The War Rig rumbled through the abandoned streets, its massive tires crushing debris and the occasional undead beneath its weight. Marcus sat in the passenger seat, his rifle resting across his lap, eyes scanning the ruined cityscape ahead. Dean drove with a steady grip, while Lucas sat in the back, checking the magazine of his pistol. The vehicle finally reached a narrow street, blocked by the wreckage of old cars and collapsed buildings.
"This is as far as we go," Dean announced, unbuckling his seatbelt. "We walk from here."
They climbed out of the War Rig, weapons at the ready. The city was eerily silent, save for the distant groans of the undead and the occasional scream carried by the wind. Their trek through the city was cautious, every corner a potential death trap. They moved swiftly, taking alternate routes when necessary, avoiding larger groups of zombies. Twice, they had to take down stray undead silently with their melee weapons—Dean's machete slicing through rotting flesh, Marcus using a crowbar, and Lucas dispatching one with a combat knife.
After nearly an hour of navigating the ruins, they finally reached the radio station. Dean knocked firmly on the heavy door. "Open up, it's me."
Silence.
Marcus narrowed his eyes. "Something's wrong."
Dean nodded in agreement, gripping his machete tighter. Lucas peered through a shattered window and gasped. "Guys… there's blood everywhere."
They stepped inside cautiously. The metallic scent of blood hung thick in the air. Bodies were strewn across the floor, their insides torn apart—a clear sign of an undead feeding frenzy. The group exchanged tense glances before moving deeper into the building.
"We need to get to the roof," Dean said.
The trio maneuvered through the station, dispatching any lingering zombies as they went. The stairwell leading to the rooftop was littered with corpses, some still twitching in their final moments. They reached the heavy metal door leading outside. Marcus jiggled the handle.
"It's locked," he said, frustration evident in his tone.
Dean took a step back. "Shoot it."
Marcus raised his gun, aimed carefully, and fired. The shot echoed through the empty halls as the lock shattered. Dean kicked the door open, and they stepped onto the rooftop.
There, standing near the edge, was a girl clutching a bloodied knife. Her hands trembled, her clothes stained with gore. Beside her, a younger girl—no older than ten—sobbed uncontrollably, her small hands gripping the older girl's arm.
Dean lowered his weapon. "What happened here?"
The older girl's lips quivered. "One of the men… he was bitten. He turned when we were all asleep. It was chaos. The others started turning, attacking each other. I grabbed my sister and ran… we made it up here and locked the door." Tears streamed down her face. "I… I had to kill one of them. I had to."
Dean stepped closer and gently patted her head. "You did good. I'm here now. You're safe."
The girl sobbed harder, clutching her sister tightly. Marcus and Lucas exchanged solemn glances while Dean let out a quiet breath. Whatever nightmare had unfolded in this place, they had arrived too late to save most of them. But these two—these two still had a chance.
"Let's get you out of here," Dean said firmly. "We're going home."