The Ford bucked hard.
For half a second, the creature vanished beneath the bumper. The Escape jumped, wheels thumping over something too solid, too wet, and too wrong to be human anymore. Black blood smeared a thick arc across the windshield while the duct-taped solar panel flapped wildly on the hood.
Brice yanked the wheel left and stomped the brakes.
The SUV skidded sideways across the dead freeway. Tires shrieked, the dashboard flickered, and the engine coughed like it had finally decided this was above its pay grade before slamming to a crooked stop.
For one suspended second, the world fell quiet.
Brice stared through the ruined windshield. “Built Ford Tough,” he wheezed.
Then the creature moved.
It didn’t stand. It folded.
Broken joints popped into unnatural angles. Its head cranked around with a rhythmic click-click-click, locking those abyssal eyes onto Brice through the glass. It dropped to all fours, spine arched, muscles twitching with the hunger of a starving wolf.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Brice grabbed the heavy, grease-stained tire iron wedged beside his seat. “Nope. If this goes bad, I’m officially calling out sick.”
He kicked the door open and stepped into the roar of the freeway.
The creature hissed and sprang.
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Brice swung.
The tire iron cracked against the side of its skull. The thing stumbled, momentum breaking, but it didn’t fall. It snapped back, jagged teeth bared, black drool slipping from its ruined jaw.
“Of course,” Brice gasped. “Why would one hit be enough?”
It lunged again.
He swung wild this time. The bar clipped its shoulder instead of its head, jarring his arms numb. The creature swiped back, razor-like fingers tearing through his flannel sleeve, missing skin by less than an inch.
Brice stumbled, caught himself, and nearly went down. “Personal space,” he snapped. “Learn it.”
The creature came at him low.
Brice planted his feet. His lungs burned. His shoulder screamed. Every sane instinct begged him to run.
But the little girl was still behind him. So he stepped forward.
The tire iron came down with everything he had left.
Bone cracked. The creature spasmed, legs kicking against the asphalt. It tried to rise again, broken jaw twitching open.
Brice didn’t let it. He brought the bar down one final time.
The thing stopped moving.
Brice stood over it, gasping for air that tasted of burnt rubber and panic. “…Stay dead,” he wheezed.
A sob broke behind him.
“Daddy!”
The little girl sprinted into her father’s arms. The man dropped to his knees on the asphalt, holding her tight, too deep in shock to even form words.
The girl peeked over her father’s shoulder. Her eyes moved from the bloody tire iron in Brice’s hand to the ruined thing on the ground.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Brice looked at the child. Then at the corpse. Then at the weapon in his hand.
He felt hollowed out.
“Don’t thank me,” Brice said quietly. “I just beat a guy to death in front of a kindergartener. On any other Tuesday, that makes me the villain.”
The father stared at him, pale and shaking.
Brice pointed down the freeway. “Take her and go.”
The father didn’t argue. He scooped up his daughter and bolted down the shoulder.
Brice glanced across the interstate. Smoke choked the sky above overturned cars. More of those things were moving through the wreckage, tearing into crowds, crawling over hoods, dragging people between stalled vehicles.
One looked up. Then another.
Brice’s stomach dropped. “I prefer dealing with one apocalypse at a time,” he muttered.
He looked back at the corpse. He had killed something. Not a person. Not anymore. But close enough that his hands knew the difference.
The dead thing twitched once.
Brice raised the tire iron.
It did not move again.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s what I thought.”
He scrambled back into the Escape and slammed the door. The tablet remained a dark slab on the dashboard.
No Angel.
He swallowed hard and shifted into drive. “Hang on, baby,” he whispered. “I’m coming.”
The Ford lurched forward, weaving through the wreckage.
As Brice pulled away, a translucent blue window shimmered into existence directly in the center of his vision.
[First Blood Drawn.]
[Welcome to the Integration, Survivor.]
Brice blinked hard. The words stayed there for half a second, glowing in his vision like the world’s worst pop-up ad.
“Nope,” he muttered, swerving around a stalled minivan. “Not dealing with hallucinations while driving.”
Behind him, something shrieked.
Brice hit the gas harder.