The sun hung high in the sky, beating down on Ric, Cesar, and Emil as they made their way through the eerily silent streets of Gordon Heights toward the Filtration Area. What was once a lively route filled with pedestrians and tricycles was now abandoned, save for the occasional bloody handprint on a wall or a shattered vehicle left haphazardly in the middle of the road.

They moved on foot, avoiding unnecessary noise. A vehicle would have been faster, but the risk of drawing the infected was too great. The infected responded to sound more than anything else, and a revving engine would only guarantee them a fight.

Ric moved ahead, his Glock 19 drawn, moving fast in practiced silence. Cesar, short but sturdy, jogged behind him with his M4 carbine slung across his chest, his movements efficient—years of military training still evident.

At the rear, Emil, the 7-Eleven security guard, lumbered along. Sweat poured down his face, soaking the collar of his oversized shirt. Unlike Ric and Cesar, Emil was overweight, and the two-kilometer trek was already taking a toll on him. He huffed loudly, struggling to keep up.

"Are we almost there?" Emil panted, wiping his forehead with a shaking hand.

"Keep your voice down," Ric warned in a hushed tone.

Emil was nervous. Ric could hear it in his uneven breathing, see it in the way he gripped his weapon too tightly.

"You ever shoot that thing before?" Ric asked in a low voice.

Emil hesitated. "Yeah... I mean, a few times. For practice."

Cesar scoffed but said nothing.

Ric gave Emil a sharp look. He wasn't convinced.

"Just stay close and don't fire unless you have to," Ric muttered.

Finally, they reached their destination—the 7-Eleven store at the Filtration Area where Emil had once worked. Its glass door had been shattered, and shelves were in disarray, but it hadn't been completely looted yet.

Beside it loomed Dalluay Memorial Services, the barangay's small funeral home. The front door was ajar, revealing a dark, ominous interior. Ric's grip on his Glock tightened. Funeral homes meant bodies—and bodies meant potential infected.

"We get in, grab what we can, and get out," Cesar instructed in a low voice.

Emil nodded rapidly, gripping his shotgun tightly.

They stepped inside the 7-Eleven, their boots crunching over spilled snacks and broken glass. The air was thick with the stench of rotting food and dried blood. The shelves had been mostly ransacked, but there were still canned goods, bottled water, and medicine scattered among the mess.

Ric moved swiftly, stuffing canned sardines, instant noodles, and bottled water into his backpack. Cesar grabbed medicine and energy drinks from behind the counter.

Emil, however, was moving too slowly, his hands shaking as he fumbled with a bag of bread, dropping a canned corned beef onto the floor.

Clang! Too loud.

Then—a noise.

A faint shuffling sound, followed by a low, guttural groan.

Ric froze, eyes darting toward the open backroom.

Then came the first figure.

A woman in a funeral uniform, her black skirt tattered and stained with dark, congealed blood, staggered into the store.

Her vacant, milky eyes locked onto them.

Then, behind her—more movement.

A man in a blood-stained barong, a corpse in a coffin delivery uniform, followed by two more figures, all emerging from the open doors of Dalluay Memorial Services.

"The funeral home." Cesar hissed. "They must have turned inside."

Before Ric could react, Emil panicked—and fired.

The shotgun blast echoed like an explosion in the confined space, obliterating the woman's head in a spray of dark, blackened blood.

The force sent her body crashing into a shelf, toppling it over with a loud thud.

Ric's stomach dropped.

Then, from the open door of Dalluay Memorial Services, came the unmistakable screeching chorus of snarls and shrieks.

"We have to go. NOW." Ric shouted.

The three men burst out of the store, just as a horde of infected poured out of the funeral home.

There were dozens.

Families of the dead, embalmers, and funeral workers, all in various states of decay, staggering toward them with ravenous hunger.

"Run!" Cesar barked.

Ric grabbed Emil's arm, pulling him into a full sprint back toward Gordon Heights.

Ric and Cesar moved fast, their combat training kicking in. Their boots barely made a sound as they weaved through wrecked vehicles and abandoned stalls.

But Emil—Emil was falling behind.

His weight slowed him down, his heavy breathing growing ragged. Every step was a struggle, his legs sluggish with exhaustion.

"I—I can't—" Emil wheezed.

Ric turned back, frustration burning in his chest.

"Keep moving!" Ric yelled, grabbing Emil's arm and trying to pull him forward.

Then it happened.

A hand shot out from an overturned tricycle.

Before Ric could react, an infected tricycle driver lunged from beneath the wreck, sinking its rotten teeth into Emil's forearm.

Emil screamed, yanking away, but it was too late.

Blood spurted from the wound, staining his already sweaty shirt.

Ric shot the infected in the head, but Emil staggered, his face twisting in pain and horror.

"I—I got bit," he gasped, staring at his arm in disbelief.

Cesar grabbed him roughly, hauling him forward.

"We're not stopping," Cesar growled. "Move!"

Emil's legs barely obeyed him, but Ric and Cesar dragged him forward, the horde still chasing them.

* * *

By the time they reached their compound, Emil was hardly conscious. His skin had turned a sickly shade of gray, his forehead slick with sweat, and his breathing shallow and erratic. He swayed with every step, barely able to move as Ric and Cesar dragged him forward.

As soon as they reached the compound's steel gate, Ric banged on it urgently.

"Open up! Now!" he shouted.

Footsteps pounded from inside. A moment later, Cat and Martha unlatched the gate, their eyes widening in horror as they saw Emil slumped between Ric and Cesar—his shirt drenched in sweat, his left arm bloodied and swollen around the bite wound.

"What happened?!" Cat gasped, covering her mouth.

"He got bit," Ric said grimly.

Behind her, Sam and Teo stood frozen, their expressions shifting from shock to fear.

Lourdes—Emil's mother and Ric's aunt—rushed forward, her face twisted in sheer panic as she saw her only son collapsed in his cousin's arms.

"No! No, no, no!" Lourdes wailed, shoving past Martha. She fell to her knees, grabbing Emil's face with trembling hands. "Emil! Emil! What happened?!"

Emil groaned, his eyes fluttering weakly open.

"Mom..." his voice was barely a whisper.

Lourdes sobbed uncontrollably, shaking him lightly as if trying to wake him from a nightmare.

"You'll be okay, son," she gasped, tears streaming down her face. "We'll find medicine. We'll find a doctor! You're going to be fine!"

Ric and Cesar exchanged tense looks.

Everyone knew the truth—Emil wasn't going to make it.

But Lourdes wasn't ready to accept that.

"We have to help him!" Lourdes screamed, turning to Ric, her expression desperate. "You—you're a soldier! You've treated wounds before! Please, do something!"

Ric's jaw tightened. He had seen this before. Once the infection set in, there was no stopping it.

Lourdes turned to Martha, pleading. "Ate! Don't just stand there! Tell them to help him! We can save him!"

Martha, Ric's mother, looked utterly heartbroken. But deep down, she knew.

"Lourdes..." Martha's voice cracked, but she couldn't bring herself to say the words.

"Don't tell me no!" Lourdes shrieked, suddenly standing, grabbing Cesar by the collar.

"You're a soldier, too! You fought in wars, right? Tell me how to stop this! Tell me what to do! You can't just let my son die!"

Cesar didn't move, his weathered face stoic, but there was a flicker of pain in his eyes.

"This is not a normal sickness, Lourdes," he said, his voice low and firm. "You know what happens to us when we get bitten."

"No! No! My son is not one of them!" Lourdes shook her head violently, tears and hysteria choking her words. "We are not killing him! I won't let you! I won't let you!"

She turned back to Emil, stroking his hair, whispering prayers through choking sobs.

"Let's get him inside," Cat said softly.

Ric and Cesar half-carried Emil into the living room, lowering him onto the couch. Lourdes hovered nearby, her hands shaking as she reached for her son's face. "My son, hold on. Just hold on," she whispered, her voice breaking.

Cat grabbed the first-aid kit from the shelf and knelt beside Emil, cutting his blood-soaked sleeve away with a pair of scissors. The gash was deep, the flesh around it already showing early signs of infection.

"This is bad," she muttered, shaking her head as she reached for a bottle of alcohol. "Emil, this is going to sting."

Emil groaned in response, barely conscious.

Cat poured the alcohol over the wound. Emil's body jerked, a strangled yell escaping his lips as he gritted his teeth in pain. Lourdes clutched his hand tightly, whispering reassurances in between panicked sobs.

"Damn it," Cat hissed. The bleeding had slowed, but the discoloration around the wound was spreading. She worked quickly, wrapping a clean bandage around his arm and tying it securely.

Ric knelt beside her, watching the way her hands moved—efficient, focused, but trembling ever so slightly. He knew what she was thinking. They all did.

This wasn't just a wound. It was a death sentence.

Still, none of them said it aloud.

Cesar stood stiffly nearby, arms crossed. "We should secure him," he said coldly. "Tie his hands, just in case."

"No!" Lourdes snapped, looking up with wild, desperate eyes. "He's not—he's not one of them! He's still alive!"

Cesar didn't argue, but his expression remained grim.

Ric exhaled and placed a hand on his wife's shoulder. "Good job, Cat," he murmured.

She didn't respond. She simply sat back on her heels, pressing a hand to her forehead as if trying to keep herself together.

The room was silent except for Emil's labored breathing.

For a moment, hope still lingered.

But deep down, Ric already knew how this was going to end. He closed his eyes briefly, forcing himself to push down the lump in his throat.

Because the worst part wasn't that Emil was dying.

It was knowing that when he finally stopped breathing—he wouldn't stay dead.