The moment Killian stepped into the lobby—
He froze.
Mr. Gonzales.
The security guard lay motionless on the floor.
Blood stained the marble.
The furniture had been overturned.
A broken broom lay nearby.
A shattered chair.
Blood droplets.
Signs of a struggle.
And—
The head.
The destroyed head.
Killian's pupils contracted violently.
Impossible.
No.
No.
No.
His breathing became uneven.
His heart began to pound.
His eyes immediately darted toward the date displayed on his watch.
His face went pale.
Too early.
It was too early.
The dead weren't supposed to wake up until tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow!
Cold sweat covered his back.
How?
What changed?
Did he remember wrong?
No.
Impossible.
He had lived through hell.
He remembered.
He remembered all of it.
The hunger.
The blood.
The endless despair.
He remembered watching cities fall.
He remembered burying friends.
He remembered spending years wondering why he had survived when others hadn't.
