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.
