Phileo walked after that.
He did not run anymore.
The streets were empty, but his head was loud. Every step felt wrong, like he was walking through a place he didn't belong in.
Blood had dried on his hands. He did not remember when he got it there. He did not try to clean it off.
His chest felt tight. Not pain. Not fear. Something deeper.
Guilt.
Every shadow looked like Mara. Every sound felt like Ben's gun firing. He stopped more than once, turning around fast, expecting to see them behind him. Each time, there was nothing.
The pull stayed with him.
Not screaming. Not calling.
Just there.
Like a weight tied to his spine.
He found a small store with the front smashed in and stepped inside. Shelves were empty.
The smell of rot hung in the air. He sat against the counter and slid down until his back hit the floor.
His hands started shaking again.
"They died because of me," he said to the dark.
The words felt real this time.
Too real.
His breathing sped up. His vision blurred. His heart hammered like it wanted out. He grabbed his head and pressed his palms into his eyes, but the images forced their way through anyway.
Mara's eyes when she realized.
Ben stepping back, gun shaking.
The gate breaking.
Phileo growled and slammed his head back against the wall.
Once.
Twice.
Pain flared, sharp and welcome.
"Shut up," he whispered.
Something moved outside.
Phileo froze.
Then the sound came again. Dragging feet.
Low breaths. Many of them.
He stood slowly.
The pull surged.
Strong. Clear.
They were close.
Too close.
Phileo walked out of the store.
Three infected stood in the street. One missing an arm. One with its neck bent wrong. One swollen and leaking black fluid onto the ground. They saw him at the same time.
They rushed him.
Phileo didn't think.
He grabbed a rusted pipe from the ground and stepped forward.
The first one reached him. He swung hard. The pipe crushed its jaw. Teeth flew. It dropped, still moving. He brought the pipe down again. And again. Until the head split open.
The second one lunged. Phileo let it come close, then drove the pipe straight into its eye. The body jerked and collapsed. He yanked the pipe free, flesh tearing with a wet sound.
The third one screamed.
A sharp sound.
Wrong.
Phileo felt something snap inside him.
He charged.
The pipe rose and fell. Over and over. Blood sprayed his arms. His face. The infected stopped moving long before he did.
When it was over, he stood there, breathing hard.
The street was silent again.
Phileo looked down at the bodies.
His hands were steady now.
Too steady.
The pull faded slightly.
He understood something then.
As long as he moved.
As long as he fought.
He didn't have to feel the loss.
Phileo turned and walked on.
Alone.
After the end.