Day 10.3: Creak. Crack. Runn


    The bar reeked of stale beer, sweat, and something worse—something rotting. The air hung thick, pressing in, heavy with the sickly-sweet stench of decay. It stuck to my skin, settled in my lungs. The silence wasn’t just stillness; it was watching, waiting. My gut twisted. Something was wrong.


    I stepped inside, slow and deliberate. The floorboards groaned under me, a sharp, betraying creak that cut through the oppressive quiet. I froze mid-step, breath locked in my throat, muscles coiled. I listened. Nothing. But the silence wasn’t empty—it had weight, a presence. Like the whole damn place was holding its breath.


    A body slumped over the counter, skin stretched tight over sharp bones, gray like old ash. The eyes, hollow and empty, stared forward—like they had seen something terrible before the end. The mouth hung open, lips curled back, frozen mid-word. The shirt—once white—was stiff with blood, deep stains soaking through like wounds that never closed. A pool of dried blood spread beneath the stool, cracked and flaking like dead leaves. No fresh kill. No immediate danger. But something about it felt wrong, like it was still watching. Like something else was watching.


    I moved to the shelves—empty. Someone had stripped the place bare long before I got here. The emptiness wasn’t just absence; it was unsettling, like someone had erased every trace of life. Dust covered everything, except for a few footprints that didn’t belong to me. Shards of broken glass littered the floor, crunching under my boot—too loud in the dead quiet. Nothing left. Almost nothing.


    A single bottle of whiskey stood on the shelf, untouched. A survivor. The amber liquid inside sloshed gently as I picked it up. Maybe for drinking. Maybe for fire. Maybe for something worse. Either way, I wasn’t leaving it behind.


    Then—


    A sound. Outside. Small. Too real.


    I stopped breathing. Every muscle locked tight. My heart hammered, a deep, painful thud in my chest. Sweat dripped down my spine, my grip on the crowbar tightening until my knuckles ached.


    I crept toward the window, each step careful, slow. Four of them. Hunched near the van. Too close. Way too close. Their heads twitched, mouths slack, chests still. Not breathing. Just waiting. Listening. My stomach twisted. They weren’t just wandering. They knew. They could feel it. Something was inside.


    The back door. It was my only chance.


    I turned, every movement slow, careful. The wood beneath me groaned, stretched, a tired old thing struggling to hold my weight. My pulse thudded in my ears, loud enough to give me away. One step. Then another. Slow. Steady. Like walking over ice, waiting for it to crack.


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    Then it did.


    CRACK.


    A sharp, sick sound, like a bone snapping in half. The silence shattered, replaced by something worse—realization. The groans outside changed, no longer dull and aimless but focused, hungry. A ripple of movement, a shift in posture. They knew.


    My breath hitched, my chest tightening like a fist closing around my ribs. The floor beneath me let out another deep, aching creak, a whisper of warning. If I moved wrong, it would go, and I’d go with it.


    The front door rattled—just once, then again, harder. A testing weight, then more. The scrape of dead fingers against wood. Then—


    THUMP.


    Something heavy. Something desperate. My pulse slammed against my skull, my fingers slick with sweat against the crowbar.


    I was out of time.


    Panic surged through me, cold and electric, crawling up my spine. My hands trembled as I lunged for the back door, gripping the handle with white-knuckled desperation. Locked. Of course it was.


    I twisted. Pushed. Nothing. My breath came fast and ragged. I yanked harder, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.


    THUMP.


    A deep, heavy impact rattled the front door, shaking the frame. My stomach clenched so hard it felt like it was folding in on itself. My pulse spiked, a sharp, painful rhythm in my ears.


    THUMP. THUMP.


    More bodies. More weight. The wood groaned, the hinges creaking under the strain. Dust trickled from the doorframe. The lock wouldn’t hold. I had seconds. Maybe less.


    The air thickened, charged with the presence of something unseen but inevitable. The dead weren’t just knocking—they were pushing, forcing their way in, eager, desperate.


    Then—


    BANG.


    A crash outside, metal against metal. A dumpster? A car? Something big, loud—close. The sound tore through the night like a gunshot, bouncing off brick and asphalt. A distraction? Or something worse?


    Didn’t matter. I had to move.


    I threw my weight into the back door.


    CRACK.


    The lock snapped, and the door burst open with a splintered shriek. I stumbled into the alley, lungs sucking in the sharp, cold air. My sweat turned to ice against my skin, my pulse hammering so hard I could feel it in my skull. My hands shook, breath coming in short, panicked gasps. For a second—a single, fragile second—I was free.


    Then reality crashed down.


    Freedom didn’t mean safety.


    The alley stretched ahead, a narrow corridor of dumpsters and broken glass, the walls pressing in tight. The streetlights flickered, casting jagged shadows that twisted and stretched like grasping fingers. The air stank of garbage, piss, and something older—something dead. But none of that was the real threat.


    The real threat was behind me.


    The bar door rattled in its frame. The sound of bodies slamming against wood, nails scraping, throats growling low and eager. The door wouldn’t hold. They’d come through any second, spilling into the alley like a flood. And they’d see me. Hear me. Chase me.


    My pulse pounded in my ears, loud enough to drown out the city’s distant silence. The van was too far. They’d be on me before I could reach it. Running for it would be suicide.


    I scanned my options, forcing my mind to focus through the panic. The convenience store loomed ahead, its shattered windows yawning like broken teeth. Dark shelves inside. Could be supplies. Could be more of them. A risk. A gamble.


    The junkyard sat further down, rusted fences and stacks of dead cars leaning against each other like corpses in a mass grave. Fuel. Cover. Or a deathtrap. No way to know until I was inside.


    The pounding at the bar’s door grew frantic. Wood cracked, splintered.


    No time left.


    I clenched my jaw, steadied my grip on the crowbar, and ran.