The relentless pounding of the undead against the rooftop door echoed like a grim drumbeat. The wind whipped across the rooftop, tangling hair and adding to the tension. The group moved in silence, guns at the ready, retreating slowly toward the northern edge of the roof. They had nowhere else to go. Peering over the edge, they saw the streets below teeming with a sea of undead, a dark, writhing mass that stretched as far as the eye could see.

  The rooftop, roughly five to six hundred square meters, was barren except for a few rusted railings and a small utility shed near the entrance. The group huddled together, their nerves frayed. Even Vincent, usually the calmest among them, felt the weight of their dire situation. The rooftop was a dead end, and if the zombies broke through, there would be no escape.

  "Everything's going to be fine," Old Mike murmured, clutching his frail daughter tightly. But the deep lines of worry etched across his face betrayed his words. Would it be fine?

  After three minutes, the pounding on the door began to subside. By the fourth minute, the growls and thuds had nearly ceased. The group collectively exhaled, their tension easing slightly. Vincent sank to the ground, his eyes fixed on the door some thirty meters away. The rooftop, though smaller than the adjacent building's, was still spacious enough for them to move quietly without drawing attention.

  As the group caught their breath, Jason, ever the optimist, broke the silence. "Hi, I'm Jason," he said with a grin, extending a hand to Old Mike and his daughter. His gaze lingered on the girl, a shy but strikingly beautiful young woman with large, expressive eyes. She hesitated, glancing at her father before shrinking back.

  Old Mike—introduced as John—shook Jason's hand firmly. "This is my daughter, Kelly," he said, his voice tinged with sadness. Since the outbreak, Kelly had become withdrawn, speaking only to him. The trauma of the apocalypse had left her fragile and fearful.

  Meanwhile, Manny and Christine stood by the edge of the roof, leaning against the intact railing. Manny peered down at the streets below, her face pale at the sight of the endless horde. All their preparations had been for nothing. The trucks and SUVs they had hoped to use were now surrounded by zombies.

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  Manny felt a tug on her sleeve and turned to see Christine, her eyes brimming with tears. "What's wrong, Christine?" Manny asked softly, brushing a strand of hair from the younger girl's face. Christine turned slightly, revealing the bloodstain on her jeans. Manny's eyes widened. "Oh God, Christine, are you...?" She trailed off, glancing around to ensure no one else had noticed.

  "It's not that," Christine whispered, her voice trembling. "I'm hurt. It's bad."

  Manny's expression shifted from concern to alarm. Christine was injured, and the wound had gone unnoticed in the chaos. She quickly guided Christine toward the utility shed, the only spot on the rooftop that offered any privacy.

  On the other side of the roof, Vincent and Robby were scouting for an escape route. The rooftop was a prison, surrounded by an ocean of undead. "Any ideas?" Robby asked, holstering his gun.

  "Not yet," Vincent admitted, running a hand through his hair. "We'll have to wait. Maybe another group will pass through and draw the zombies away." It was a slim hope, but it was all they had.

  As they rejoined the group, Vincent noticed Manny and Christine were missing. "Where are they?" he asked, his voice low. Jason pointed toward the utility shed. Vincent assumed they were tending to personal needs and didn't think much of it—until Manny emerged, her hands covered in blood.

  Vincent's heart sank. He hurried over, Robby close behind. "What happened? Where's Christine?" he asked, his voice tight with worry.

  "She's hurt," Manny said, her voice shaking. "I couldn't stop the bleeding."

  Vincent followed Manny to the shed, where Christine sat with her jeans pulled down, revealing a deep gash on her upper thigh. The wound was serious, and Vincent immediately set to work, pulling medical supplies from their packs. "This is going to sting," he warned as he prepared a needle of anesthetic.

  Christine winced but remained still, her face flushed with embarrassment. Vincent, however, was all business. To him, this was about saving a life, not about modesty. As he cleaned the wound, he asked, "How did this happen?"

  "I was cutting the ropes... when that man came over... I panicked and slipped," Christine stammered, her voice thick with shame.

  Vincent nodded, understanding. In the chaos, Christine had accidentally stabbed herself while trying to free her hands. He worked quickly, stitching the wound with practiced hands. "You'll be fine," he assured her. "Just take it easy for a while."

  As Vincent finished, Laura approached, concern etched on her face. "Is she okay?" she asked softly.

  "She'll live," Vincent replied, his tone steady. "No sign of infection."

  The group, though still trapped, felt a glimmer of relief. Christine's injury was serious, but she was alive. For now, that was enough. The rooftop remained their prison, but they were together, and that gave them a fighting chance.