The horde approaches...

The first groan drifted through the still morning air like a distant whisper of doom. Noah froze mid-step, the hammer in his hand hovering over a nail. He tilted his head, his body tensing as the faint sound grew louder, closer.

It wasn’t just one.

He picked up his tools quietly and darted toward the house, his boots crunching against the gravel path. "Olivia! Greg!" he hissed as he reached the porch.

Greg was already there, crouched by the doorway, his face pale but his movements deliberate. Olivia emerged moments later, wiping dirt from her hands, her expression shifting from concern to fear as she heard the unmistakable chorus of groans growing louder.

“A horde,” Greg murmured grimly, his voice low. “And it’s coming this way.”

Noah peered over the barricaded fence, his heart sinking. The shambling figures emerged from the tree line in a disjointed wave, their rotting bodies swaying as they moved. There were at least fifty of them, their sunken eyes fixed on nothing yet driven by an insatiable hunger.

Noah turned back to the others, his voice barely above a whisper. “We stick to the plan. No noise. No lights. They pass us, or we’re dead.”

Olivia nodded, her face pale but determined. She disappeared into the house, shutting the door as softly as possible. Noah and Greg followed, each step careful and deliberate.

Inside, the air was suffocatingly still. Olivia grabbed the emergency supplies and tucked them into the pantry, while Noah checked the barricades one last time. Greg stood by the window, his rough hands gripping the edge of the sill as he peeked out.

“They’re getting close,” Greg muttered, his voice tight. “We need to stay low.”

They crouched in the living room, the three of them pressed against the wall like hunted animals. The groans grew louder, more guttural, and then came the sound of shuffling feet. The first zombie appeared on the gravel path, dragging one leg behind it as its milky eyes scanned the area.

Noah’s breath hitched. He could smell them now—a foul mix of decay and dirt that filled the house like a **** fog. The tension was palpable, every creak of the old wood beneath them a potential **** sentence.

The zombies began to gather near the fence, their rotting hands pawing at the wooden barricades. The crude fortifications groaned but held firm. Noah clenched his fists, willing the makeshift defenses to hold just a little longer.

Greg shifted beside him, his foot brushing against a loose can that had been left on the floor. The sound was almost imperceptible, but Noah shot him a warning glare.

“Don’t,” Noah mouthed, his eyes blazing.

Greg gave a terse nod, his face slick with sweat.

Minutes passed, dragging on like hours. The groans outside grew more frenzied, the horde pushing harder against the barricades.