Only zombies would pound on something with such chaotic rhythm, and Vincent and the others could already hear their guttural growls. When they first entered the building, they had noticed the presence of zombies, but they assumed there wouldn’t be many. After all, most zombies inside buildings during the apocalypse tend to be drawn outside by the noise of survivors fleeing. Some buildings are even empty, especially those with flimsy doors. This isn’t unique to this place—it’s a global phenomenon. Survivors on the streets often make enough noise to attract zombies, while those inside buildings rarely produce sounds loud enough to draw them in. As a result, the number of zombies inside buildings dwindles over time.

  Of course, this was all speculation. Vincent and his group had taken the elevator straight up to the twelfth floor, bypassing all other levels except the first and twelfth. No one knew exactly how many zombies were lurking in the building.

  Since entering the suite, they hadn’t bothered to keep their voices down. The building was tall enough that the noise wouldn’t reach the zombies on the street, and they didn’t care much about the ones inside. But now that the zombies had been drawn to their door, everyone felt a twinge of tension.

  The living room fell silent as Vincent raised a finger to his lips, signaling for quiet. He crept toward the front door, which was blocked by two armchairs. The door shuddered with each pound.

  As Vincent approached, the others slowly stood up. John pulled a pistol from his waistband and wrapped an arm around his daughter, Kaitlyn, shielding her. The rest of the group retrieved their guns from under the coffee table, beside the couch, or from their holsters.

  Vincent drew his M9 pistol, checked the magazine—half full—and slid it back into place. He stepped onto one of the armchairs, crouching slightly to peer through the peephole. Six or seven zombies were crowded outside, the ones at the front slamming their hands against the door while those behind stretched their arms, unable to reach it.

  Vincent tilted his head, listening carefully. The soundproofing in this high-end hotel was excellent, but he needed to gauge the number of zombies outside. If there were too many—say, twenty or thirty—he’d opt to stay quiet and wait for them to lose interest and wander away. If there were only a few, he’d consider opening the door and dealing with them. Their ammunition, especially the 9mm rounds, was running low. With less than a hundred bullets left, they needed to conserve as much as possible for the days ahead.

  “How many?” Robbie whispered, stepping up beside Vincent.

  “About a dozen… no more than fifteen,” Vincent replied in a low voice, weighing his options. Fifteen zombies—it was manageable, but not without risk.

  Robbie made a slashing motion across his throat and nodded toward the door. Vincent hesitated, then nodded back. It was better to eliminate the threat now rather than live in constant fear of the door being broken down. Plus, zombies attracted more zombies. If these lingered, they could draw others, creating a much larger problem.

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  “Everyone, stay where you are. No need to panic,” Vincent said loudly, jumping down from the armchair. The decision was made—they’d deal with the zombies.

  Vincent moved to the side, aiming his pistol at the door. But then he stopped Robbie, who was about to push the chairs aside. “Wait. Here,” Vincent said, tossing his pistol to Robbie. He gestured for Robbie to take the lead. Vincent knew his limits—Robbie was the best shot among them, even better than John, the retired Marine Corps general. Age had taken its toll on John, and while he was still strong, he couldn’t match Robbie’s precision.

  Robbie caught the pistol, now holding one in each hand. He kicked one of the armchairs aside but left the other in place. With a quick twist, he unlocked the door and stepped back.

  The door burst open as the zombies surged forward, but the remaining armchair slowed them down. Robbie didn’t waste a second. With both pistols raised, he fired shot after shot, each bullet finding its mark. In less than ten seconds, all the zombies lay dead in the doorway, their bodies blocking further entry.

  Robbie tossed one of the pistols back to Vincent, and the two men stepped over the corpses into the hallway. The long corridor had only four doors, all leading to luxury suites. Aside from the pile of bodies at their door, there were no other zombies in sight.

  The rest of the group cautiously followed, guns in hand. Vincent walked to the door of the suite across the hall and knocked. Hearing no response, he shot the electronic lock and pushed the door open.

  “Let’s move these bodies in here,” Vincent said. Leaving the corpses in the hallway wasn’t an option—the stench would quickly become unbearable. The men quickly dragged the bodies into the empty suite and closed the door. With two doors between them and the rotting corpses, the smell shouldn’t seep into their suite.

  While they were at it, they grabbed a few extra armchairs from the other suite to make sleeping in the living room more comfortable.

  Once everything was settled, Vincent returned to the window and looked down at the street. The number of zombies had grown to around five hundred, likely drawn by the earlier commotion. Still, the street was wide, and the zombies were spread out. With their current weapons, escaping wouldn’t be too difficult.

  The rest of the day passed uneventfully—boring, even. The TV showed nothing but static, and their phones, set to radio mode, picked up no signals. The military base’s broadcast from weeks ago had been a one-time occurrence. Vincent wondered if the base had fallen to the zombies, but he doubted it. With their defenses and firepower, they should have been able to hold out unless something had gone wrong internally, like an infected soldier turning and causing chaos.

  By evening, Vincent stood by the window again. The swelling in his lip had gone down, and the wound was healing. In a few more days, he could remove the stitches.

  He stared out at the street, his expression unreadable. The zombie count remained steady at around five hundred, likely the maximum the area could sustain unless something major drew more in.

  Manuela approached, carrying a backpack. She reached out and gently touched Vincent’s slightly swollen lip, a faint smile on her face.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  “Surviving,” Vincent replied, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He turned to her. “What do you need?” He knew Manuela wasn’t one for idle chatter.

  “It’s time to change Christine’s bandages,” she said, handing him the backpack.

  “Me?” Vincent raised an eyebrow. Manuela was perfectly capable of handling this. As a doctor, he could do it, but it felt unnecessary.

  “She’s just a kid,” Manuela said softly, tilting her head. “She needs a chance to apologize.”

  Vincent studied her for a moment, then flicked her forehead lightly. “I don’t know what she promised you,” he said with a resigned smile, taking the backpack and heading toward Christine’s room.