“Oh, yeah, hole up here for the night, they said. We’ll be safe here, they said. Goddammit.” Tom gripped his submachinegun tensely. Outside, ragged howls burst from inhuman throats in the night.

Suddenly, pounding on the door.

“Jesus Christ!” Tom fell off his seat, scrambled to get up. He fumbled for his SMG. “No! You’re not getting inside, you fucking bastards!”

The pounding stopped and was replaced by a low curse: “Dammit, Bryan, shut up and let us in!”

Tom mentally slapped himself. “Get in!” he hissed, flinging the door open. “Hurry!”

In the distance, shadowy figures emerged from the darkness and closed in, growling.

“Getingetingetingetin—”

Firing into the darkness, the other Survivors backed through the door. Doc flung a molotov out and slammed the door, bolted it. Oily flames illuminated the writhing forms of the Infected; the night echoed with their screams.

Doc and Rachel slumped to the floor, exhausted.

And then, blessed silence.

Tom looked around the safehouse and froze. “Where’s Charles?”