The door slammed shut behind them with a heavy clang, the sound reverberating through the small, dimly lit supply room. Winter braced his shoulder against it while Zara scrambled to secure the barricade—an old metal shelf, a crate of rations, anything they could push against the door to keep the horrors outside at bay.
For a long, breathless moment, they just stood there, listening.
The distant, wet groans of the infected. The occasional scrape of something against the walls. But nothing trying to break in. Not yet.
Zara exhaled, arms shaking as she slowly turned away from the door. "That was too fucking close."
Winter said nothing, just slid down against the wall, exhaustion pulling him to the floor. His rifle rested loosely against his knee, but his grip was tight—knuckles white, muscles tense, like he still wasn't sure they were safe.
Zara glanced down at Leo. He was quiet. Too quiet. His small chest rose and fell rapidly, fingers twisting into the fabric of her vest.
