The guttural growls of the undead echoed louder from below, a chilling reminder of the relentless danger. Vincent and his group gasped for air, their legs pumping furiously as they raced up the stairs. Laura and Old Mike, though aged, managed to keep pace, with Mike's robust physique and Jason's assistance ensuring Laura wasn't left behind.

  Retaliation was out of the question—only a fool would consider it. The zombies were an endless tide, and their only hope was to outrun them. They burst onto the seventh floor, the path to the rooftop requiring a sprint down a thirty-meter hallway. As they ran, Vincent's eyes caught a grim scene: an open room with four corpses, three women and one man, all bearing signs of brutal violence. The stench of blood was overwhelming.

  Vincent pieced together the earlier gunshots; this room was their origin. He hesitated only briefly before pressing on, the urgency of their situation overriding any morbid curiosity.

  A particularly massive zombie emerged onto the seventh floor, its grotesque form barreling toward them, followed by a horde of its kind. "Move, move, move!" Vincent shouted, his voice strained as they reached the rooftop access. He was the first through the open door, his eyes immediately locking onto a seven-meter ladder bridging their building to the next. A man was cautiously crossing it, nearly to the other side.

  Vincent recognized him—one of Brook's men. On the adjacent rooftop, Brook and his crew were fleeing north, another ladder connecting to a building beyond. It was clear Brook had planned his escape meticulously, the ladders pre-positioned for such emergencies.

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  This could be their way out, too.

  As the rest of the group spilled onto the rooftop, the last man, Old Mike, carried his frail sixteen-year-old daughter with surprising strength. The rooftop door slammed shut behind them, but the respite was short-lived. The man on the ladder, now safely across, turned back with a sneer and kicked the ladder away, sending it tumbling into the void.

  "Bastards, go to hell!" he spat before running off.

  The rooftop door shuddered violently under the onslaught of the undead. Jason, Manny, and Old Mike braced against it, but their efforts were futile. The lock, though metal, was no match for the relentless pounding.

  Vincent's mind raced. The rooftop was no sanctuary, and their escape route was gone. Laura gasped, her hands covering her mouth as she realized their predicament. The man on the other side, now a safe distance away, turned and flipped them off, a cruel grin plastered across his face.

  Robbie, usually composed, felt a surge of anger. "Give me the rifle," he demanded, swapping his pistol for an M16. He aimed, the wind on the rooftop tugging at his stance. The man, now a hundred and fifty meters away, panicked and broke into a run.

  A single shot rang out. The man crumpled to the ground, twitched, and lay still. "Bastard," Robbie muttered, his satisfaction hollow. He handed the rifle back and retrieved his pistol.

  Time was slipping away. The door continued to tremble, the lock barely holding. Old Mike found a sturdy wooden pole and wedged it against the door, providing some stability. The group scavenged for anything to reinforce the barrier—bricks, pipes, chairs—anything to buy them time.

  They retreated in silence, their only hope that the zombies would lose interest without movement or sound. But the question lingered: would the door hold long enough?