Zombie Breach

The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decay, a familiar stench that had become as constant as the fear gnawing at their bones. The camp, a fortified clearing in the ruins of a suburban neighborhood, had felt like a fragile sanctuary for the past three days. Now, as a low, collective moan rose from the darkness beyond the barricade, that illusion shattered.

Chris was awake before the first warning shout. He had learned to sleep with one eye open, his hand never far from the machete he kept beside his bedroll. The sound was wrong—not the scattered groans of a few stragglers, but a growing chorus, a symphony of hunger that vibrated through the ground. He sat up, his heart already hammering. Yasmine stirred beside him, her hand instinctively reaching for Monte and Marie, who slept in a tight huddle between them.

“Chris?” Her voice was low, taut with alarm.