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Lyla’s eyes cut to him. “You said they use recordings.”

“They do.” His gaze stays locked on the alley.

A chill crawls up the back of my neck. People don’t change tactics unless the old ones stop working. “What are they desperate for?”

Carlos’s jaw tightens.

He doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to.

The man’s voice cracks again from the alley. “Please! They’re coming! I can’t⁠—”

It cuts off on a wet choke.

We back away fast.

Figures slip out from the shadows deeper in the alley, beyond the man on the ground.

Not infected.

Too steady. Too coordinated. Too quiet.

My feet keep moving, but my eyes snag on them anyway.

One crouches beside the body. Hands move. A blade flashes. Something dark spreads across the pavement.

Carlos catches my arm.

Not hard. Not like he thinks I’m stupid.

Like he knows exactly what happens next and is trying to turn me away before my brain can keep the picture.

“Don’t look.”

For once, I take the advice.

We run.

Five blocks feel like five miles. No one talks. No one slows. Every corner could be the one where they catch us, and every shadow has teeth. My bad leg burns with each hard step, but I push through it, crowbar banging against my hip, rifle strap digging into my shoulder.

Behind us, the city stays too still.

The undead announce themselves. They moan. They scrape. They slam into things because hunger has made them clumsy.

People who hunt people know how to be silent.

Carlos leads us to a narrow apartment building wedged between two collapsed storefronts. The brick is soot stained, the front steps cracked down the middle. A rusted security gate hangs crooked over the door. He bangs twice, sharp and quick.

No answer. No movement inside.

He shoves the door open and waves us in. “Go, go, go.”

We rush inside. The door slams behind us. Locks snap into place.

Darkness swallows the room, complete and suffocating.

TWENTY