A wave of them surged onto the second-floor showroom, arms reaching for the sky, for him.
Jane's face was a mask of exertion, her muscles screaming as she hauled him up.
Van kicked out just as cold, dead fingers closed around his ankle. The makeshift cardboard armor peeled away, and the Rotter fell, snarling, into the press of bodies below.
They collapsed on the gravel-strewn roof, lungs burning. Another close call.
Van looked down the hatch. Four meters—a height the mindless dead couldn't breach. A temporary safe zone.
"They're fanatics," Jane gasped, tossing aside the torn remnant of his T-shirt she'd used to pull him up.
Van, now bare-chested in the New Mexico sun, didn't care about the loss. His body was a roadmap of old violence—knife scars, a puckered bullet graze. Practical memories.
"You understand them?" he asked.
She nodded, eyes dark. "They were chanting about the 'Fifth Sun' ending, the 'Punishment of Tonatiuh.' They said the 'Messengers' were with them, and they needed to... prepare the offering."
"They think the Rotters are their damn gods?" Van's voice was flat.
"In the old Aztec myths, humans are the reanimated dead." She gestured helplessly at the feeding frenzy below. "It fits their apocalypse perfectly."
Van grunted. America had no shortage of cults, but one that worshipped the very things tearing the world apart was a new level of trouble.
He saw the guilt on Jane's face.
"We couldn't have saved her," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Her panic would have killed us all. It just came sooner."
They scouted the roof. The heavy metal access door was locked from the inside. Safe, for now.
Behind a stack of HVAC units, they hit the jackpot: a heavy-duty Pelican case, stashed and forgotten.
Inside was a trove of professional-grade mayhem. An AR-15 variant with a sleek, menacing profile, its trigger group clearly modified.
Three magazines. Six olive-green M67 fragmentation grenades. And a spread of pricey tactical accessories.
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"Illegal full-auto conversion," Jane breathed, expertly checking the rifle's action. "This wasn't for hunting deer."
She loaded the magazines with practiced speed—one extended drum, two high-capacity polymers. "Three hundred rounds."
Van hefted a grenade. It was heavy, cold, and promised simple, brutal solutions. "Can we use these?"
Jane, now shouldering the AR, peered over the roof's edge at the milling crowd of thirty-plus Rotters below.
"We could clear a path." She looked at him, a spark of grim determination in her eyes. "Want to try?"
Van moved to the opposite ledge. The streets were nearly clear. He gave a sharp nod. "Do it."
Jane settled into a prone position, her body a taut line. She cycled the action with a crisp sound.
CLACK-CLACK.
The shot that followed was a sharp crack, echoing off the buildings.
CRACK.
A Rotter below collapsed.
[ +1 XP ]
Van watched, the professional part of his brain noting her perfect form, the controlled rise and fall of the rifle.
The less professional part noticed the way her fitted shirt stretched across her back, the shift of weight as she absorbed the recoil.
A capable partner. In every sense.
She turned, catching him looking. There was a flicker of something in her gaze—not embarrassment, but awareness.
"Your turn," she said, her voice a little huskier. "Time for a crash course."
They lay side-by-side at the hatch's edge, bodies close in the confined space. Jane's instruction was clipped, professional.
"Keep both eyes open. Use the red dot. The dial here changes magnification."
Her arm brushed his as she pointed, the scent of gun oil and her sweat sharp in his nostrils.
As Van adjusted his grip, his shoulder shifted, pressing briefly against the soft curve of her side. She didn't pull away.
The contact was electric, a moment of raw, human warmth in the cold calculus of survival.
Then it was gone as she pushed herself up. "Remember, it's a binary trigger. Short, deliberate presses. Don't ride it."
Below, the single shot had agitated the horde. They milled directly beneath the opening, a target-rich environment.
Van took a breath, nestled the stock into his sore shoulder, and found the red dot dancing over a rotting face. He squeezed.
BANG.
The kick was a solid punch.
BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!
His inexperience betrayed him. His finger froze, holding the trigger down.
The modified rifle hammered on its own, a deafening burst of five rounds that tore from the muzzle. The empty casings rained down on the gravel beside him.
The shots weren't clean kills. They were brutal sledgehammer blows.
One Rotter's shoulder disintegrated in a spray of black fluid. Another took a round through the gut, folding over but still twitching. A third spun and fell, a leg shattered.
[ +1 XP ]
[ +1 XP ]
The notifications chimed, a morbid scorecard. He'd hit them. He'd hurt them.
But he hadn't dropped most of them with the surgical precision Jane demanded.
He released the trigger, the sudden silence ringing in his ears. A wisp of smoke curled from the barrel.
Jane was staring at him, not at his face, but at his weapon. Her expression wasn't disapproval. It was calculation.
"Wasteful," she said finally. "But effective. You channeled the recoil well."
Her eyes flicked to the nearly spent drum magazine. "But we can't afford to hose them down like that. Not with only two hundred and ninety-four rounds left."
The math was a colder shower than any touch. Their sanctuary had just become a shooting gallery with a very limited supply of ammunition.