CH. 4

The room was still, all eyes on Rachel. Her words hung in the air, a declaration of loyalty and understanding. "We can't let them find us here," she continued, her voice gaining confidence. "And if you stay, they will."

The others murmured in agreement, their expressions a mix of determination and dread. They had all seen the horrors of the king's guards, the way they would stop at nothing to bring back what they believed belonged to their master. The idea of Penelope remaining in the shelter, a beacon of life for the undead to hone in on, was unthinkable. They had to move, and they had to move now.

Marcus helped Penelope to her feet, the makeshift crutch digging into her side as she tested her weight on her injured ankle. The pain was like a living entity, but she gritted her teeth and pushed it aside. Rachel stepped forward, her eyes shining with a fierce resolve. "We're in this together," she said firmly. "We've survived this long because we've had each other's backs. That's not going to change now."

The others murmured their agreement, their fear giving way to determination. They had faced death countless times and had always emerged stronger. They had learned to rely on one another, to trust that they would make it through another night. The bond between them had grown into something unshakeable, a bond that not even the undead king could break.

Penelope took a deep breath, the pain in her ankle a constant throb. "We need a place that will keep us safe," she said, her voice steady. "A place they won't expect us to hide." An idea began to form in her mind, one that she had been mulling over since her first encounter with the king's guards. "What if we use the very place they call home against them?"

The room went still, the survivors exchanging puzzled glances. Marcus's eyes narrowed, understanding dawning. "The prison," he murmured. "It's been abandoned since the outbreak. The walls are thick, and it's easy to defend."

Penelope nodded. "Exactly. It's the perfect place to lay low. The undead can't get in, and the guards would never suspect we'd hide in such a place." She knew it was a gamble, but desperation had made her resourceful. "We can use their own fortress against them."

Marcus looked at her, his expression a mix of admiration and concern. "It's a bold plan, Penelope, but it could work." He turned to the others, his voice raising. "We'll need to move quickly and quietly. The guards are searching the city, and we can't let them find us before we get there."

The group gathered their meager supplies, the soft rustle of fabric and clinking of makeshift weapons the only sounds in the otherwise silent shelter. The air was thick with tension as they prepared to leave the relative safety of their hiding place. Marcus helped Penelope to her feet, his arms steadying her as she tested her weight on the crutch. She winced, the pain in her ankle shooting up her leg, but she didn't let it show.

"It will take a long time to get there," Marcus said, his voice low and serious. "Can you make it?"

Penelope looked down at her ankle, swollen and purple, the makeshift splint a stark reminder of her close call. She took a deep breath, the pain a living presence, and nodded. "I'll manage," she said, her voice laced with determination. She knew that the journey to the abandoned prison would be fraught with danger and that her injury would slow them down, but she refused to be the weak link.

They set off into the night, moving as quickly as they dared. The city was eerily quiet, the usual cacophony of the undead replaced by the occasional distant howl of a lone creature. The tension was palpable, each survivor acutely aware of the dangers lurking in the shadows.

As they approached the hospital, Marcus gestured for them to stay put while he scouted ahead. He had been there before, knew the layout, and the risks it posed. The building loomed before them, a hulking mass of shattered glass and twisted metal, a grim reminder of the world they had lost.

Penelope leaned heavily on her crutch, watching as Marcus disappeared into the gloom. Her ankle throbbed with every pulse of her heart, a persistent reminder of her close call. The others gathered around her, their eyes full of concern. Rachel spoke up, her voice a gentle whisper in the night. "We'll find you a wheelchair," she said. "It'll be easier to move around, and we can keep you safe."

The hospital was a labyrinth of horrors, a place where the living had once sought refuge, only to become the undead's playground. Marcus reappeared, gesturing for them to follow. They moved swiftly through the abandoned corridors, the stench of decay and disinfectant a potent cocktail that made Penelope's stomach churn. The wheels of the stolen wheelchair squeaked in protest, a sound that seemed deafening in the oppressive silence. They found a service elevator, and with a prayer that it still worked, Marcus hit the button. The doors groaned open, revealing a metal tomb that had once ferried patients to their fates. The group piled in, Penelope's heart racing as the elevator jolted to life, descending to the bowels of the hospital. The air grew colder, and the flickering lights cast eerie shadows on their faces, a silent pantomime of fear and hope. When the doors finally opened, they were greeted by darkness and silence. Marcus took the lead, his crossbow at the ready. The wheelchair's wheels squeaked on the cold, hard floor, sending shivers down their spines. The basement was a warren of storerooms and utility corridors, a place the undead had yet to fully claim.

They moved with purpose, the echo of their footsteps a stark contrast to the quietude that surrounded them. Rachel and a few others split off to gather medical supplies, their movements swift and silent. The rest of the group followed Marcus, who led them through the hospital's bowels with a confidence born of experience.

The storerooms were a treasure trove of abandoned supplies, their shelves still stocked with antiseptics, bandages, and medicines that had gone untouched since the world had gone to hell.

They worked quickly, Rachel's medical knowledge guiding them as they gathered what they needed. The air was thick with dust, stirred by their movements, making it difficult to breathe without coughing. Each cough was a potential beacon to any nearby undead, so they worked in a silent frenzy, wrapping their scarves tighter around their faces to muffle the sound.

Marcus's eyes lit up when he spotted a motorized wheelchair in the corner of a storage room. It was old and dusty, but the wheels turned with a hopeful squeak when he tested them. "This will be perfect for Penelope," he murmured, his voice barely carrying in the cavernous space. The group nodded, knowing that navigating the city streets with a broken ankle would be nearly impossible without it.

They made their way through the hospital's underbelly, each door they passed a potential doorway to death. The tension grew tauter with every step, the air thick with the anticipation of discovery. Yet, they remained unseen and unheard. The undead had not yet reached this deep into the hospital, leaving the basement a temporary bastion of calm in the chaotic city above.

The motorized wheelchair hummed to life, its battery surprisingly charged. Penelope eyed it warily before transferring from her makeshift chair to the new one. The power was a luxury she hadn't felt in months. The control panel was faded and sticky with age, but the chair moved with surprising agility.

Her nerves tightened as she placed her hands on the controls, feeling the weight of their survival resting heavily on her shoulders. It was a symbol of their newfound hope, a tool that could either be their salvation or their downfall. If they were discovered with it, the guards would know she had escaped. But the alternative was unthinkable. She couldn't slow them down.

Marcus nodded reassuringly, reading the fear in her eyes. "We'll be careful," he promised, his voice a low murmur in the hushed corridor. "We'll stick to the shadows, use the alleyways. The guards are looking for someone on foot, not in a chair." The group shared a tense chuckle, the quiet laughter a balm to their frayed nerves. Rachel handed Penelope a handful of painkillers and a bottle of water, her smile a brief respite from the horror that had become their lives. They were a tapestry of survivors, bound by fate and the undying need to live.

They moved through the city, their path a twisted dance of shadow and light. The wheelchair's motor was almost silent, its electric hum a soothing counterpoint to the groans of the undead that echoed through the streets. Marcus led the way, his eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of the king's guards. The others flanked Penelope, their weapons at the ready, protecting her with a fierce loyalty that was both humbling and terrifying. And then, as if the night had decided to throw another challenge their way, they heard it. A child's cry, faint and mournful, piercing the quiet like a shard of glass. It was a sound none of them had heard in months, a sound that stirred long-forgotten emotions. They all froze, the hairs on the backs of their necks standing on end. The undead didn't cry. Only the living did.

Marcus held up a hand, signaling for silence. The cry grew louder, more desperate. The survivors exchanged glances, the weight of their decision heavy on their hearts. To investigate meant risking discovery, but to ignore it was unthinkable. They had all lost so much, and the thought of leaving a child to fend for itself was too much to bear.