In the shadow of the gymnasium building, the car remained untouched by the chaos unfolding nearby. The infected, drawn by the relentless beat of loud music, had congregated away from our location, their attention completely diverted. The phone, miraculously, still had a substantial amount of battery left, continuing to blast the music that kept us safe for the moment.
Sydney, crouching carefully, moved ahead with a cautious grace. Her eyes scanned the area as she turned to me. "What is that lame music?" She asked.
I followed closely behind, ensuring my steps were as silent as possible. "I put it on to draw their attention away from me and Emily," I explained.
Sydney glanced back at me, an eyebrow raised. "Hm, quite smart, aren't you? I guess if she's still alive, it's thanks to you?"
I shrugged modestly, not wanting to take all the credit. "We helped each other," I replied.
Sydney's next question caught me completely off guard. "Did you fuck her?" She asked bluntly.
My cheeks flushed a deep red, and I stumbled over my words. "W-What?!"
Seeing my reaction, Sydney smirked. "Bullseye, huh?"
"No, we didn't!" I insisted, my voice cracking slightly under the pressure of her gaze.
"And that underwear you had, must be hers as well?" She continued, her eyes narrowing as she pieced together the puzzle.
"No, I'm telling you—" I began, but she cut me off with a dismissive wave of her hand.
"It doesn't matter," she said, though it was clear she was convinced of her own conclusion.
Feeling a mix of embarrassment and frustration, I muttered awkwardly, "Just don't tell anyone... It happened when we thought we were going to die. She has a boyfriend, so—"
Sydney's expression softened slightly, and she asked, "What's your name already?"
"Ryan," I replied.
"Ryan," she repeated, as if testing the sound of it. "Do you really think you're going to see Emily again?"
I hesitated, unsure of how to respond. "I mean... why not?" I asked, though doubt crept into my voice.
Sydney let out a sigh, her expression turning serious. "Liam is planning to get out of New York with the cars they've gathered. Your girlfriend will be leaving with them, so you likely won't see her unless you have a means to track her."
"Emily is not my girlfriend..." I corrected her, though I understood the sentiment behind her words.
If they were going to leave the city, I had no idea where they might be headed. They would just run away, trying to find a safe place out of the infected's reach—if such a place even existed.
Sydney's aloof expression remained unchanged as she spoke again. "Well, maybe you will meet her again, in which case that could be destiny," she said, her tone making it difficult to tell whether she was serious or not.
I couldn't help but feel a bit taken aback by her words. "I didn't think of you as someone who believes in destiny," I admitted.
Sydney's gaze sharpened, and she asked, "Did we meet before?"
I shook my head, confusion furrowing my brow. "No, I don't think so..."
"Then why do you speak as if we were long acquaintances?" She questioned.
"My bad..." I sighed.
Sydney was truly a bit weird, and I couldn't help but wonder about the goth-style clothes she was wearing.
Sydney's attention shifted away from our conversation as we approached what I assumed was her destination. The streetlights cast long shadows across the asphalt, illuminating a sleek red sedan parked beneath a flickering lamp post. Even in the dim light, I could tell it was well-maintained—the paint gleamed despite the chaos that had consumed the city over the past few days.
She moved fishing keys from her jacket pocket as she approached the driver's side. The soft click of the lock disengaging seemed unusually loud in the oppressive silence of the empty street. Sydney slid into the driver's seat with fluid grace, but instead of starting the engine, she turned to study me through the passenger window.
"Do you know how to drive a car?"
I paused with my hand on the passenger door handle. "Yeah, but I think you should drive it. You'd be better at it—it's your car, after all." The logic seemed sound to me. She knew the vehicle's quirks, its handling, how it responded in different situations.
Without warning, Sydney's keys came flying through the air toward me. I caught them reflexively, the metal still warm from her grip. "You drive."
"Right..." I stood there for a moment, genuinely puzzled by her decision. There had to be a reason—Sydney didn't strike me as someone who made arbitrary choices. But questioning her didn't seem wise, so I walked around to the driver's side as she settled into the passenger seat.
Before starting the engine, I took a moment to familiarize myself with the interior. The dashboard was clean and organized, with a GPS system that looked relatively new. The seats were leather—real leather, not the synthetic stuff—and the steering wheel had that solid, expensive feel that spoke of quality engineering. Everything about the car suggested Sydney came from money, or at least had access to it.
"So what's the plan?" I asked, adjusting the mirrors and seat position to accommodate my height.
Sydney was already rummaging through the glove compartment. "You want to check on your mother first, right?" She said without looking up from her search.
The question caught me off guard with its directness, but I appreciated that she'd remembered. "Yeah, I would like to, but what about you?" I found myself genuinely curious about her situation. Everyone had people they cared about, didn't they?
For a long moment, Sydney didn't respond. Her hands stilled in their search, and I could see her profile in the reflection of the passenger window. When she finally found what she was looking for—an old-fashioned paper map, the kind people used to keep in their cars before GPS became standard—she pulled it out with a small, bitter smile.
"You don't want to check on your family?" I asked gently, though something in her expression warned me I might be treading on sensitive ground.
"They're probably dead. I won't waste my time and risk my life." The words came out flat, emotionless, as if she were discussing the weather rather than the potential death of her loved ones.
Her casual tone stunned me into silence. I'd expected sadness, maybe fear, even angry denial. But this cold pragmatism was something else entirely. It made me wonder what kind of relationship she'd had with her family. Had they been distant? Abusive? Or was this just Sydney's way of coping with an impossible situation?
My own complicated feelings about my father surfaced unbidden. I understood, at least partially, what she meant. If someone had told me my father was dead, I'm not sure I would have felt much beyond a vague sense of relief. But my mother... that was different. She was everything to me.
"Alright, my mom first then," I said, reaching over to turn on the car's headlights. The beam cut through the darkness ahead of us, revealing an empty parking lot.
I turned the key in the ignition, and the engine purred to life with a quiet, well-tuned hum. At least we had reliable transportation—that was more than most people could say right now.
"Be careful. It's night, and this isn't a game. Don't go bumping into the infected on purpose," Sydney warned, though there was a hint of amusement in her voice that suggested she wasn't entirely serious.
The thought had actually crossed my mind—not seriously, but the kind of dark humor that surfaces in crisis situations. What would happen if we just plowed through a group of them? Would the car hold up? How many could we take out before the engine gave out or we got overwhelmed?
Sydney must have read something in my expression because she shook her head with what looked suspiciously like exasperation. "You boys are all the same."
"Come on," I protested with a grin, putting the car in drive. "I'm not that reckless."
As we pulled away from the curb, I focused on the route ahead. I knew these streets well—had walked and driven them countless times over the years. My apartment wasn't in the most expensive part of New York, but it wasn't in the worst area either. My mother had chosen it carefully when I'd started highschool, balancing safety, affordability, and proximity to campus. It was a decent place, with good security and reliable maintenance. At least, it had been before the world went to hell.
The streets were eerily quiet as we drove, our headlights occasionally catching glimpses of abandoned cars, broken windows, and debris scattered across the pavement. Every few blocks, we'd see evidence of the chaos that had swept through the city—overturned trash cans, dark stains on the asphalt that could have been blood, and the occasional shambling figure in the distance that made both of us tense up until we'd passed safely by.
"Now can you tell me where you want to go after this?" I asked, then felt a spike of panic as a horrible thought occurred to me. My eyes widened as the realization hit. "Wait... don't tell me you're planning to ditch me the second I get out of this car?"
The idea of losing access to reliable transportation—and if I was being honest, losing Sydney's company—made my stomach clench with anxiety. Having a car would make all the difference if I needed to get my mother out of the city quickly. Hell, having a car might be the difference between life and death in this new world.
Sydney raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "It's my car. I do whatever I want with it, right?" She punctuated the question by swinging her legs up onto the dashboard, crossing them at the ankles with casualness.
"Right..." I muttered, deflated. I couldn't argue with that logic, no matter how much I wanted to. She was already being incredibly generous letting me use her car to check on my mom. I had no right to expect anything more.
The silence stretched between us for a moment before Sydney spoke. "I'm joking. I won't abandon you." Then, with that sharp wit I was beginning to recognize as her trademark, she added, "I need a meat shield, just in case."
Despite the morbid humor, I found myself smiling. There was something refreshing about her irreverent attitude in the face of catastrophe. "You've got quite the tongue on you," I said, "but I don't dislike it. Actually, I kind of admire how carefree you manage to be, considering we're living through a zombie apocalypse and all."
Sydney glanced up from the map she'd been studying, her fingers tracing what looked like potential escape routes out of the city. "What about you?" She countered. "You seem pretty calm yourself for someone whose world just ended."
I considered that for a moment, watching a piece of newspaper blow across the empty street in front of us. "Well, I'm not completely alone like this. Liam's been keeping things together back there. He's..." I paused, trying to find the right words. "He's got this natural leadership thing going on, you know? The scared people seem to feel safer when he's calling the shots."
It killed me to admit it, but it was true. Much as I despised the guy I couldn't deny that he had a talent for projecting confidence when people needed it most.
Sydney let out a short, derisive laugh. "That guy? Please. He's just as terrified as everyone else, but his ego won't let him show it. The only reason he's acting so bold is because he's got a bunch of idiots willing to follow his every command. Take away his audience, and I guarantee you'll see him crumble."
Her assessment was brutally accurate, and I found myself nodding despite my earlier defense of Liam. Sydney had an unsettling ability to see through people's facades.
"Weren't you with his group?" I asked.
"For a few hours, max. I was already in that gymnasium when they showed up." She folded the map. "I don't take orders from anyone, especially not from some wannabe alpha male who thinks volume equals authority."
That sounded exactly like something she would say. Independence seemed to be coded into her DNA.
The drive to my building took about fifteen minutes, winding through streets that should have been bustling with late-night activity. Instead, we passed abandoned cars, darkened storefronts, and the occasional shambling figure that made us both tense until we'd safely passed. When my apartment complex finally came into view, my heart sank. Several infected were wandering aimlessly around the main entrance, their movements jerky and unnatural in the streetlight.
"Underground parking," I muttered, remembering the key card in my pocket. "I can get us in through the garage."
The entrance to the private parking garage was mercifully clear. I swiped my card, and the metal gate rolled up with a mechanical groan that seemed deafeningly loud in the quiet night. As we descended into the underground space, what I saw made my blood run cold.
The parking garage, which should have been packed with residents' cars on a weeknight, was nearly empty. Maybe a dozen vehicles scattered across spaces that normally held over a hundred. The implications were clear—people had either fled the city in panic, or they'd never made it back to their cars at all.
I found a spot near the elevator and killed the engine, the sudden silence feeling oppressive after the constant hum of the road. My hands were already shaking as I checked my surroundings through the windows. The fluorescent lights were still functioning, casting harsh shadows between the concrete pillars, but that somehow made it worse. Every shadow could be hiding something.
"I'll be back," I said.
Sydney had settled back into her seat, but I could see her eyes constantly scanning our surroundings. "Be quick," she replied, and there was an edge to her voice that told me she was just as on edge as I was.
I nodded and stepped out of the car, immediately reaching for the box cutter I'd grabbed from the school's art supply closet. It wasn't much of a weapon—the blade was maybe two inches long—but it was sharp and it was all I had. My hand trembled slightly as I gripped it.
The parking garage was tomb-quiet except for the distant hum of ventilation systems and the occasional drip of water from somewhere in the shadows. Every footstep I took on the concrete seemed to echo endlessly, and I found myself walking on the balls of my feet, trying to minimize the noise.
The elevator was located near the back corner of the garage, and I had to pass several empty parking spaces to reach it. Each one felt like a potential hiding spot for something hungry and violent. By the time I reached the elevator bank, my shirt was sticking to my back with nervous sweat.
I pressed the call button and immediately flattened myself against the wall beside the doors, box cutter raised and ready. The mechanical whir of the elevator descending seemed to take forever, each floor marked by a soft ding that made me flinch.
When the doors finally slid open, I held my breath and peered around the edge of the doorframe.
The elevator car was empty of people, but it definitely wasn't empty of evidence. The walls were painted with blood—not splattered, but smeared, as if someone had been dragged along them. Handprints streaked down the mirrors on the back wall, some small enough to belong to a child. The floor was sticky with dark stains that reflected the overhead light like oil.
My stomach lurched, but I forced myself to step inside. Whatever had happened here was over, and I needed to get to the third floor. I jabbed the button with my elbow, not wanting to touch it with my bare hand, and watched the numbers light up as we ascended.
"Come on, come on," I muttered under my breath, tapping my foot nervously against the floor. The elevator seemed to be moving in slow motion, each floor taking an eternity. The blood-streaked walls seemed to close in around me, and I could smell something metallic and wrong in the recycled air.
Second floor. The elevator shuddered slightly, and for a heart-stopping moment I thought it might break down, trapping me in this metal tomb. But then it continued upward, and finally—finally—the doors opened onto the familiar hallway of the third floor.