NIGHTMARES OF THE WALKING DEAD

The service station office is a claustrophobic cage of shattered glass and stale cigarette smoke. Outside, the rhythmic thud of the horde against the exterior walls grows frantic, vibrating the heavy display racks. Seth kicks the counter, splintering the rotted wood to clear a path, his steel blade gleaming as he signals for Blake to stay low.

—Stay close, kid. Don’t look at the windows, just run when I kick the side door.

A heavy display shelf slides aside with a screech, revealing a narrow service corridor. Beyond, the dense, mist-shrouded tree line waits like a silent tomb. Seth grips his desert eagle with his right hand, his steel prosthetic tensed, and smashes the glass exit door with the metal blade. They scramble out into the freezing mud, the transition from the stifling heat of the station to the biting forest air acting like a slap. They are out, but the moans from the station echo loudly, drawing the swarm toward their new path.

Seth keeps his back to the shifting shadows of the store, his steel blade humming with potential energy. He gestures sharply, his eyes cutting toward the two survivors trailing behind.

Blake ducks beneath the counter, his small hands working quickly to fill a duffel bag. Seth moves to the fuel island, his prosthetic hand clicking as he readies the nozzle.

A guttural snarl erupts from the darkness of the service bay. The metal door rattles violently as a clawed hand forces its way through a gap in the framing.