The city stretched before him, silent and ruined.

  Hugo sat against a crumbling brick wall, his fingers idly tracing the edges of his crowbar. The cold morning air bit at his skin, the sky a dull gray overhead. He could still smell the smoke from the fire station—or maybe that was just in his head.

  Salem sat beside him, his yellow eyes watching the empty street, tail flicking lazily. He wasn’t tense, but he wasn’t relaxed either. Always waiting, always listening.

  Hugo exhaled slowly, letting his head rest against the bricks.

  He was alive.

  That meant Frank wasn’t.

  The thought curled in his stomach like a fist, but he forced himself to push past it. He had already made peace with it.

  Hadn’t he?

  Hugo’s fingers tightened around the crowbar.

  The last few weeks had been a slow, bloody descent into something he still wasn’t sure he understood. He had died more times than he could count, each time waking up exactly where he had started. He had learned, adapted, fought, and failed—until failing was no longer an option.

  He had survived the Enclave. Killed their leader. Burned their men alive. He had reset that battle so many times that winning felt more like a necessity than a victory.

  But it hadn’t been enough to save Frank.

  And now, for the first time since this nightmare began, there was no going back.

  He had slept.

  That meant whatever happened next was real. Permanent.

  His hand moved instinctively to his backpack, fingers brushing over the weight of Frank’s rifle. It still felt wrong—like it didn’t belong to him.

  But he had taken it anyway.

  He had taken everything he could carry—ammo, supplies, the Enclave leader’s pistol. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep going.

  The only question was where?

  He glanced at the city ahead. Downtown.

  That was the only way forward.

  The bridge leading to his brothers was on the other side of that towering graveyard of steel and concrete. He had spent so long avoiding it, circling its edges like prey watching a predator from a safe distance. But now, there was no more circling.

  He had to go through.

  And that meant facing whatever was waiting inside.

  Salem stretched, yawning lazily before hopping onto the ledge of a broken window. His ears twitched, his nose sniffing the cold morning air. He turned back to Hugo with an expectant look.

  It’s time.

  Hugo exhaled, pushed himself to his feet, and swung his backpack onto his shoulders. His body ached, but the pain was good. It meant he was still here.

  Still moving.

  One last glance at the smoke-stained sky.

  Then he turned, stepping into the ruins of the dead city.

  He had somewhere to be.

  Hugo moved carefully through the ruined streets, the towering glass and steel of downtown looming over him. The air was thick with the scent of rot and damp concrete, every gust of wind carrying the faint echo of distant groans. He kept to the shadows, his footfalls silent against the cracked pavement.

  Downtown was a death trap. He knew that much the moment he stepped past the outskirts. The sheer number of abandoned vehicles, collapsed storefronts, and broken windows told the story—people had tried to flee, but no one had made it out.

  Salem crept ahead, his yellow eyes wide and alert, his body low to the ground. Hugo followed the cat’s lead, trusting his instincts to warn him of danger before he saw it himself.

  Then he spotted it—a sporting goods store wedged between the skeletal remains of a coffee shop and a burned-out pharmacy. Its sign hung crookedly above shattered glass doors, the words "Ridgeway Outfitters" barely legible under the grime.

  Looters had already been here, but that didn’t mean everything was gone.

  Hugo crouched near the entrance, scanning the inside through the broken glass. The store was dark, the shelves mostly ransacked, but a lot of the larger equipment had been left untouched. More importantly, there were no signs of movement inside.

  He slipped inside, careful not to crunch any broken glass under his boots. The place smelled of mildew and dust, a sharp contrast to the stench of decay outside. Rows of empty shelves lined the walls, stripped of their more obvious valuables—camping stoves, hunting knives, and prepackaged survival kits were long gone.

  But Hugo wasn’t looking for the obvious.

  He moved past the front counters, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. Toward the back, near the employee storage area, he spotted a display of backpacks still hanging from their hooks. Most were cheap, flimsy things meant for casual hikers—but one stood out.

  A heavy-duty tactical backpack. Dark gray, reinforced with multiple compartments, durable straps, and a built-in water bladder. Exactly what he needed.

  He yanked it down, giving the zippers a quick test. It was sturdy, well-made. His current pack had served him well, but this one was better—roomier, stronger, and far more comfortable to carry long distances.

  Sliding it onto his shoulders, he felt the difference immediately. The weight distributed better across his back, and the straps didn’t dig into his shoulders like his old one.

  Salem jumped onto a toppled display rack, sniffing at a pile of discarded gear. Hugo followed, eyes sweeping the area.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Then he saw it.

  A bow.

  It was resting inside an open display case, a sleek black compound bow. The sight of it sent a strange nostalgia creeping through his chest. He had used one before—once or twice, when he was a kid. His uncle had taken him and his brothers to an archery range one summer. He had barely been able to pull the string back then, but he remembered the mechanics, the way the shot had felt when he finally landed an arrow on the target.

  He reached for it slowly, his fingers grazing the smooth grip.

  A gun was faster. More reliable. But a bow was quiet.

  And quiet mattered.

  Carefully, he lifted it, testing the tension of the string. It was in good condition, the limbs solid, the cams unbroken. He slung it over his shoulder, along with a quiver of arrows—most were missing, but there were still about fifteen left.

  A low chuff from Salem made him glance down. The cat was sniffing at something near a pile of collapsed shelves. Hugo crouched, pushing aside the scattered debris until his fingers closed around a bundle of thick rope.

  He grinned.

  This would come in handy.

  Looping the rope over his Backpack, he did one last sweep of the store. Further searching revealed a small hand-cranked flashlight, some protein bars, and a pack of water purification tablets. Good finds. Most of what remained was useless—broken fishing rods, shattered glass cases, a deflated raft. But as far as he was concerned, he had just hit a jackpot.

  A better backpack.

  A bow and arrows.

  A rope.

  He had everything he needed to keep moving.

  Adjusting the straps of his new pack, he gave Salem a small nod. “Let’s go.”

  The cat flicked his tail, then padded toward the exit.

  He had no idea what awaited him in the heart of downtown.

  But at least now, he was better prepared.

  Hugo kept low as he moved through the skeletal remains of downtown, his new gear settling against his back with every step. The bow felt foreign slung over his shoulder, a weapon he had barely used, but the weight of it was oddly reassuring. Guns were loud. The bow? That was something he could learn, something that wouldn’t call an entire horde down on him with every shot.

  Salem padded ahead, weaving through the debris of the ruined city.

  Hugo stopped at the mouth of a crumbling intersection.

  Skyscrapers loomed around him like silent grave markers, their glass windows shattered, steel frameworks exposed where time and destruction had gutted them. Some buildings had partially collapsed, blocking entire streets with mountains of rubble.

  And everywhere—everywhere—there were the dead.

  Hugo clenched his jaw, tightening his grip on the crowbar as he scanned the streets. The density of zombies here was unlike anything he had faced before. The suburbs, the outskirts—those places had walkers, but they were spread out, easier to deal with. Here? The entire city felt suffocated with them.

  Some stood idle, their heads lolling, bodies swaying in the cold wind. Others wandered aimlessly between rusted, abandoned cars. And worse—some of them moved with unnatural sharpness. Runners.

  Hugo let out a slow breath, steadying himself.

  What he had hoped would be a day’s journey through downtown now stretched impossibly long. The road leading out of the city had been blocked—collapsed buildings, abandoned military barricades, overturned buses jammed together like a tomb. He had tried backtracking, looking for alternate routes, but each path only revealed more problems: impassable ruins, flooded underpasses, streets so clogged with wreckage they were unusable.

  The only way forward was through the heart of the city. And it was going to take days.

  He adjusted his pack and moved.

  He had barely gone three blocks when everything went wrong.

  A runner.

  It spotted him from across an intersection—perched on the hood of an abandoned taxi, its body twitching unnaturally.

  Then it screamed.

  Hugo’s stomach dropped.

  A second later, it lunged.

  He sprinted.

  The first runner was faster than he expected. It vaulted over a car hood, its elongated limbs clawing at the pavement as it closed the distance.

  Hugo veered left, ducking into an alley, his boots pounding against the ground.

  Salem bolted ahead, slipping under a collapsed fence.

  Hugo followed, barely squeezing through before the runner slammed against it, clawing at the gaps.

  More shrieks.

  They weren’t alone.

  He didn’t stop. He sprinted through the narrow passage, vaulting over fallen debris.

  Up ahead—a fire escape.

  Hugo leapt, grabbing onto the rusted ladder, scrambling up just as the first runner slid into the alley.

  He climbed, breath ragged, pulling himself onto the roof.

  Hugo barely had time to catch his breath.

  Below, the runners snarled and clawed at the fire escape, their elongated fingers scraping against rusted metal. Their bodies twitched unnaturally, their glowing eyes locked onto him.

  Then one of them leapt.

  Hugo’s heart stopped.

  The first runner vaulted off the ground, its powerful legs launching it into the air. It grabbed onto the edge of the roof with ease, its fingers digging into the crumbling brick.

  Another one jumped, landing just short but catching a drainage pipe, scrambling up like a rabid spider.

  Hugo didn’t wait.

  He bolted.

  Salem shot ahead, his sleek black form barely visible against the shadows of the rooftop.

  The first runner pulled itself up, its head snapping toward Hugo as it let out another ear-piercing shriek.

  A second later, it charged.

  Hugo sprinted, his boots pounding against the rooftop, the wind whipping past his face. His lungs burned, his pulse hammered. The gap between buildings was coming fast.

  He didn’t stop to think.

  He jumped.

  For a split second, he was airborne—weightless—before his feet slammed onto the next rooftop.

  He stumbled, nearly going over the edge, but caught himself just in time.

  The first runner cleared the gap effortlessly, landing behind him.

  Another one followed.

  Hugo cursed under his breath. There were at least three of them now, moving with terrifying speed.

  He veered left, cutting across a rooftop littered with old air conditioning units and satellite dishes. The layout was uneven, but that barely slowed them down.

  Salem leapt onto a ledge, landing gracefully before darting across a rusted metal beam that connected to another building.

  Hugo didn’t have that option.

  The runners were closing in.

  He swung the backpack off one shoulder, yanking free his bow.

  Fumbling, he nocked an arrow—his first real shot since finding the thing.

  The lead runner lunged.

  Hugo loosed the arrow.

  It whistled through the air—not perfect, but not a total miss.

  The tip slammed into the runner’s shoulder, throwing it off balance.

  It crashed onto the rooftop with a snarl, struggling to regain its footing.

  Hugo didn’t stop.

  He cut right, aiming for a fire escape ahead.

  The metal ladder dangled, just barely within reach—too high to grab in a standing jump.

  Behind him, the second runner let out a shriek and leapt.

  Hugo took a running start.

  At the last second, he kicked off an old ventilation duct, using the extra height to snag the bottom rung of the fire escape.

  His fingers burned as he hoisted himself up, the muscles in his arms screaming in protest.

  Below, the first runner recovered, ripping the arrow from its shoulder, its head snapping up toward him.

  The second runner slammed into the side of the building, its fingers clawing at the bricks, searching for a grip.

  Hugo climbed. Faster.

  Above, Salem hopped onto the railing, watching as Hugo scrambled up.

  The moment he reached the platform, he kicked the ladder down.

  Metal clattered violently against the wall as the loose ladder tumbled, striking one of the runners below.

  It howled in frustration, but they weren’t giving up.

  The first one jumped again, this time grabbing the railing.

  Hugo’s eyes widened.

  He didn’t hesitate. He yanked his crowbar free and swung.

  CRACK.

  The runner’s fingers shattered under the impact.

  It let out a guttural screech as it lost its grip, plummeting backward.

  Hugo didn’t wait to see if it survived.

  He turned and climbed through the nearest window, disappearing into the dark ruins beyond.

  Salem followed, slipping inside just as Hugo yanked the window shut.

  For a moment, only silence.

  Then, from outside—more shrieks.

  They weren’t done hunting him yet.

  Hugo pressed his back against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  His body was on fire—his legs, his arms, his chest, everything ached from the chase.

  The building was dark, dust swirling in the faint light filtering through the cracks in the boarded-up windows.

  He scanned the room. Looked like an old office space. Desks overturned, papers scattered. Signs of looting, but no fresh movement.

  He exhaled slowly.

  Safe. For now.

  Salem sniffed the air before hopping onto a fallen filing cabinet, watching the window.

  Hugo rubbed a hand over his face, still buzzing from adrenaline.

  That had been too close.

  The runners were worse than he ever imagined. He had known they were fast, but jumping rooftops?

  They weren’t just dangerous.

  They were relentless.

  And the bridge was still miles away.

  He let out a long breath, staring out the cracked window.

  The city stretched on, towering and endless.

  This was going to be a long, long journey.