Etta’s father gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his wedding band pressed a red groove into his skin. The hospital loomed ahead, floodlights gleaming off glass doors that slid open and shut in frantic, irregular bursts. Cars and people moved in an organized chaos as they all fought for similar things. However, the inside of the hospital hummed a different tune entirely. Where they wanted to get in, something inside unraveled to get out. Something unnatural.

“Dad, I don’t think we should be here.” Etta’s voice trembled.

"We're fine." He cut her off, eyes locked on the entrance. "I'm just going to grab your mother as quick as possible. Then we'll be back on the road in no time."

"What are you not telling me?" Etta hugged her arms, trying not to break out into tears.

What if it’s already too late? The thought churned Etta’s stomach, but she bit it back. Dad was a rock, solid and immovable, and if he believed Mom obtainable. Etta had to believe it too, but the undying idea that something was wrong kept haunting her. Like the world knew something she didn't and if she were to ask it would get dismissed as "Adult subjects" Or "I'll tell you when you're older".

A man staggered into the parking lot, hospital gown flapping, one arm hanging by a strip of flesh. He stumbled, legs buckling. A woman rushed to help him, big mistake. He lunged, fingers clawing, teeth snapping down on her neck. Blood sprayed, painting the asphalt. Etta thought of Susan, it was the very same attack...but this was way more brutal. Like they were no longer human. "Oh my God!" Etta threw her hands over her face at the horrible sight.

"Stay in the car." her father ordered; eyes hard.

The car hadn’t even stopped rolling when he threw it into park and jumped out. That's when she saw it, the shining piece of metal at her father's waist has he lifted his shirt and pulled it out. Why would her father be taking a gun into the hospital? He moved fast—military instincts kicking in—checking the pistols chamber as he darted between cars. Through the windshield, Etta’s wide eyes tracked him, heart hammering so loud it drowned out the screams nearby.

Come back. Please, come back.

The hospital doors slid open again, and this time a wave of them poured out—limbs jerking with unnatural speed, eyes milky and vacant, mouths slack and hungry. Nurses, patients, security guards—transformed into nightmares. Her father aimed and fired. The crack of gunfire split the air. One of the undead crumpled, skull bursting like a dropped melon. Others tripped over the body, but more kept coming.

"Dad!" Etta smacked on the windows, crying. "Come back!"

A mother dragged her toddler between cars, shoes skidding. An undead man caught her shoulder, teeth sinking in. Her scream splintered into sobs as she shoved her son under an SUV, eyes pleading even as she was dragged down. Etta’s throat tightened. Do something. Move! But she was frozen, fingers locked around the seatbelt, legs numb. The air inside the car was stifling, smelling of leather and fear.

Her father’s gun barked again, then clicked empty. He backed away to reload as they kept coming. One latched on to his arm, knocking his bullets all over the asphalt. Her father twisted the gun around and used it like a hammer, smashing skulls in under its handle. Blood splattered on his boots. For a heartbeat, Etta thought he’d make it—he was cutting through, he was coming back—

But hands caught him, too many hands, pulling him down. His scream ripped through the chaos, raw and agonizing.

“Dad!” Etta’s own voice shocked her, hoarse and broken. She lunged for the door handle, but stopped, fingers trembling.

He was already gone. His eyes met hers for one terrible moment through the windshield—wide with pain and something worse. Then he vanished beneath the horde.

Etta’s vision blurred. Move, move, move. Adrenaline spiked, yanking her out of paralysis. She tore at the seatbelt, nails splitting. The snarls outside were louder now, fists pounding against metal. One of them slammed against the passenger window, face caved in, teeth clacking.

She yelped, scrabbling into the backseat, shoving blankets and backpacks aside. The backseat folded down with a reluctant groan, exposing the trunk—dark and cramped. It smelled of old oil and moth balls. She didn’t think. Couldn’t. Etta clambered in, pushing through their luggage, knees scraping, fingers fumbling for the emergency release. She pulled, and the trunk lid eased shut, sealing her in darkness.

Hot, suffocating air. Gasoline and winter jackets. Her pulse roared in her ears, lungs shuddering with each breath. Through the thin fabric of the seat, the world outside was muffled thuds and shrieks, glass shattering, tires squealing from other cars trying to make a desperate escape. She squeezed her eyes shut, rocking back and forth, biting her sleeve to muffle sobs.

This isn’t happening. You need to wake up. Wake up.

But her father’s screams still echoed, and the car rocked as something heavy crashed into it, setting off the alarm. The blaring horn drowned out everything else—endless, unrelenting. In the dark, Etta curled into herself, shaking uncontrollably, as the world outside died.

Etta lay curled in the cramped space, her knees pressed to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. Her breaths came shallow and quiet, barely more than whispers against the suffocating silence. How long did she remain in the trunk of the car. Hours? A day? She exhausted herself with agony and stress that she passed out. Only to wake up...when? The car no longer rocked, the alarm had faded replaced by the distant moans of the undead, then even that had died down. Now… silence.

She was hungry, mouth dry with thirst, fingers ached from gripping her sleeves. Her body felt stiff; every muscle locked up tight from being edged into such a small space. Etta shifted slightly, trying to find relief, her joints cracking in protest. Still, she waited. Nothing. No footsteps. No snarls. Just the faint ticking of the engine as it cooled. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Reaching forward, she took the chance to fiddle with the taillight like her parents showed her, in case she ever got kidnapped. Pulling at the wired and placements that would release it, Etta pushed the light out. It hit the ground with a loud clank, she froze and waited for a reaction from the outside world before peeking.

The cool air hit her face, relieving her of the dusty car smell she had endured for hours. Night has fallen and the moon above was her only source of light. Slowly, she reached for the trunk release, fingers brushing the metal handle. She hesitated, heart pounding. If they were still out there. Shadows moved in the distance, weaving between the wreckage in the parking lot. You can’t stay in here. She told herself.

Taking a shaky breath, she pulled the handle. The trunk latch clicked, and the lid popped open an inch. Etta froze. Nothing. No movement. She pushed the lid higher, inch by inch, until a sliver of moonlight spilled in, pale and cold. The night air was sharp against her clammy skin. She poked her head out, eyes darting across the lot.

The parking lot was a graveyard. Bodies littered the asphalt, twisted and broken. Some twitched, their movements jerky and unnatural. Blood pooled in dark smears across the pavement. Cars sat abandoned, doors hanging open, headlights still on, casting eerie shadows.

The hospital loomed ahead, dark and silent. Etta eased out of the trunk, her converse landing softly on the ground. Digging around the belongs she pulled out her purple suede backpack and slung it over her shoulder. The night pressed in around her, cold and heavy. She crouched low, creeping around the car. Looking ahead, her father’s body was gone.

A shudder ran through her. She turned toward the hospital. Its entrance stood open; glass doors shattered. The interior was dark, only a few lights flickered in the halls.

Mom.

Her legs moved before her mind could catch up. She padded across the lot, stepping over bodies, breath caught in her throat. The stench of death hung freshly in the air. Every sound made her flinch—the crunch of gravel, the soft scuff of her sneakers. The lobby was a war zone. Chairs overturned, papers scattered, blood smeared across the floor. A wheelchair sat abandoned, one wheel still spinning slowly. The front desk was empty, monitors flickering codes like the matrix.

She crept past the reception desk, toward the dimly lit hallway. The overhead lights flickered, casting long shadows down the corridor. The air smelled of bleach and copper, sharp and nauseating. A faint sound echoed through the halls—a soft shuffling, followed by a wet, dragging noise. Etta pressed herself against the wall, heart in her throat. She took a few moments to muster up what courage she had to lean in and peek around the corner.

A nurse stood in the hallway, back to her, swaying slightly. Her uniform was torn, her head tilted at an unnatural angle. Blood dripped from her fingers, pooling at her feet. The other arm, completely gone. Etta gasped and threw her hands over her mouth. The nurse twitched, head snapping toward a distant sound. Etta dared not to move, not to breathe. After a long moment, she shuffled down the hall and out of sight.

Going back outside was a death trap, staying inside...also a death trap. Etta wanted to throw up from the lack of food as well as choices. She pushed off the wall and moved deeper into the hospital. Each step felt like a gunshot in the silence. She passed empty rooms, doors ajar, curtains rustling faintly. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as they began to burn out. Some of the patients still remained, bits and pieces of them anyway. Others roamed the hall as dead as the ones who took her father down.

Logic no longer found her; she wandered the hospital halls aimless for one purpose...to find her mother...hopefully alive.

“Mom?” she whispered down the halls. "Where are you?"

The only answer was the wind.

Suddenly, a loud clang echoed down the hall. Etta whipped around, heart leaping into her throat. Shadows shifted at the far end of the corridor. A low, wet moan drifted through the air. Then she saw them. Two figures stumbled out from the darkness, their heads snapping toward her. One had a broken arm, bone jutting out at an unnatural angle. The other dragged a shattered leg behind it, each step leaving a smear of blood. Their milky eyes locked onto her.

“Shit.”

They lunged, and she cried out.

Etta bolted. She sprinted down the corridor, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. The undead snarled behind her, their footsteps uneven but fast. She veered around a corner, nearly slipping in a puddle of blood. The hallway stretched endlessly, doors blurring past. A hand clamped onto her backpack. She screamed, twisting violently. The strap tore, sending her sprawling across the floor. Pain flared in her elbow, but she scrambled to her feet, lungs burning.

Up ahead, a door stood ajar. She sprinted toward it, heart pounding in her ears. The undead were right behind her, their growls ragged and hungry. She slammed into the door, shoving it open, and dove inside. Her hands fumbled for the lock. Click.

The door rattled as they threw themselves against it. Etta pressed her back against the cold metal, gasping for air. Her legs trembled, barely holding her up. Etta slid to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. The supply closet was pitch-black, the air stifling. She pressed a trembling hand over her mouth, fighting the urge to sob.

Outside, the undead shuffled away, their snarls fading into the dark...For now.