Dean stepped over their corpses and moved up to the final floor.
Standing before Apartment 1007, Dean knocked firmly.
"Open up, it's me."
For a moment, there was no response. Then, the sound of locks clicking open.
The door cracked, and Marcus' wide, terrified eyes peered through before swinging it open completely. Before Dean could react, Marcus pulled him into a tight hug.
"Holy shit, man! You actually came!" Marcus' voice cracked with relief.
Dean patted his back, then stepped inside, scanning the room. The place was a mess—broken furniture, boarded-up windows, and the lingering smell of sweat and fear. That's when Dean's eyes landed on Marcus' shirt, stained with blood.
Dean's expression hardened. "You hurt?"
Marcus shook his head. "No, it's… it's not mine."
Before Dean could ask, Marcus' younger sister, Emily, stepped forward. Their parents sat huddled in the corner, exhausted but safe.
Marcus ran a hand through his disheveled hair, exhaling shakily. "I had to kill one. A zombie. It got inside. It almost… it almost bit Emily."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"
Marcus swallowed hard. "We were moving the couch to reinforce the barricade when it must've slipped through the fire escape. It went straight for her." His jaw clenched. "I grabbed the closest thing I could find—a kitchen knife—and stabbed it in the head. Took me three tries before it stopped moving."
Dean smirked slightly. "So… you believe me now?"
Marcus let out a nervous laugh. "Yeah, man. I believe you."
Dean crossed his arms. "Then you know we can't stay here. It's only going to get worse." He turned to look at Marcus' parents. "I came to bring you all somewhere safe. Somewhere prepared."
Marcus frowned. "Where?"
"My fortress."
At their confused expressions, Dean sat down, motioning for them to do the same. "Listen, I spent the last five years preparing for this moment. I have food, water, weapons, power, security, farmland, and everything we need to survive long-term. It's safe, reinforced, and far away from this nightmare."
Emily hesitated. "How do we know it'll stay safe?"
Dean looked at her seriously. "Because I built it to withstand worse than this."
Marcus exchanged glances with his family. His mother clutched his father's arm, uncertainty written across their faces. "And you're sure we won't be a burden?" his father asked hesitantly.
Dean shook his head. "Not at all. More people mean more hands to help. Farming, maintenance, defense—we'll all have roles to play. But I promise you this: you'll be alive."
Marcus exhaled. "Alright, man. We're in."
Dean nodded. "Good. Then pack whatever essentials you can carry. We leave at first light."