Three days Later

Ray kept her stance firm as Nate surveyed the area, machete still in hand. The gas station felt too exposed, but they needed supplies, and Ray knew she couldn't survive long without water or food. She shifted her weight uneasily, her mind still replaying the moment her dad had made her leave him behind.

Mark, however, seemed unfazed by the tension. "Alright, team, here's the plan," he announced, clearly trying to lighten the mood. "I'll charm any zombies we run into, and Nate will handle the heavy lifting."

"Yeah, great plan," Ray muttered, rolling her eyes. "How about you stay quiet so we don't attract any more of them?"

Nate chuckled softly from behind her, and Ray glanced at him. His quiet amusement was oddly reassuring, though she wasn't sure why.

"Fine, fine," Mark said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "But if I see something interesting, I'm calling dibs."

Ray ignored him and crept into the gas station's main building. Inside, the air was stale, and the shelves were mostly empty, stripped bare in the early days of the outbreak. Still, there were a few items left: a couple of water bottles, a half-empty box of crackers, and—she froze—a dusty can of soup.

"Score!" Mark whispered loudly from behind her, startling her enough to make her hand twitch toward her gun.

She glared at him. "Do you want to die? Keep your voice down."

Mark smirked, unaffected as usual. "Relax, Ray. I'm just keeping things lively."

Ray glanced at Nate, who had moved to the door, keeping watch. She appreciated his silence, his steady presence. Unlike Mark, he seemed to understand the gravity of their situation without needing it spelled out.

As Ray stuffed the supplies into her bag, she heard a low growl. Her stomach dropped. It wasn't coming from outside—it was inside the gas station. She turned, gun drawn, just as a zombie shuffled out from behind the counter. Its rotted face was twisted, its lifeless eyes fixed on her.

"Mark!" she hissed.

"On it!" he shouted, grabbing a pipe from the floor and swinging it at the zombie. The first hit connected with a sickening crunch, but the creature didn't go down.

Ray stepped forward, leveling her gun, but before she could fire, Nate lunged in, his machete slicing clean through the zombie's neck. It crumpled to the floor, and the room was silent again, save for their heavy breathing.

"You're welcome," Nate said quietly, a hint of humor in his tone.

Ray lowered her gun, her heart pounding. "I had it handled," she muttered.

"Sure you did," Mark said with a grin, nudging the lifeless body with his foot. "But hey, teamwork makes the dream work, right?"

Ray didn't answer, instead focusing on securing the rest of the supplies. The encounter had drained her, but she couldn't afford to show weakness. Not now. Not when she barely knew these two.

As they exited the gas station, the weight of their situation settled over her again. The group had been walking for hours when they heard it—a faint, high-pitched cry. Ray froze, her fingers tightening around her gun. It wasn't a zombie groan; it was unmistakably a child's voice.

"Help! Somebody, please!"

Ray glanced at Nate, who nodded silently. They moved toward the sound, Mark trailing behind. "If this is a trap," he muttered, "I'm not going to be happy about it."

They found her huddled under an overturned car—a tiny girl with tangled blond hair and tear-streaked cheeks. Her oversized jacket hung off her small frame, and her wide, scared eyes locked onto Ray.