The zombie was already lunging.
Its jaw opened too wide—skin split at the corners like paper torn by force, teeth blackened and slick, breath pouring out of it in a wet, animal hiss as it pitched forward toward Mari's exposed neck.
Mari didn't scream.
She couldn't.
She was still on her knees, one hand braced against the pavement, the other clutching her stomach, vision swimming from nausea and grief and exhaustion all tangled together. Her body refused to move fast enough. Her brain knew what was coming, but the signal didn't reach her legs.
Dot shouted her name.
Too late.
Something slammed into the zombie from the side.
Hard.
The impact knocked it off balance, sending both bodies crashing into the pavement in a tangle of limbs and snapping teeth.
Mari blinked.
For a split second, she didn't understand what she was seeing.
Then she saw Marcus.
Marcus had put himself between her and the thing.
He'd tackled it full-on, shoulder-first, like it was a linebacker and he still believed brute force could solve things. The zombie hit the ground with a sickening thud, skull bouncing once, teeth clacking together as Marcus rolled with it, scrambling to get on top.
"MOVE!" Marcus shouted, voice hoarse but furious. "GET UP!"
Mari froze.
Everyone froze.
Because as Marcus shoved the zombie's head sideways with one arm, trying to keep its mouth away from his face, the thing twisted unnaturally fast.
Too fast.
Its teeth sank into Marcus's forearm.
Deep.
The sound wasn't loud.
That was the worst part.
It was a wet, muffled crunch—like biting into something that wasn't meant to be bitten.
Marcus screamed.
Then the scream cut off so abruptly it felt like the air itself had been punched out of the world.
Time stalled.
Dot gasped, a sharp, broken sound that didn't feel human.
Renee swore under her breath, backing away without realizing she was doing it.
Mari stared.
She couldn't look away.
The zombie was still clamped onto Marcus's arm, jaw working, tearing, blood already pouring down his skin in dark, fast rivulets. His face contorted—not just in pain, but in realization.
Because everyone knew.
Everyone.
A bite wasn't an injury.
It was a sentence.
Marcus wrenched his arm free with a roar, staggering back, clutching the wound as blood soaked his sleeve. The zombie rolled, limbs flailing, already trying to get back up.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
The world held its breath.
Marcus looked down at his arm.
Then up at them.
And somehow—somehow—he laughed.
It was a sharp, breathless bark of a laugh, the kind that came from disbelief more than humor.
"Well damn," he said, voice shaking but loud enough to cut through the ringing silence. "Since when does the white guy die in the movie before the Black lady?"
He laughed again, wild and cracked.
Dot snapped out of it like she'd been slapped.
"Oh, shut up," she said fiercely, stepping forward and smacking his good arm. "Don't say that. Don't you dare say that."
Her hands were shaking as she grabbed him, like she could hold him together through sheer force of will.
"You're not—no. This is nonsense. You hear me? Nonsense."
Marcus winced, sucking in a breath.
"I'm just saying," he panted, eyes glassy but still there, "this ain't how I saw my odds playin' out."
He looked at Mari then.
Really looked at her.
"You okay?" he asked.
Mari's mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Another growl rose behind them.
Low.
Too close.
"Marcus—" Ethan shouted.
It happened fast.
Too fast.
A second zombie burst from between two abandoned cars, tackling Marcus from the side with enough force to send them both sprawling.
Dot screamed.
Marcus hit the pavement hard, the sound of bone on concrete sickening. He cried out this time—raw, unfiltered agony—as the zombie landed on top of him, clawing, snapping, mouth searching.
The first zombie—still moving—scrambled back into the fight.
Teeth sank into Marcus's shoulder.
Then his thigh.
Then his side.
Over and over.
Blood sprayed.
Marcus screamed.
Not words.
Just sound.
Pure terror and pain ripped from his chest as he fought like hell—punching, kicking, trying to shove them off—but there were two now.
And then three.
More shapes poured in from the street, drawn by the noise, the movement, the blood.
"BACK!" Ethan roared. "GET BACK IN THE JEEP! NOW!"
No one wanted to move.
Dot tried to rush forward.
Renee grabbed her, wrapping her arms around her from behind. "DOT! DOT, NO!"
"He needs help!" Dot sobbed, fighting against her. "He needs—he needs us!"
Marcus was still fighting.
Still screaming.
Still alive.
"GO!" Ethan yelled again, voice cracking with fury and desperation. "THIS IS WHAT HE DID IT FOR!"
That broke something.
Mari sobbed as Dot was dragged backward, her feet skidding on the pavement.
Tally screamed Marcus's name, high and broken, even as Marcus's screams turned hoarse, then ragged, then something almost animal.
Ethan shoved Mari upright, nearly lifting her off her feet. "MOVE!"
They ran.
Stumbled.
Scrambled.
Hands shaking, bodies colliding as they piled back into the Jeep.
The door slammed.
The engine roared to life.
As Ethan threw the Jeep into gear, they all looked back.
They couldn't not.
Marcus was still visible.
On his back now.
Surrounded.
Hands clawing at him.
Teeth tearing.
His screams cut off into choking, bubbling sounds.
Then nothing but movement.
More bodies poured in.
A wall of them.
Swallowing him whole.
Dot screamed his name one last time as the Jeep lurched forward.
Then the turn came.
The angle changed.
And Marcus was gone.
Out of sight.
Eaten by distance, metal, and the dead.
No one spoke.
Not right away.
The Jeep sped down the road, weaving around abandoned cars, past bodies that no longer registered as individual people.
Mari curled forward, sobbing into her hands.
Dot rocked back and forth, whispering Marcus's name like a prayer.
Tally stared straight ahead, eyes empty, lips trembling.
Renee wiped her face with shaking hands, breathing hard.
Ethan gripped the wheel so tightly his knuckles went white.
Marcus had been loud.
Marcus had been annoying.
Marcus had cracked jokes when no one else could breathe.
And Marcus had stepped forward when it mattered.
Silence filled the Jeep.
Not the safe kind.
The kind that meant something irreplaceable was gone.