"Alright," she breathed out, the word heavy with dread. "But the fog. And Hurley... there could be swarms."
"First light," Van said, his eyes never leaving the mist. "We'll scout the edge. If it's a deathtrap, we leave."
The night was filled with distant horrors - the roar of engines, the sickening crunch of metal, screams that were cut short.
Jane flinched with each one, the urge to help clawing at her throat. She saw Van's hand tightening on the useless Glock in the rearview mirror.
"Thinking of playing hero?" his voice was flat, cold. "Don't. You've seen zombies. You haven't seen what people do when they're desperate and find a truck full of supplies."
His gaze met hers, leaving no room for argument. "You're a woman. Do the math."
A cluster of gunshots silenced the road, followed by a new chorus of shrieks. Something was being torn apart out there in the white. Jane squeezed her eyes shut.
Dawn bleached the fog to a thin haze, revealing the highway's true face. A junkyard of death. Shattered cars, dark stains on the asphalt, and bodies.
Van's focus snapped to one in particular - a hunting rifle lying next to a sprawled figure.
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"Get me the pry bar."
Jane understood. She wriggled into the cargo and slapped the cold, heavy iron into his hand.
"Watch my six."
He slipped out, moving like a ghost toward the prize. The Latino man lay face down.
Van hooked the rifle's sling with the bar. It snagged. He had to get closer.
As he leaned in to free it, his eyes dropped to the corpse's head.
They flew open. Crimson irises with pinprick pupils, locking onto him with mindless hunger. The jaw began to work.
Van's pry bar came down in a vicious, instinctual arc.
CRACK-THUMP.
The sensation was foul, like hitting a rotten melon. Text flickered:
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No time. He snatched the rifle and ran.
His footsteps on the pavement were a drumbeat. Figures among the wrecks began to stir.
Van twisted, firing his Glock. A round punched through a rotter's shoulder, spinning it but not stopping it. It hissed and charged.
"Six of them! Run!" Jane's scream sliced through the air. She was hanging out the passenger door, arm outstretched.
Van covered the last yards in a burst of adrenaline, grabbed her hand, and launched himself into the cab.
BAM.
The door shut - on a rotting hand. Jane stomped on the wrist with her boot.
Van pressed his empty Glock against the twitching fingers and pulled the trigger.
CLICK.
He raised the pry bar. More hands clawed at the gap. The door groaned. Jane's grip slipped...
Van hooked his fingers into her belt and yanked her back as the door flew inward.
A snarling, gaping maw lunged for Jane's throat.
THUD.
Van rammed the pry bar like a spear into its open mouth, holding the nightmare at bay, teeth grating on steel.
"Move!" he grunted at Jane, muscles screaming.
He kicked the thing back, but the opening was now a doorway for the dead.
Six of them, a wall of grasping hands and clattering teeth.
One bite. That was all it would take.