Buster lunged.
Mr. Whitaker, overwhelmed with relief and emotion, opened his arms for an embrace, tears welling in his eyes.
"That's my good boy—"
But Buster wasn't aiming for a hug.
His powerful jaws clamped down on Whitaker's throat with terrifying precision, ripping through skin, muscle, and windpipe in one brutal motion. A strangled gasp escaped the old man's mouth as he stumbled back, eyes wide in disbelief, blood gushing from the gaping wound in his neck.
His body crumpled to the ground, twitching once—
then still.
Buster stood over him, muzzle soaked in crimson, breathing heavy and unnatural. His once-friendly face now twisted into something monstrous.
Unrecognizable.
Then came the howl.
A blood-curdling, ear-piercing sound that split through the morning silence like a siren of death. It echoed off the colony walls, slicing through dreams and stirring everyone from their beds.
Maarg, Jack, Remmy, and others jolted awake, grabbing whatever weapons were nearby. Mothers clutched their children. Fear gripped every heart.
People rushed toward the walls—toward the gate—where Whitaker had once stood.
And then they saw them.
Behind the feral beast that was once Buster… the fog shimmered with movement.
Not one. Not a dozen.
Thousands.
An army of silhouettes emerged—grotesque, malformed figures with glowing yellow eyes, flickering like fireflies in the dense fog. Eyes full of hunger. Rage. Purpose.
They didn't shamble like the usual infected.
They marched.
Unified. Controlled.
Jack's voice cracked as he stepped onto the lookout tower, staring into the mass of glowing death heading their way. "What the hell is this…?"
Maarg stared in stunned silence, his fists clenched, the words caught in his throat.
This wasn't just another horde.
This was war.
And Buster… was their herald.
(Ten Minutes Earlier)
Maarg sat on the windowsill of Remmy's room, arms resting on his knees, a habit he had grown into over the past few days. Their late-night and early-morning talks had become a routine—one of the few constants in a world now ruled by the unpredictable.
The sky was still gray, the fog crawling thick over the ground like a blanket of secrets.
"I feel bad for poor Whitaker," Maarg muttered, his eyes scanning the quiet colony yard below.
Remmy looked up from where she was folding a blanket. "Who won't be sad if the pet they cherished more than their own granddaughter just ran away?"
Maarg blinked. "Wait, what?"
Remmy tilted her head, smirking faintly. "You do know I'm his granddaughter, right?"
"Remington Whitaker Mills"
Maarg blinked again, stunned. "Whitaker's your what?"
Remmy chuckled softly. "Yup. Whitaker's my grandpa. My mom was his only daughter. Since my mother passed away and my father is abroad for his business, I have been staying with Grandma and him."
Now that she said it, it made too much sense. The sharp tongue, the prideful chin tilt, the way she could stare someone down without blinking—yeah, he saw it now.
"You're telling me that grumpy old fossil is your grandpa?" Maarg raised an eyebrow.
Remmy shrugged. "He's not all bad. He's just... stuck in his ways. Grandma balances him out"
Maarg let out a small laugh. "Guess some traits run in the family."
Remmy threw a pillow at him. "Hey! I've changed."
He caught it with a grin. "Yeah. You did."
A beat of silence passed between them. Something unsaid, something settled.
And then—
The Howl.
It hit them like a slap of cold water—shrill, haunting, unnatural.
Both of them turned toward the window as the colony erupted with movement and shouts.
"What the hell was that?" Remmy said, already grabbing her coat.
Maarg didn't answer. He was already out the window.
The two raced down the stairs and out into the colony square. People were scrambling, pointing, arming themselves. Mothers screamed for their children. The guards on the wall were yelling.
Maarg shoved through the growing crowd to the gate.
He got there just in time to see it—
Buster. Covered in blood. Standing over a crumpled body that was no longer moving.
Mr. Whitaker.
The old man's throat had been ripped open, his face frozen in betrayal, hands still outstretched like he'd been expecting a hug.
Maarg felt his stomach drop.
Then, behind the dog… the fog began to move.
The yellow eyes emerged—dozens, then hundreds, then thousands. Silent. Steady. Organized.
Remmy appeared beside Maarg, her eyes wide in horror. "What is that…?"
"It's not just a horde," Maarg said, barely audible. "It's something else…"
Jack's voice echoed from the tower. "Everyone to the defenses! This isn't a drill!"
The colony braced for impact, still unaware of the force about to descend on them.
And somewhere beyond the fog, watching with quiet, mechanical delight…
It grinned.
Chaos erupted. The peaceful morning shattered like glass under a hammer. People who had been laughing just hours ago now screamed in terror. The warmth of the bonfire was replaced with the cold, heart-stopping panic of survival.
Zombies flooded the colony, their grotesque moans merging into a single, dreadful roar. Some residents, still hungover from the night before, stumbled in confusion. Others hadn't even had time to get out of their blankets. The air stank of blood and fire, and the pale morning fog danced with the shadows of the dead.
Jack didn't hesitate. Along with Ethan, Noah, and Henry—those who had served on supply runs before—he took the front line. Swinging a spiked bat, Jack yelled, "Fall back! Everyone move to the safe house! Don't try to fight unless you have to!"
Maarg's eyes scanned the chaos until they landed on Remmy. She stood frozen on the steps, shocked by what she was seeing—her grandfather's corpse lying in a growing pool of blood, and Buster, the loyal dog she grew up with, now a snarling beast tearing into another resident.
"Remmy!" Maarg shouted, charging toward her.
He grabbed her hand and pulled her away just in time to avoid a lunging zombie. "We have to move. Now!"
"I—my grandfather…" she stammered, looking back.
"I know," Maarg said, not breaking stride. "But we'll die if we stay here. The safe house, remember?"
She nodded shakily, allowing him to drag her through the chaos. They dodged overturned benches and scattered cooking pots from last night's feast. The ground was wet and slick with spilled drinks—and blood.
The safe house stood at the far end of the colony—a two-story cement building that used to be a daycare center before the world ended. Reinforced with metal doors, thick barricades, and a backup generator, it had been Maarg's father's idea. He always said: "You never know when the walls will fall. Prepare for that day."
Maarg silently thanked his father's foresight. He pushed through the entrance with Remmy and quickly locked the doors behind them. Inside, his mother and several others had already gathered. The room was dimly lit with battery-powered lamps, and the shelves were filled with canned goods, medical kits, and firewood.
"You're safe now," he told Remmy. "Stay here."
"What about you?" she asked, breathless.
Maarg grabbed an iron rod from a nearby rack. "I'm going back out. Jack's out there. So are the others."
Before she could protest, he was already gone—disappearing into the smoke and screams.
As Maarg joins Jack at the front lines, the colony echoes with chaos. The fog was now thick with the stench of blood, the groans of the undead, and the panic of the living. Jack, breathless but focused, caught sight of Maarg leaping over a pile of crates and swinging at an incoming zombie.
"Maarg!" Jack shouted, ducking under a clawed hand and jamming his bat into a skull. "I'm going to help people get into the safe house. Make sure you don't fall before that!"
Maarg nodded without turning, gripping his iron rod tighter. Jack didn't waste a second—he spun around and darted through the colony, weaving past the terrified residents and the pockets of violence erupting like gunfire.
He finally reached the apartment complex that had been converted into a makeshift hospital. Its windows were boarded up, and blood trails smeared the hallway. Inside, groans echoed and screams cracked through the walls.
Jack burst through the doorway—and there she was.
Sammy stood in the center of the room, a scalpel in one hand and a pair of medical scissors in the other. Her white coat was soaked with blood, but not all of it was hers. Behind her, two terrified women clutched each other, protected by the ferocity in Sammy's golden eyes.
Zombies circled the room, four of them, snarling and clawing.
Jack froze for a moment—not in fear, but in awe. Where others had fallen, Sammy held her ground.
She swung with terrifying precision, slicing one zombie's eye clean open with her scissors. "Stay back!" she growled, like a wolf protecting her cubs.
But she was tiring.
Jack didn't hesitate. He let out a war cry and swung his spiked bat with everything he had—crack!—the bat shattered as the zombie's skull caved in. Splinters flew, and blood sprayed across the room.
Another zombie lunged at him, but Jack tossed the broken bat's handle like a javelin, catching it square in the mouth. With a grunt, he charged the remaining two, fists flying.
He punched one zombie in the throat, spun, and landed a heavy elbow on the other's head. Flesh squelched and bones cracked.
In seconds, it was over.
Jack stood there, breathing heavily. Blood and grime dripped from his hands. His shirt was ruined.
But he looked at Sammy and smiled like he had just gone for a jog.
"Miss me?" he said, wiping his hands on the shredded fabric of his shirt.
Sammy blinked. "You idiot."
Jack only grinned wider. He pulled the blue hair tie from his wrist, tied his messy hair into a loose ponytail, then pulled a dusty bandana from his back pocket and wrapped it around his head.
He looked down at the floor and spotted a fire axe someone had dropped in the chaos. He picked it up, feeling the weight.
"Guess I've got a new toy."
Without another word, he motioned for the women to follow. Sammy gave him a brief nod of thanks—grateful, but still too proud to say it out loud.
Together, they moved. Back into the madness.
Everything was going alright… or so they thought.
Maarg was almost done. He had cleared most of the zombies near the north perimeter and was making his way back toward the safe house. Jack had already set out with Sammy and the others, weaving through alleyways and fallen debris, guiding people toward the sanctuary. Inside the safe house, Maarg's parents were doing their part—his father directing the wounded, his mother organizing the food and medicine. The plan had gone well.
So what could go wrong?
Everything.
A sound thundered across the quiet of the dying battle—not a roar, not a howl—but a monstrous snarl, like metal grinding against bone. The air itself seemed to shift as an enormous silhouette burst through the smoke behind the safe house.
It was Buster… but not the same.
The once-normal dog had transformed into a creature the size of a panther, its body swollen and sinewy, skin stretched tight over mutated muscle. Its eyes glowed brighter than ever, dripping a sickening green from the corners, and its snout was stained with blackened blood. Whether it was from devouring corpses or the result of the fluorescent green serum It had injected—no one could say. But this was no longer just a dog. This was a weapon.
The monster lunged toward the back of the safe house, its claws raking through the barricades like cardboard. In one brutal pounce, it smashed through the rear wall, sending bricks and sandbags flying. Screams erupted from within the safe house. People stumbled backwards, panic setting in.
From the front, the regular zombies continued their slow, unstoppable crawl. But now with the back torn open, the safe house was no longer safe. It had become a trap. A coffin.
Jack, already exhausted, had barely caught his breath when he saw the collapse of the back wall. He turned to Taylor Singh, the colony's former hockey coach turned warrior, and shouted, "Hold that breach!"
Together, they swung their weapons—Jack's new axe biting into rotting flesh, Taylor's makeshift halberd slashing back groups of the undead. But it wasn't enough. For every three they cut down, five more took their place. Buster, the beast, leapt again—this time pinning a survivor trying to crawl away, tearing through flesh with feral speed. Blood sprayed the floor.
Taylor glanced toward Jack, eyes wide. "We're not gonna hold!"
And he was right. In a flash of chaos, zombies overwhelmed the defense line. Taylor pushed Jack out of the way just in time before getting pulled down by three of the infected. Jack turned to help—but it was too late. Taylor's scream was short-lived. They tore into him.
"NO!" Jack's roar cracked the air.
He swung wildly, pure rage guiding him, but the line was broken. The infected now swarmed into the safe house from both ends.
Meanwhile, Maarg had just reached the alley that opened into the square where the safe house stood. He froze. The front was overrun. The back wall was caved in. Firelight and chaos filled the air, and over it all, he saw Buster—the monster dog—standing tall over the bodies of those who couldn't make it in time.
"Remmy…" Maarg muttered under his breath.
He turned and ran back toward the entrance to the safe house, dodging grasping hands and shattered debris, leaping over a broken fence. He crashed through a side door and ran inside.
Inside the safe house was nothing short of hell. Screams, blood, confusion. Some people fought, some prayed, some cried. Maarg's father was trying to lead people through a back hallway to a tunnel that led out of the building, but with the back blown open and Buster guarding it, even escape was uncertain.
Maarg grabbed a bat and found his mother helping a child to safety. "Mom! Go with Dad! I'll handle this!"
His mom paused only a second—just enough to look him in the eyes. "Don't be reckless."
"No promises," Maarg whispered, then turned back into the chaos.
He could hear Jack's screams echo from the other side of the building. He was still fighting. Still alive. But the tide was turning fast. If they didn't think of something—anything—soon, all of them would die here.
And above all the noise, the chaos, the gnashing of teeth and screams of the innocent—there was the low, beastly growl of Buster, once a beloved companion… now a harbinger of death.
Maarg's breath came in short bursts, his chest rising and falling like a storm-tossed sea. He gritted his teeth, eyes locked on the creature before him. That thing… that thing used to be Buster. He could still see faint traces of the dog's former self beneath the mutated flesh, but all of it was buried under rot and rage. There was no saving it.
Fueled by fury, grief, and desperation, Maarg gripped both knives in his hands and charged.
With inhuman speed and flexibility, he danced around the beast, dodging deadly swipes from claws the size of butcher knives. He spun and sliced—left, right, up, down. The knives gleamed like falling stars, flickering and flashing as they found their mark over and over again. He cut into muscle, tore through fur, carved through skin. The beast roared and lashed out, but Maarg was too fast, too precise.
Blood sprayed—green and black and foul-smelling—but Maarg didn't stop. He couldn't stop.
"COME ON!" he screamed, leaping onto its back and stabbing down hard. "YOU THINK YOU CAN KILL MY PEOPLE?"
The beast bucked and twisted, slamming itself into the wall, trying to throw him off. Maarg held on, jamming his blade into its shoulder—then the other into its flank. Pain and fury danced across its eyes, but Maarg's own were wild with fire.
But then… his arms slowed. His knees shook. The storm inside him faded into exhaustion.
He stumbled.
One foot misstepped, and the beast whipped around, jaws wide open—teeth like knives, breath like death. It lunged for Maarg's throat.
Time slowed.
The boy braced, too tired to move, too stubborn to give in. He clenched his eyes shut.
But then—CRACK!
A blue blur stormed into view. Jack.
With every last ounce of his strength, Jack swung his axe in a perfect arc. It sang through the air like justice itself. The blade connected with a sound that shook the air—steel against bone. With one clean, brutal sweep, the axe carved through the beast's skull. A sickening crack followed. Then silence.
The beast froze.
Maarg opened his eyes just in time to see the creature's glowing eyes dim… then flicker out like dying embers.
Its body slumped to the ground, crashing with a weight that shook the floor. Dead. Finally.
Jack stood over it, heaving, covered in blood and filth. His axe dripped green.
He looked at Maarg and smirked through the chaos. "Told you not to fall before I got here."
Maarg stared for a moment, then let out a breathless laugh and dropped to his knees.
All around them, the battle hadn't ended—but something shifted. The tide had cracked. Hope, that fragile little thing, had a chance to rise again.
The chaos was deafening.
Screams clashed with the distant growls of the undead. Smoke curled in the air, mixing with dust and gunpowder as firelight flickered across bloodstained walls. Somewhere outside, people fought desperately, but inside the safe house, time froze for Remmy.
She had been searching frantically—calling out, stumbling through the haze of adrenaline and fear—for her grandmother. The woman who had been her one constant, her comfort. But as she rounded the corner toward the back of the building, everything collapsed.
The wall behind her cracked with an unholy rumble, bricks and steel groaning in one final breath before crashing down. The world turned upside down in a blink. Her body was thrown to the ground, and before she could scream, tons of debris crushed her legs beneath it. Pain flared like fire through her veins, and she tried to move—but she couldn't.
She was pinned. Trapped.
She clawed at the broken ground, fingernails cracking and bleeding, trying to pull herself free. But the more she moved, the sharper the agony. Her strength ebbed. Her hope began to wither.
Until she saw him.
Maarg.
He was limping, his shirt torn and soaked in blood—not all of it his. His eyes were scanning, frantically, desperately, and when they landed on her, he froze. Just for a second. His lips trembled. His knees buckled. And then, tears.
He was crying.
Maarg had promised himself long ago—after that night in the rain when everything changed—that he would never cry again. He had buried that part of himself deep. But seeing Remmy, the strongest girl he knew, trapped beneath rubble, broken and helpless, made that dam inside him crack open.
He wanted to help her. God, he wanted to. But he had nothing left in him. No strength. No time.
His parents.
He swallowed hard, clenching his fists until his nails bit into his palms. With a choked apology whispered under his breath, he ran past her.
Remmy watched him go. She didn't scream or cry. She just nodded slowly, whispering, "It's okay." And for a moment, she truly meant it.
Maarg burst into the hallway, stumbling toward the room that had once been his family's shelter. He stopped outside the door, panting, pressing his forehead against the cold wood. He prayed. Just this once, he prayed.
He opened the door.
His father was kneeling on the ground, rocking back and forth, his mother's limp body cradled in his arms. Blood seeped from a wound on her arm—too deep, too jagged to be anything but a bite.
His father looked up, face streaked with tears. "Son… your mother… she was bitten. But she'll be okay, right? Your brother—he's a microbiologist. Maybe he'll know what to do."
Maarg shook his head slowly, voice shaking. "Put her down, Dad. You need to come with me. Now."
"What?" his father gasped. "You can't mean that. She's your mother! We can't just leave her here!"
Maarg's voice broke. "She's gone. Mom is gone."
His father clutched her tighter, refusing to let go. "There has to be a way. Maybe we can wait… maybe someone will come."
"There's no time!" Maarg shouted, tears streaming down his face. "You know what happens next!"
His father's lip quivered, eyes searching Maarg's for anything—any shred of hope. But there was none. Only pain.
"If you really think she's gone… then go," his father said. "But I made her a promise when I married her. I told her I'd stay by her side until her last breath. And if that moment's now… then let it be now."
Maarg didn't know what to say. His body shook. The knife in his hand lowered.
Then she moved.
His mother's eyes snapped open. But they weren't her eyes anymore. They were cold. Hungry.
"Be more optimistic, alright… Maarg…" his father said in a low voice that sent ice down his spine.
And then she bit. Her teeth sank into his father's neck, tearing flesh. Blood sprayed across the room. Maarg screamed.
The thing that had once been his mother dropped the body and turned toward him, lurching forward with unnatural speed. Her fingers stretched toward his face—
—when an axe crashed into her head, sending her flying across the room.
Jack stood at the doorway, panting, eyes blazing with rage. "Are you STUPID? She nearly killed you!"
Maarg stood there, trembling, knife hanging at his side.
"We're leaving," Jack growled, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him out.
Maarg tried to fight him. He kicked and cried, begging to go back. But Jack didn't stop. He kept moving.
Outside, Sammy was waiting, holding her side, Jack took her hand, pulled her close.
And they ran.
Through the hole the beast had made. Through the fire and the blood.
No one knew where they were going. Only that they had to go. Far away. From the screams. From the loss. From the broken hearts left behind.