Chapter 138: Let me in

“Dad..?”

The word came out small, like it didn’t belong in a moment like this.

The teenager stood there, frozen, staring at his father on the ground. Harold’s body twitched once, then again, weaker this time. Blood soaked through his shirt, dark and spreading, pooling beneath him.

“Dad…???” He said again, his voice breaking.

No response.

The woman dropped to her knees beside Harold, her hands shaking as she pressed them against the wound like she could hold his life in place.

“No, no, no— stay with me, Harold, stay with me—!” she cried, her voice cracking as tears poured down her face.

The men around them moved in, tense, urgent.

“Let him go, Sheryl,” one of them said, trying to pull her back. “We need to get him to camp for treatment.”

Even as he said it, his eyes gave him away. He knew. They all knew.

Harold wasn’t making it back anywhere.

The boy’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His nails dug into his palms, but he didn’t feel it.

His focus shifted.

Not to his mother.

Not to the men trying to pull her away.

But to the distance.

To the dark stretch of trees where the stranger had disappeared.

He could still see it in his head. The way the man had moved. The way he had shot. Clean. Fast. No hesitation.

Like Harold had been nothing.

Like his life hadn’t mattered at all.

His jaw tightened.

“Harry.”

He flinched when someone said his name.

“A little help with your mother?” another man said, strained. “Harold’s gonna bleed out at this rate.”

The words barely reached him.

They sounded far away.

Muted.

His breathing grew heavier. His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.

The image of that man walking away burned into his mind.

No remorse.

No hesitation.

Nothing.

“Harry—!”

Before anyone could react, he moved.

His hand shot out, grabbing the pistol from the waistband of the man closest to him. The man barely had time to react before Harry had already turned, arm raised, finger on the trigger.

He fired.

The gunshot cracked through the night.

Then another.

And another.

“BASTARD!!! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU—!!”

His voice tore out of him, raw and broken as he fired blindly into the darkness where the man had run.

“Hey—!” the man he stole the gun from shouted, lunging for him.

Harry twisted away, still pulling the trigger, the recoil jerking his arm each time.

“I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!!”

“What the hell are you doing?!” another man snapped, grabbing at him. “Those shots are gonna bring every infected in the area down on us!”

Harry didn’t care.

“He needs to die! HE’LL FUCKING PAY—!!”

The punch came fast.

Hard.

It slammed into his face and dropped him instantly.

Harry hit the ground, the gun slipping from his hand as the world spun. His ears rang. His vision blurred.

“Stop being so damn loud, kid,” the man who hit him said sharply through gritted teeth, breathing heavy.

Harry stayed down for a second, stunned, his cheek pressed against the cold dirt.

Then the pain set in.

His face throbbed. His chest tightened.

His eyes burned.

Tears spilled over again as he looked up.

He saw his mother.

Sheryl was being pulled to her feet, her body shaking as she reached for Harold, her voice gone hoarse from screaming.

“No— please— please don’t—”

Two men lifted Harold’s body. One hooked an arm under his shoulders, the other grabbed his legs.

Harold’s head lolled to the side.

His eyes were open.

But there was nothing in them.

“Shit…” one of the men muttered under his breath as they struggled to lift him properly.

Harry’s chest hitched.

Then—

Something cut through the air.

Faint at first.

Wet.

Uneven.

Laughter.

Not normal laughter. Something wrong with it. Something broken.

Voices followed. Slurred. Loud. Saying things that didn’t make sense.

“—damn it. Now???” one of the men said, turning his head toward the sound.

The group went still.

Listening.

The sounds grew clearer.

More voices.

More movement.

Branches snapping.

Feet dragging.

“Ssshit,” another man said sharply, his grip tightening on Harold’s body.

“We need to get back to camp. Now.”

No one argued.

No one hesitated.

Then his eyes snapped to Harry.

“Get the hell up.”

Harry didn’t move right away. His body felt slow, like it wasn’t keeping up with him.

“NOW!!”

Harry scrambled to his feet, wiping at his face with the back of his hand, smearing dirt and tears together. His chest still heaved, but his body moved anyway.

He grabbed onto his father’s arm as they carried him, his hands trembling as he tried to help lift the weight.

It was heavier than it should have been.

Or maybe it just felt that way now.

Behind him, Sheryl stumbled forward, her sobs quieter now but no less painful.

The sounds behind them grew louder.

Closer.

That same broken laughter.

That same wet dragging.

Harry didn’t look back.

He couldn’t.

His grip tightened around his father’s arm as they moved faster through the dark, the group rushing back the way they came.

But in his head, he still saw it.

The man.

The gun.

The way he walked away.

And as the night closed in around them, one thought settled deep in Harry’s chest.

He wasn’t gonna let this end here.

No shot.

—

I slammed the door to the cabin behind me and stood there for a second, breathing hard as the adrenaline drained out of my system. My hands were still shaking, but the rest of me felt heavy, like everything was catching up at once.

I dug into my pocket and pulled out my lighter. The flame flickered weakly as I brought it down toward my leg.

“Damn fucking kid…”

Blood ran down the side of my calf where the bullet had grazed me. It wasn’t deep, but it wasn’t clean either. It burned in a way that made my jaw tighten.

I clicked the lighter shut and leaned my head back against the wall. My chest rose and fell too fast. I tried to slow it down, but it didn’t listen.

Then the lattice kicked in.

A low hum ran through my spine, cold and precise, like something reading me from the inside out.

Injury assessment complete.

Chance of survival: forty-five percent.

I let out a quiet breath.

“But not zero,” I muttered.

That was enough.

I pushed myself off the wall and immediately regretted it. Pain shot up my leg and into my hip, sharp enough to make me flinch. I stayed standing anyway.

The lighter flicked back on. I started moving.

The cabin was small. One room, maybe two if you counted the back corner. Everything smelled stale, like it had been left to rot slowly. I moved through it anyway, opening drawers, cabinets, anything that looked like it could hold something useful.

Empty.

Empty.

Useless.

I yanked open another drawer harder than I needed to. It nearly came off the track.

Inside, there was a half-empty bottle of brandy and a rusted spoon.

I grabbed the bottle.

“Lucky me.”

On the floor near the corner, something shifted in the light. I stepped closer and saw a rat stuck in a trap, its body half-decomposed. The smell hit a second later.

I turned my head slightly.

“Yeah. Thanks for that.”

I went back to the wall and slid down until I was sitting. My leg stretched out in front of me. My hands moved slower now, more careful.

I rolled up my pant leg.

The wound looked worse up close. Blood, dirt, torn skin. Not deep enough to kill me fast, but dirty enough to do it slow.

I twisted the cap off the brandy.

“This better do something.”

I poured.

The burn hit instantly.

I sucked in a sharp breath and leaned forward, my hand pressing against the floor to steady myself.

“Shit—”

My eyes watered, but I didn’t stop. I let it run over the cut, washing what it could. It wasn’t clean, but it was better than nothing.

“Please work,” I said under my breath. “Even a little.”

I lowered the bottle.

That was when I felt it.

Something shifted in the air.

It was subtle at first. A change in pressure. Then the smell came in right after.

Foul. Rotting.

Like a mother had forgotten it’s baby shit themselves and just left them there.

My grip tightened around the bottle.

Slowly, I turned my head toward the door.

I set the bottle down as quietly as I could. My movements changed without me thinking about it. Slower. Quieter.

I stood up and made my way toward the door, each step careful despite the pain in my leg.

The lighter came up again.

There was a small gap near the wood, barely enough to see through. I brought the flame close.

And then I saw it.

My body went still.

Red eyes stared back at me.

Not just red. Wet. Shaking. Like whatever was behind that door was barely holding itself together.

Infected.

My stomach dropped.

The lighter slipped from my hand and hit the floor.

The flame rolled once, catching on the wood for a second before settling.

The thing on the other side of the door twitched.

Then it slammed into it.

The whole cabin shook.

I stepped back instinctively, my pulse jumping again.

Another slam.

Harder this time.

“I know you’re in there, you sweet, sexy little piggy.”

The voice dragged across the wood, warped and uneven. There was something wrong with the way it spoke, like it was trying to remember how.

The door rattled under another hit.

“CMONNNN!! Let me in!!!”

The hinges creaked.

I glanced down.

The lighter’s flame had started licking at the floorboards. Small. Weak. But spreading.

My chest tightened.

The infected slammed into the door again, laughing this time. A wet, broken sound that didn’t belong to anything human.

“Mama’s gonna get in one way or another.”

I looked between the door and the growing flame.

Then back at the door.

Another hit.

The wood cracked slightly near the frame.

I didn’t move.

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