CHAPTER ONE
Anyone who ever tells you marijuana isn't addicting is smoking something.
That's what Jason thinks as he walks into The Zone dispensary in Hermosa Beach, CA. It has been four weeks for him without so much as a joint, a bowl, a binger, a vape, a pot brownie, or even a gummy. The result? It has been a bitch of a month.
Jason quit because he thought it might be a bad idea to mix weed with the vaccine. The jab. The cola. The technical name of the vaccine was Colaquinix or something made up and unpronounceable like that. So, everyone just calls it 'cola.'
To counteract the effects of the Poe virus, it had to be some pretty serious medicine. The Poe virus affected the blood, which meant the virus could affect every part of your body. You could clip a nail too short, catch Poe, and be dead in a week. The only advantage of the virus was that it killed so fast it slowed transmission. However, in our age of globalization, even a slow transmission can still kill a few million people.
Fortunately, the 'cola' vaccine is a huge success. It defeats the virus in ninety-nine percent of all cases. Total remission. The vaccine is a cure. Everyone lined up to get it as soon as it was available in their tranche.
Jason was going to get the shot—that was why he stopped getting high—he didn't want the weed to interfere with the vax. Normally, nothing stops him from getting high. Even when he had a cold, he kept on smoking.
But then the news that the vax was being made available to the public broke, and everyone started signing up online to get their lot number. He thought, you know, I'm thirty now — he's been getting stoned since he was sixteen. It was time for a change, and you know what they say about there being no time like the present.
So, in preparation for getting the shot, he went cold turkey. His lot number came up last week. The joke of it is he didn't end up going to get the shot. He suddenly had this idea: why would he remove one drug from his body to then shoot another one into it?
Maybe that's why he got so stressed this week. The withdrawals were wicked—the first two weeks of detox were brutal. Usually, he's a pretty happy-go-smokey fellow. But the past few weeks, his mood swings have been awful. His girlfriend has called him an "f'ing a-hole" to his face nearly every day for the past week.
Meanwhile, he keeps telling himself it's just the withdrawal symptoms. But between the crazy fever dreams, the night sweats, the loss of appetite, and all his joints aching, tonight is the night he finally cracks—he needs a smoke.
What's the old addict's joke? My mother didn't raise no quitters.
Exactly.
He gave it the old college try. Okay, maybe the community college try. One day shy of a month. All the YouTube videos he watched about detoxing said he could expect the worst of the effects to be over by three weeks. But here he is a week past that deadline and damn if the worst doesn't feel like it's pretty fucking far from over. In fact, the worst feels like it's living rent‑free in his brain, jack‑hammering the floorboards all night and punching holes in the drywall.
Tonight it just got to be too much.
So, he's throwing in the towel. He's quitting at quitting.
Yeah, he feels like a loser. But if he's being honest, his mood brightens like the rising sun the second he sees the frosted windows of his local weed dispensary, The Zone. The small storefront is tucked away on a quiet side street off the main drag in Hermosa Beach, easy to miss if you aren't looking for it—which is probably by design.
He steps inside, bathed in the white light of the environmentally friendly overhead LED lights. The store is ringed by glass showcases displaying the various products from different growers. Posters promoting local cannabis brands decorate the walls. The faint smell of marijuana permeates the air despite the industrial-strength air purifiers humming in the corners.
A black guy with dredlocks greets him as he walks in.
"ID?" the employee asks.
He hands over his license.
Dredlocks takes it, scans it, then hands it back with a big smile on his face and says, "Welcome back, my man."
"Yeah, been a minute," he mumbles.
Jason steps past him adjusting his University of Maryland Terrapins cap as he approaches the counter, doing a quick scan of the contents on display in the glass cases. One of the "budtenders"—the weed dispensary's version of a barista—approaches him and asks, "Do you know what you're looking for?"
"Flower," he says, running a hand through his dark hair.
The budtender, a petite woman with short, cropped, platinum blond hair, asks, "Sativa, Indica, or hybrid?"
He's about to tell her his choice when a loud knocking coming from the front door catches his attention. The windows and door are all frosted, so he can't see the person who is banging on the door.
Dredlocks, clearly annoyed, swings the door open to reveal a walking cliché: a rumpled-looking dude in his twenties, slumped shoulders, baggy jeans, a faded Phish tee shirt. The guy sways, shifting from foot to foot like he's already high. Textbook stoner. Except for the face mask he wears—one of those paper-thin blue ones they handed out at hospitals and doctor's offices during COVID and again when the Poe virus first hit—you know, the kind that literally didn't do shit.
“Don’t you know how a door works, buddy?” Jason hears Dredlocks say to the stoner, but just then the short platinum-haired bud tender returns holding a small glass jar filled with beautiful green buds. Jason, too fixated on finally killing the month-long cravings gnawing at him, turns away from the scene at the front door to admire the Indica the pixie behind the counter is holding.
But then he hears Dredlocks again, his voice louder now, agitated. "Hey, man, what the hell?" Jason turns just in time to see the stoner dude pull his mask down—he gasps when he sees the stoner's face—or what's left of it. Half his right cheek is torn away. Ripped clean off. He can see the entire right side of the man's molars. His mouth twists into a frightful grimace. A mix of revulsion and sympathy washes over him at the sight of the man's ravaged face—the stoner is obviously badly injured.
Dredlocks, closer to the man, instinctively recoils, his body stiffening as he leans back—
Unfortunately for him, he is still close enough that when the stoner dude lunges for him, he's within reach.
Dredlocks manages a half a scream, but it is cut short as the stoner dude grabs him by his shoulders, pulls him closer with a strength that surprises him, opens his mangled mouth—
And bites down!
Dredlocks screams.
Jason is too stunned to scream. He just watches in horror as Dredlocks staggers backward as the stoner with half a face pushes his way into the dispensary, his mouth clamped down on Dredlocks' neck.
He hears the pixie budtender yell something like, "holy shit" but is too distracted by his own shock at what he is seeing to be sure that's what she said.
Reacting on pure instinct, Dredlocks shoves his attacker off, his own shouts mixing with the low-throated groan of the stoner dude, which now sounds more like a guttural roar. As Dredlocks forces back the head of the dude who bit him, Jason gets a good look at the stoner dude.
The stoner dude's face is a gaunt, bloody mess, his skin waxy and gray, except for the bright red spot in his cheek where a chunk of flesh is missing.
Dredlocks manages to push his attacker back and, with a good hard shove, sends the stoner dude stumbling back out the dispensary door.
Dredlocks' hands fly up to his own bloody wound on his shoulder as another quick-thinking dispensary employee rushes over and delivers a front kick to the chest of the bloody stoner dude trying to force his way back inside. The kick sends the stoner dude sprawling backward out the door.
The employee, who looks to be in his twenties, with shoulder-length strawberry blond hair and a lanky frame that is heaving with each breath he sucks in, slams the door closed.
He stares at the door which shakes as the psycho on the other side pounds away at it. He looks at it like he expects the door to break at any moment—so does Jason, frankly. The last thing anyone wants is that…whatever the hell that thing is, inside with them.
No one speaks no one moves. Everyone too afraid to utter a sound, everyone waiting to see if the door will break.
Fortunately, it holds.
Jason locks eyes with the blond dispensary employee who speaks breaking the silence. "Security glass,” he says in answer to Jason’s unasked question.
Everyone in the dispensary, Jason included, stands frozen in shock, staring at the front door.
"What the fuck was that?" the blond dispensary employee says.
Jason looks at Dredlocks, who by now is down on the linoleum floor of the dispensary, writhing in pain as he clutches at the bite wound on his shoulder.
The platinum blond pixie budtender, recovering from her shock, rushes over to her co-worker and friend, sprawled out on the floor. She almost slips in his blood as she drops to her knees and tries to pull back Dredlocks' hands from around his shoulder.
She keeps repeating, "Let me see, let me see..."
She manages to pull Dredlocks' hands away from his shoulder. The moment she does blood spurts into the air. Before she covers it back up she sees the bright, red, sucking wound outlined with teeth marks. Jason sees bone and gristle and muscle—it's deep.
The pixie budtender gasps and places Dredlocks' hand back on his shoulder, trying to clamp it down over the gaping bite wound. Bright red blood squishes through Dredlocks' fingers and onto the dirty white linoleum floor.
The pixie blond is crying, saying the name "Marcus" over and over again which Jason gathers is Dredlocks' name.
But Dredlocks—Marcus—isn't saying anything back.
After a few seconds, Jason watches Marcus's grip slacken, and his hand fall away from his shoulder, revealing the gnarly bite mark again. Then, his eyes roll into the back of his head.
CHAPTER TWO
Jason hears someone say, "Dude, what the hell is that?" It's a white guy with dark hair peeking out from under a navy knit cap. His voice is shaky, his eyes wide with shock.
Another man, sharply dressed in black jeans and a black button-down shirt, his fake tan obvious, asks no one in particular, "Is that guy dead?" His words hang in the air, competing with the faint hum of the dispensary's fluorescent lights.
Jason adjusts his University of Maryland cap and looks down at Marcus lying motionless on the floor. Blood pools around him, the coppery tang hitting Jason's nose. The pixie-haired bud tender remains on her knees next to him, her jeans soaked in Marcus's blood. She repeats his name over and over, her voice growing more desperate with each repetition.
Jason can’t say he blames her. He’s no doctor, but the gaping hole where Marcus's shoulder meets his neck tells him all he needs to know. Marcus isn't coming back. A wave of nausea rolls through Jason's stomach as he looks away, focusing instead on the shelves lined with jars of weed. It feels safer to look at anything but the body.
"Seriously, what the hell is that?" Spray tan asks again, louder this time. Jason gives him the once over. He looks to be in his mid-forties, and is dressed in all black, except for his designer white sneakers which mark him as both a fashion victim and someone trying to pass for younger. Serving a similar function is the leggy blonde next to him. She’s at least ten years his junior. Like him, she’s dressed in all black, though her outfit was chosen to highlight her figure, while his seems designed to mask his. She might be a model or an actress, Jason thinks. Anywhere else, that might be noteworthy, but here in Los Angeles, actresses are as common as the sunshine.
Another employee of The Zone dispensary approaches the blond-haired bud tender kneeling next to Marcus’s motionless body. Tall, with long blond hair, and wearing a flannel shirt he has the throwback look of a 1990s grunge kid. He lays a hand on the pixie’s shoulder and in a soft, gentle voice says, “Sara? Sara?”
The pixie — Sara — doesn’t respond at first. Then the long haired employee says, “Sara, you’re getting blood on you.” That seems to snap her out of it. She looks around like she suddenly realizes where she is but not how she got here. Then, as if she is noticing the blood on her knees for the first time, she quickly stands, and steps away from Marcus.
Meanwhile, the guy in the navy knit cap stands off to the side, looking pale.
A third dispensary employee—a heavyset girl with a nose ring—stands behind the display case, hugging herself, and sobbing.
And finally, Marcus. Dead on the floor.
Seven strangers trapped together in a dispensary…sounds like the beginning of a joke, Jason thinks. But this is no joke. Marcus, dead on the floor, and the psycho outside who attacked him — who bit him — still trying to get in here.
The banging on the front door had started up again.
Jason steps closer to the long-haired grunge employee, catching a strong whiff of weed that momentarily sparks Jason’s cravings. He shakes them off and instead ask, "Sara? That’s her name?”
The grunge employee nods. "Yeah. That's her name. I'm Fran."
Jason raises an eyebrow. "Fran?"
Fran sighs, having clearly explained this many times before. “It’s short for Francisco. But it's been Fran since I was a kid. My mom thought reversing the trend of giving boys' names to girls would be fun. Hence, Francisco became Fran.”
Jason gives a small nod. “I’m Jason. Not short for anything."
Spray Tan interrupts. "What the hell just happened?" His voice grates on Jason's nerves now.
Fran shoots him a look. "What just happened is some psycho just bit off half of Marcus face."
The leggy blonde, who hasn't stopped clutching Spray Tan's arm, speaks up. "Did you know that guy?" Her voice trembles slightly, but there's an underlying sharpness to it.
Fran runs a hand through his hair. "Seen him in here a few times. Chill guy. Definitely not violent."
"Did you see his mouth?" Leggy blond asks, her eyes wide. "There is something wrong with it."
"Yeah," Spray Tan adds. "Somebody did something to his mouth. His teeth are messed up."
Fran frowns. "Maybe he was attacked."
"By who?" Spray Tan asks, but the question hangs in the air unanswered.
The blonde's face goes pale. "There are reports on social media," she says hesitantly. "People are saying... healthy people, normal people... are attacking their friends and neighbors."
Spray Tan scoffs. "Sounds like bullshit."
She turns to him, her voice sharp. "Did you not just see what happened?" She gestures to Marcus's body, her eyes blazing.
Jason steps in. "What else are they saying?"
Spray Tan rolls his eyes. "It's probably some conspiracy theory."
Jason turns to him. "Your name's Eric?"
Eric hesitates. "Yeah. And this is Danielle."
Jason introduces himself, adjusting his Terrapins cap slightly. Fran follows suit. "Me, Marcus, and Sara work here," he says, nodding toward the trembling budtender. He gestures to the girl with the nose ring but stops when she cuts him off.
“I’m Hillary," she says firmly. Then, glaring at Fran she says, “I can introduce myself, Fran thanks."
The guy in the navy knit cap speaks next. "I'm Chad. I don't know what the fuck is going on, but someone needs to call the cops. There's a dead guy here." He looks pointedly at Fran and Sara.
Eric pulls out his phone. "I'll call 911." He activates the speaker. Four beeps sound before a robotic voice replies, "The circuits are all busy. Please try your call again later."
"Since when can't you get through to 911?" Eric asks, incredulous.
Danielle shakes her head. "When this conspiracy theory you're mocking is actually happening. Everyone's calling at once. The system is overloaded."
Fran walks over to the counter and grabs a bong. His hands tremble slightly, but his voice is steady. "I don't know about you guys, but I need to calm my nerves." He begins packing the bowl. "I'm getting high. Anyone want a hit?"
"Seriously?" Chad snaps. "A guy just died in front of you."
Fran shrugs, his eyes briefly flicking to Marcus's body. "Yeah, and I just saw my friend get his throat ripped out. So excuse me if I need something to take the edge off." He lights the bowl and inhales deeply, his shoulders visibly relaxing as the smoke fills his lungs. He exhales a thick cloud and offers the bong to Eric, who eagerly takes it.
Jason watches, the familiar temptation washing over him. His gaze fixes on the swirling smoke, his fingers itching to feel the cool glass against them. But no—not now. He waves it off.
Fran takes another long drag, holding the smoke in his lungs before exhaling a thick cloud. The smell of burnt herb fills the room, mingling uncomfortably with the metallic tang of blood. He holds the bong out to Eric. "Your turn, man."
Eric doesn't hesitate, grabbing the glass piece with eager hands. He lights the bowl, sucking in the smoke until his cheeks hollow. He leans over to Danielle, blowing the last of the smoke near her face in what Jason assumes is an attempt to be seductive.
Danielle recoils, wrinkling her nose. "You're such an asshole," she mutters, but she grabs the bong anyway. Her movements are less practiced, more hesitant, as if she's only done this a handful of times. She coughs almost immediately after her first hit, doubling over slightly as she hands the bong back to Eric.
Eric snorts. "Lightweight," he teases, taking another hit for himself before offering Jason a hit.
Jason hesitates, his hand hovering in the air. The temptation hits him like a wave, familiar and warm. Just one hit to take the edge off, to push the surreal horror of the night just far enough away that he can breathe.
But no. One month sober isn't that long, but it's something. What good is a promise to yourself if you break it the first time things get tough?
Still…
His fingers wrap around the bong, the cool glass familiar in his hands.
He's lifting the bong toward his lips when Sara's soft voice cuts through the haze. "I don't think he's breathing."
Jason freezes. Slowly, he lowers the bong, his focus returning to the room. Sara is still on her knees, her hands pressed against Marcus's bloody neck.
Jason turns to Fran. "What do we do with him?"
The answer comes from the last place they expect when Marcus sits up.
Sara gasps, her face lighting with hope and confusion. "Marcus?"
He doesn't respond. His eyes are open but empty, staring without seeing.
Sara reaches out and places a hand on his shoulder. "Marcus? Can you hear me?"
Marcus turns, his blank eyes locking onto her.
For one heartbeat, the room is still.
Then he lunges at her, jaws snapping.
Sara doesn't react so much as flinch. She gets her right arm up in front of her face just barely quick enough to deflect Marcus's attack from taking a chunk out of her neck.
He does, however, take a bite out of the fleshy part of her forearm.
Sara screams. The sound piercing through the shocked silence of the dispensary.
Everyone freezes, each too stunned at what they're seeing to move.
Except Jason.
His body moves before his mind processes what he's doing. Pure instinct. He kicks Marcus hard, breaking the dead man's grip on Sara, and sending him skidding across the tile floor a few feet toward the front door.
Sara cradles her bleeding arm, her eyes wide with shock. "He bit me!” she shrieks. Turning towards the thing that used to be her co-worker, Sara whimpers, “Why did you bite me, Marcus?”
Marcus opens his mouth, but what comes out isn’t an answer, but the red fleshy piece of Sara’s forearm which lands on the tile floor with a wet plop.
Sara screams.
The Thing that used to be Marcus staggers forward towards where Sara, Jason, and Fran are standing, slack-jawed and frozen with shock at what they are seeing.
Finally, Jason snaps out of it. He steps forward and puts his hands up. "Stay back, man. I don't want to hurt you." He has an instant to think how silly that sounds given the bizarre turn life has taken in the last two minutes.
Despite his warning and all his hopes, the thing that used to be Marcus staggers to its feet. It's ghoulish to watch, like a body reassembling itself, joints and muscles working independently of a coordinating mind.
The dead thing lunges again, this time at Jason.
Again, instinct takes over as Jason reaches to a nearby display shelf and snatches a glass bong, going directly into his swing. The glass shatters against Marcus's face, shredding his right cheek. Glass shards rain down, painted red with blood from Marcus's face. Despite this, Marcus keeps coming.
Jason swings what remains of the broken bong. This time, though, his feet are planted and his swing is timed and targeted. He plunges the jagged edge straight into Marcus's eye. This stops Marcus's attack mid-lunge. Despite being partially impaled, he doesn't scream. He just grunts and snarls, driven by rage rather than pain.
Then there's a flash of red, and Marcus is knocked away from Jason with such force it rips the glass bong out of his hands.
He looks up and sees Fran holding a fire extinguisher upside down, using it like a bat. Fran's eyes are wide, his chest heaving with each breath.
"Thanks," Jason says.
Fran gives a slight nod. He's too freaked to manage anything else.
They turn and look to where Marcus lies on the floor, his body twitching. Jason and Fran watch in frozen shock as Marcus's body gives one last long shudder before going still. Half his skull is caved in, dark blood pooling beneath him.
"Is he dead?" Fran asks.
"You mean again?" Jason says.
Fran's eyes flit to Jason, a look of both disbelief and belief in them. They lean in closer to get a look at Marcus, both holding their breath.
"I didn't think I hit him that hard," Fran says, a pang of guilt in his voice.
"I'm glad you did," Jason says. He studies the prone body of Marcus a moment longer before concluding that this time he's not getting back up. He makes a mental note about the headshot.
His thoughts are interrupted by a loud banging from the front door of the dispensary, the frosted glass rattling in its frame.
Shadows loom outside, their shapes distorted but unmistakably human... Or something that was once human.
CHAPTER THREE
The air in The Zone is heavy with dread, a suffocating weight that presses down on everyone inside. No one is quite sure what they just witnessed or what it means, but the unspoken question hangs in the room: why is this happening? Fear swells like a lump in their throats, choking off the air.
Sara is crumpled on the floor, clutching her forearm where Marcus—or whatever he became—sank his teeth. Her face is pale as candle wax, nearly matching her pixie-cut blonde hair, now matted with sweat.
Jason kneels beside her, his University of Maryland cap pushed back as he fumbles for something—anything—to stop the bleeding. "Fran," he calls, his voice sharper than he intends, "do you have a first aid kit?"
Fran blinks rapidly, barely holding it together. "Uh... yeah. Back room. I'll grab it." He hurries off, shoulders hunched.
Jason presses his hoodie sleeve against Sara's wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. "Hold tight, okay? You're going to be fine." Though, as soon as he says it, another quieter, more troubling thought skitters across his brain: No. She won't be.
Sara's gaze is distant, fixed on a point far beyond the fluorescent-lit walls of the dispensary. Her lips move, but no sound emerges. Jason can't tell if she's in shock—or if what happened to her coworker is happening to her.
The blare from Danielle's cell phone cuts through Jason's worried thoughts. It's still playing the news scroll from her feed on X. A woman's voice, low and urgent, fills the room: "...random acts of violence continue to spread across the city. Authorities are urging residents to remain indoors and lock their doors. Police and National Guard units are addressing the situation..."
"Addressing the situation?" Eric scoffs, pacing in tight circles. His perfectly styled hair is beginning to flop over his forehead. "What does that even mean? We're trapped here while those things are out there trying to eat us!"
"Eric," Danielle hisses, gripping her phone tightly, "you're not helping."
Fran returns with a dented metal first aid box and tosses it to Jason, who catches it with shaking hands. He yanks it open, scattering Band-Aids and antiseptic wipes as he hunts for gauze. "Someone get me scissors."
"Here." Hillary hands him a pair of blunt office scissors she snatches from the counter, her nose ring catching the light as she moves.
Jason cuts a strip of gauze and wraps Sara's forearm as tightly as he dares. The wound is deep, the teeth marks jagged and ugly. He avoids looking her in the eye.
"What does this mean?" Hillary whispers, hugging herself. "Like, is she going to...?"
"Turn into one of them?" Fran finishes, his words brittle. "How the hell should I know?"
The group falls into tense silence, interrupted only by the muffled thudding from outside. The infected—or whatever they are—continue their relentless assault on the glass front.
"I'm leaving," Chad announces suddenly, adjusting his navy knit cap. "I'm not dying in some weed shop."
"Good luck with that," Eric sneers, crossing his arms. "Let me know how far you get before one of those things tears your throat out."
Chad glares at him. "I've got a car. Do you?"
Eric pulls out his phone, tapping the screen frantically. "I'll call my dad.”
Danielle snorts. "What's your dad gonna do?
“He knows people—high-up people. He can get us out of this."
“What’s he gonna do? Send his team of high-powered attorneys to bail you out of this situation. Or, maybe he’ll send his helicopter and fly you out of here. Is that it?”
Eric ignores him, holding his phone to his ear.
Danielle continues chiding him. “Face it, your daddy and all his money can’t help you. So, maybe try manning up a little.”
Eric turns away from Danielle, which is when he hears the three tones following by the identical automated woman’s voice informing him, for the fifth time, that all circuits are busy. “Fuck!” He slams the phone onto the counter.
Sara groans softly, drawing everyone's attention. Her skin has taken on a grayish hue, and sweat beads along her brow. "I... I feel lightheaded," she murmurs.
"She needs water," Danielle says, moving closer. "And food, probably."
Fran motions toward the back. "Come on. We've got a kitchenette."
Jason helps Sara to her feet. Her entire body shakes as she leans against him for support. Fran leads the way to the back room, where shelves of weed products line the walls. In one corner stands a mini-fridge, humming softly, and a few five-gallon jugs of water are stacked beside it. A vending machine stands nearby, its contents depressingly healthy: kale chips, protein bars, and bottles of kombucha.
Eric eyes the vending machine with disgust. "Seriously? No chips? No candy?"
"Priorities, man," Jason mutters. He grabs a bottle of water and unscrews the cap before handing it to Sara, who takes a shaky sip. Her lips are cracked and dry.
"Where's everyone's cars parked?" Danielle asks, glancing around the room. "If we're going to leave, we need to know what's nearby."
Chad leans against the wall. "Mine's out front."
"Good luck getting to it," Eric mutters, running a hand through his increasingly disheveled hair.
"What about you?" Danielle asks Jason.
"In the parking garage under the supermarket across the street."
Eric snorts. "Fuck that."
Jason doesn't respond, but he silently acknowledges Eric might be right. Still, if he can reach his car, he'd have a better chance of making it home. He can't stay at the dispensary much longer, and walking home isn't an option.
Jason sits on a plastic crate, rolling the tension from his shoulders. Glancing down, he notices his hands still trembling. A thin red gash, darkening to maroon, slashes across his palm where the broken bong cut him when he smashed it into Marcus's face.
Fran passes him a bottle of water. "You okay, man?"
Jason exhales slowly. "Just thinking about home."
"Yeah?" Fran cracks open his own bottle. "What's waiting for you?"
Jason hesitates. "Nicole."
Fran arches an eyebrow. "Nicole?"
"My girl. We've been talking about starting a family." Jason lets out a humorless chuckle. "Funny, right? Three weeks ago, I quit smoking weed because I thought maybe I should clean up before we had kids. Now I'm wondering if I should've just kept getting high and enjoyed it while the world still made sense."
Fran nods slowly, his expression softening. "Yeah, well. Don't beat yourself up. We do the things we need to do when we think they matter. You made a call based on the life you thought you were gonna have. Nothing wrong with that."
Jason rubs his hands together. "Except now I gotta get back to her. Make sure she's still alive."
Fran takes a sip of water, then leans back against a stack of boxes. "You know, I used to think weed was ruining my life. My dad too. He'd bitch about it all the time when I was younger. We didn't get along for shit."
"What changed?" Jason glances over.
A faint smile crosses Fran's face. "One night, I come home, and I smell it in the house. Not my stash. His. Turns out, the old man has been smoking for years, down the hall, thinking I was the disappointment while he was lighting up every night just to deal with life. I guess it was easier for him to be mad at me than to admit we were the same."
Jason smirks. "So, what? You bonded over a joint?"
"Damn right. And for the first time in my life, we talked. Like, actually talked." Fran shrugs. "I don't know, man... sometimes you find connection in weird places. Even if it's just a blunt between you."
Jason stares at the floor. "Yeah. I guess I always thought I'd have time to figure that stuff out."
Fran claps him on the shoulder. "Well, you better get your ass home and make sure Nicole's still there so you can."
Sara mumbles weakly from where she sits slumped against the wall, "I'm OK." She exhales shakily. "Feel better now that I'm not looking at the bite mark."
Jason shifts his attention from her pale, clammy face to the front door of The Zone. The frosted glass reveals only silhouettes of people gathering outside, their fists pounding against the surface. Their demands aren't made in English or any other recognizable language—only low, guttural grunts and moans. But their intent is clear.
They want in.
Jason realizes that if they breach the door, everyone inside is dead.
He quickly surveys the store, assessing what they might use to reinforce the entrance. The glass display cases are built-ins, and the only other large furniture items are shelves made of glass or metal—useless for boarding up the storefront.
"There's no way to secure the front," Jason announces, drawing everyone's attention. "Those things don't seem to understand how to use doors, which is lucky for us. But if they keep banging and more show up, it's only a matter of time before they break through."
"What the hell are they?" Danielle asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
Hillary frowns. "People?"
Eric shakes his head emphatically. "People don't try to eat you. People don't die and then get back up."
"Haven't you ever heard of cannibalism?" Hillary retorts, her nose ring glinting as she tilts her head.
"Not in Los Angeles," Eric shoots back.
Jason steps between them. "I don't know what they are. But whatever's wrong with them, they're dangerous. We can't just stand around when they get in here."
"Why would they get in?" Eric demands.
"Look." Jason points at the front of the store. The number of silhouettes banging on the glass has doubled since they retreated to the back room. "That glass won't hold forever. We don't want to be here when it gives way." He turns to Fran. "Is there a back room? Storage or something?"
Fran nods thoughtfully. "Yeah, we have a supply room where we keep the greens. And next to that is a supply closet with office stuff—paperwork, pens, stickers for the store. Not sure if there's anything useful there."
"What we need to do," Jason says, taking charge, "is gather all the food from the kitchenette, put it into boxes or whatever containers we can find, and take it to the storage room. How big is it?"
"Big enough for all of us," Fran assures him.
"How's the door?"
Fran shrugs. "Sturdy enough, but it's not reinforced or anything."
"Are there things in the storage room we could use to barricade it?"
"A lot of boxes. The flowers and other supplies come in heavy crates. We could stack those up."
"Okay," Jason nods decisively. "Then we head there with whatever food we can carry." He turns back to Fran. "I don't suppose there's a back way out?"
A smile spreads across Fran's face. "There is, actually. At the end of a hallway, just off the storage room."
"Then that's our fallback point," Jason says. "Let's go."
CHAPTER FOUR
Fran and Jason immediately start opening up the cabinets and drawers, pulling out food, snacks, anything they can find. Jason finds a utensil drawer and pulls out the biggest knife he can find—a chef's knife. He runs his finger along the edge and is pleased to find that it's actually fairly sharp. It probably hasn't seen much use—came out of the packaging and went straight into the drawer, maybe cutting the occasional birthday cake for one of the employees, but otherwise lying there, its edge still brand new.
He places the knife in the garbage pail he's using to gather up food and supplies before they fall back to the storage room.
Eric and Danielle follow suit. She's going through the refrigerator while he tackles a pantry cabinet. Each of them throws whatever food they can find—bottles of water, juice boxes, snack packs—into boxes, empty garbage pails, garbage bags, their pockets.
Hillary helps, but she moves like she's underwater. Not so much confused by the plan as overwhelmed by the situation unfolding around them.
Chad, on the other hand, isn't moving at all. At first, Jason thinks he's frozen in shock, but when he asks what's wrong, Chad answers in a voice that sounds lucid and sober, if terrified.
"I can't stay here. I have to get out of here."
"Yeah, we all do," Jason says, adjusting his University of Maryland cap. "But we can't walk out the front door. And first things fucking last—if they come in while we're still standing around trying to figure out what's happening, we're going to end up like Marcus. Or hurt like Sara."
He nods toward the pixie-haired budtender, who sits whimpering softly while Hillary keeps an arm wrapped around her. The two women are seated at a plain, round white kitchen table in plastic chairs.
Fran steps forward. "There's a way out back. If you're gonna leave, leave that way. But you gotta make sure it's clear, and you can't just open the door, because you might let all of those things in. Especially if there's any out there. And you're not leaving by yourself on the off chance that you screw up all of our escape routes."
He gives Chad a pointed look. "So instead of telling us what you won't do, why don't you show us what you will do—gather up any supplies you can find, or better still, get back to the storage room and start stacking boxes against the door. I'll help you."
With that—and a quick nod from Jason, who, either by natural leadership or because nobody else is stepping up to the task, seems to be filling the role of man in charge—everyone gathers what they have and prepares to leave.
Eric holds up his hand. "Hold up. I'm not going anywhere with her."
The group stops, confused until they follow Eric's gaze to Sara.
Jason's jaw tightens. "We all go."
"Bullshit," Eric says. "You saw what happened to Marcus after he was bit. He turned into a fucking lunatic. Some kind of cannibal." He points at Sara. "Well, she's bit too. She's probably caught whatever he had. Whatever they have." He gestures toward the front of the store—at the shadowy ghouls banging on the glass, trying to break their way in.
"I don't know about you, but we just got over a fucking pandemic. And the Poe virus spread by saliva and bodily fluids. As well as respiratory." He shakes his head. "If whatever that guy outside had, and he gave it to Marcus when he bit him on the neck, then who's to say Marcus didn't give it to Sara when he bit her on the arm?"
"But she hasn't turned yet," Danielle interjects.
"She's fine, sweetie," she adds, looking at Sara. "Look at her. It's been a few minutes. Nothing's wrong with her, other than the bite on her forearm. And that's bandaged up."
Eric crosses his arms. "It took a few minutes for Marcus. And he was bit on the neck or shoulder. If I'm right, and she's infected with whatever they have, a bite on the forearm could still mean she turns into one of them. I don't know how long, but I also don't know how long we're planning on staying in the storage room. And I don't see the point in trying to avoid being trapped in here if all of them get inside—only to put ourselves in a smaller space, trapped with her, if she turns into one of them."
Jason weighs Eric's words. Instinct tells him the man might be right. He saw Marcus get bit, and he saw Marcus turn into whatever it was that made him attack and try to kill the rest of them. Why would it be any different with Sara?
Over the last couple of years, most of the country had become mini-experts in virology, contaminants, and transferable diseases—a byproduct of being under lockdown orders for months, then years, and living under the constant barrage of fearmongering from legacy media outlets claiming all the ways the PO pandemic was killing people.
That is, until the vaccine came along.
But even though the threat of the pandemic had supposedly gone away, the knowledge that had been gained during it remained. And Jason, despite the fact that he didn't like what Eric was saying, could see the logic was sound—at least, given the little bit that they knew.
If this thing that had turned Marcus into the monster he'd become was contagious, then it was only a matter of time for Sara.
Whatever else was about to happen, whatever this outbreak meant for the world, he wasn't about to leave a young woman out here alone to face those things. When they did finally get inside the store, they'd tear her apart.
And Jason couldn't live with himself if that happened.
If she did turn into whatever Marcus had, he'd put her down.
The chef's knife weighs heavy in his back pocket. His fingers brush against the handle as his gaze shifts to Sara.
Then, with unwavering resolve, he says:
"She's coming with us. Let's go."
The group follows Fran behind the counter and through the door, into the back of the dispensary. They enter a hallway with white tiles and green walls decorated with black and white photos of old Los Angeles. There's a door on the right, another on the left ahead, and a third at the end of the hallway they're moving down.
"What are those?" Jason asks, pointing at the side doors.
Fran gestures to each. "Server room," he says, pointing to one, then to the other, "boss's office."
"Anything useful in there? Maybe a gun?" Jason asks.
Fran turns to Hillary and Sara. "Do either of you know if Goldman kept a gun here in the store?"
Hillary wrinkles her nose. "Ew. Guns kill people."
"Well, the reason I ask, Hillary, is because a gun might come in handy right about now."
"Guns are never the solution," she insists.
Jason keeps his thoughts to himself, his mind preoccupied with what Danielle had mentioned earlier. She said there were reports on social media about this kind of thing happening all over. He doesn't know what "all over" means—the city? The state? The whole country?
What he does know is that if this is happening anywhere else, and folks are in the same situation as they are, he has a bad feeling this is going to be a long night.
"Is that the storage room?" he asks, pointing ahead.
"Yes," Fran confirms.
The hallway extends about thirty-five feet before making a left turn.
"Come on," Jason says, picking up the pace.
When they reach the end of the hallway where the storage room is located, Jason looks left and sees a bright red glowing exit sign above another door at the end of a short corridor.
"I'm not staying here," Chad says suddenly, his voice tight. "You guys can play fort, but I've got a wife waiting for me."
Jason looks up. "You're married?"
Chad nods. "Yeah. Maddie. She's probably locked in our apartment, waiting for me to come back. If she's still—" His voice cracks. "I can't just sit here, man. I have to go."
Fran frowns. "Dude, if you run out there, you're gonna get torn apart."
"Yeah? And what's going to happen to me if I stay here with you?" Chad snaps. "You think you'll be safe in there from those… those… monsters?" He snorts. "I think you're too stoned. At least out there I have a fighting chance at getting home."
Jason isn't so sure. But he understands.
The others file into the storage room. Fran waves everyone in, waiting by the door for Jason—
And Chad.
Jason expects a sense of momentary relief that comes from finding a safe haven, but instead, a feeling of wrongness ripples through him.
That's when he turns and sees Chad.
He's frozen in the doorway of the storage room, staring down the hallway toward the exit.
Jason realizes what's about to happen a split second before Chad bolts for the door.
One minute he's there and the next he's gone. The door to the storage room remains open, the group totally exposed.
Another thought occurs to Jason, far more frightening: Chad is going to open the back door, and who knows what might be waiting on the other side? If it's more creatures like the ones out front, more like whatever Marcus became, and if they get in here, they'll all die.
Jason goes after him.
He sprints out of the storage room, hangs a right, and races down the hallway after Chad.
But he's too late.
Before Jason gets halfway down the hallway, Chad slams open the exit door.
As soon as he does, a high-pitched alarm starts wailing.
Terror-stricken, Jason freezes. He knows that the blaring siren will bring every one of the creatures banging on their front door running around to the back of the building.
He sees Chad—also frozen, probably realizing the same thing.
They lock eyes.
The look in Chad's eyes tells Jason his fears were correct. A second later, he hears the rage-filled moans of the horde of infected stampeding for the back door where the alarm continues to wail.
Jason, still too stunned to move, watches as Chad takes off running. A moment later, the mob of crazed infected pass by the open door, chasing Chad who they apparently intend to make their next meal.
But not all the infected join the pursuit.
A trio of crazed-looking creatures, driven mad by the wailing siren of the fire door alarm, break away from the pack and stream through the back door.
Jason is certain he's dead.
In that fraction of a moment, that's what his brain tells him. However, the enraged creatures now entering through the back door stop and smash at the red bell above the door and adjacent speaker box from which the ear-splitting alarm is being emitted. They smash at it and the fire door with their fists. Two of the creatures attempt to bite the red bell.
Jason remains frozen in place.
Until he hears Fran calling him.
"Jason! Run!"
The shout breaks him from his trance.
A good thing too, because in that moment the alarm stops ringing, and Fran's voice becomes the only sound in the hallway—which attracts the attention of those things. All three of them turn and look at Jason.
They charge.
Jason runs.
But he's starting from a standstill, so it takes him a second to get up to speed.
The creatures coming for him, however, are already at full sprint when they burst through the doorway, their eyes deranged, their fingers clawed—and reaching for him.
Jason's legs pump furiously. He keeps his eye on the storage room maybe fifteen feet away, where Fran is already backing up, the door starting to swing closed. Jason sees the look of dread on Fran's face that tells him he might not make it.
His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might burst. His legs burn with effort.
The door to the storage room is five feet away.
He hears deranged snarling right behind him.
Fingertips brush his shoulder.
Jason drops into a slide like a baseball player stealing home. He catches a glimpse of hands overhead grabbing only air as he slides toward the storage room door. Fran is backing up, his arm still holding the door open for Jason, fear etched across his face.
Jason hooks his arm around the edge of the door, using it as a fulcrum to swing himself inside the storage room. Fran jumps to avoid being tripped by Jason's slide.
As he lands, Fran's hand grabs the handle of the storage room door, pulling it closed. The automatic lock engages just as the first creature lunges for the narrowing gap.
CHAPTER FIVE
The storage room door holds—barely. Jason can hear the infected on the other side, their fists hammering against the wood, creating a rhythm that reminds him of artillery fire in Afghanistan.
The room itself is essentially one large space divided in half. On one side are stacks of boxes filled with jars and sealed pouches of sticky green marijuana leaves. Other boxes contain vape pens and edibles. Shelves line the back wall, sparsely filled with a collection of glass pipes and other paraphernalia.
"What about supplies?" Hillary asks, hugging herself. "I mean, if we're stuck here..."
Fran gestures to the shelves. "Plenty of weed."
Jason gives him a look. "Yeah, because that's gonna help when we're starving."
Sara slumps against the wall, her breathing shallow. Jason kneels beside her, his hand on her shoulder. "Hey, you okay?"
She doesn't respond, her skin clammy and pale. The bite on her forearm has taken on an ugly, purple hue around the edges. Jason exchanges a concerned glance with Fran.
The others have pulled up some plastic chairs and are sitting in the center of the room. Eric and Danielle speak in hushed tones, their body language tense. Everyone looks ragged, their faces etched with fear and exhaustion.
It's quieter here—the sound of the zombies banging on the glass at the front of the store is muffled behind these closed doors. The relative silence feels like a blessing after the chaos of their narrow escape.
Jason and Fran work together to stack boxes against the storage room door, building a makeshift barricade. The automatic lock alone won't hold forever.
"So what, you military or something?" Fran asks, handing Jason another box.
Jason continues stacking, his movements precise and methodical. After a moment's hesitation, he answers, "I was a Ranger."
"Army Ranger? Like those guys in Black Hawk Down?" Fran's eyes widen with newfound respect.
"Yeah," Jason says. "Like those guys. Only, I wasn't in Mogadishu. I was in Afghanistan."
Fran whistles. "Is that how you know about fortifying positions and fallback points?"
A smirk appears on Jason's face. "Actually, I learned that having snowball fights with my buddies growing up in Colorado. The better the snow fort we built, the more snowballs we made, the more snowball fights we won."
Fran laughs. "Colorado, huh? What got you out to L.A.?"
Jason pauses, lifting another box. "After two tours in the mountains and caves of Afghanistan, I wanted to see the ocean, so I followed the old Horatio Alger maxim and went west." He stacks the box, then turns to Fran. "What about you? Where are you from?"
Fran smiles. "L.A. born and raised my whole life."
"You never wanted to leave?"
"Thought about it for a while right after I dropped out of college, but once they legalized weed, there was really no reason to go anywhere else."
"You could've gone to Colorado."
Fran nods. "That's true. You legalized it first."
"Medical marijuana. Big part of my recovery," Jason says, adjusting his University of Maryland cap. "First time I ever got high was after the military when I rotated home. I was twenty-nine years old."
"Oh man, you didn't smoke that Afghan Kush while you were there?" Fran asks.
"First time I ever smoked Afghan Kush was in Venice Beach, in a dispensary on the boardwalk."
Fran chuckles. "You've been smoking ever since?"
"Yeah," Jason says, "until about three weeks ago, when I quit."
Fran hands Jason another box that he stacks on top. The door is pretty well barricaded now; they're done here.
"Why would you want to do that?" Fran asks.
Jason says, "I thought it would be good for me."
"So if you were gonna quit, why did you come here tonight?" Fran asks.
Jason sighs. "I was quitting quitting. I decided I like life better stoned."
"Shit, yeah," Fran says. "Especially now with all those things out there, man, I don't think I could handle this sober. Whatever this is..." his voice trails off into a cold silence that hangs in the air between them.
Finally, Jason says, "Look at it this way, if things don't go our way, at least you know you'll go out in a blaze of glory."
A smile slowly forms on Fran's lips. Eyes closed, smile broad, he shakes his head, enjoying the joke. "You know we're probably going to die tonight, right?"
Jason's expression hardens, the look of a man used to wrestling with difficult challenges. "I'm planning to make it out of here. How about you?"
Fran nods. "I like that plan."
Across the room, Eric's voice rises. "This is all your fault," he hisses at Danielle. "You're the one who wanted to come to this fucking place."
"Eric, stop it," she says, but her voice quavers.
He pulls out his phone again, jabbing at the screen. "Dad's gonna fix this. He knows people."
The phone beeps its now-familiar failure tone.
"Maybe... maybe this is just nature," Hillary whispers, staring into space. "Maybe we were always supposed to—"
Jason turns to her. "What the hell are you talking about?"
She blinks rapidly. "I mean... maybe we should just let them in."
Eric laughs. "You're out of your damn mind."
Fran's face darkens. "That is the most unnatural thing I've ever seen, Hillary. What happened to Marcus? To Sara? That's not nature. That's infection."
His voice rises with unexpected passion, a side of Fran that Jason hadn't expected from the laid-back stoner. Don't judge a book by its cover.
Meanwhile, Sara's condition deteriorates rapidly. Her breathing becomes more labored, her skin taking on a gray pallor. Hillary kneels beside her, stroking her hair, the last vestige of Hillary's humanity not consumed by whatever bizarre philosophy has taken hold of her.
Jason studies the walls of the storage room.
The infected slam into the wall behind them—hard. At first, it’s just the groaning protest of wood under pressure. Then comes the sound: a sickening crack of drywall splitting, the splintering of studs like bones snapping underfoot. The air fills with the wet, meaty thud of fists slapping against the plaster, over and over, relentless. One strike hits so hard, dust rains from the ceiling tiles. It sounds like raw meat hitting pavement—sodden, animal, unthinking.
Jason's mouth goes dry as a monstrous hand punches through, fingers splayed and grasping. It flexes, claws at empty air, flesh ripped and torn, bone and tendon exposed then withdraws only to smash the wall again. Every blow feels closer. The infected aren’t just trying to get in. They’re tearing their way through.
His eyes settle on the wall opposite the door. It's drywall, and on the other side—if he remembers the layout correctly—should be the boss's office they passed earlier.
"Fran," Jason says. "That wall. What's on the other side?"
"Goldman's office, I think."
Jason nods. "Does it have a window?"
"Yeah, looks out on the back lot."
Jason moves to the wall, pressing his palm against it. "We need to break through."
"Break through?" Eric scoffs. "With what?"
Jason scans the room, then spots a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall. He grabs it, tests its weight. It'll do.
"Stand back," he orders, and swings the extinguisher at the wall. The drywall cracks but doesn't give. He swings again, harder this time. A chunk breaks loose, revealing the wooden studs beneath.
The sound from the storage room door grows louder—wood splintering, metal hinges groaning.
Jason's hammer thuds against the wall, his muscles burning, his mind a whirlwind of frustration and desperation. Every swing feels like a countdown to the moment the infected will breach the door.
"Dude, you've gotta be kidding me," Eric says, his voice high and tight.
Jason doesn't bother turning. "Shut up, Eric."
Eric laughs, a sound that's too confident for the situation. "You really think we're getting out of here with your suburban dad energy, man?" He looks at Jason's University of Maryland gear with disdain. His mouth curls into a self-satisfied smirk.
Jason's jaw tightens. If the world weren't ending, he'd probably tell Eric where to shove that smirk, but right now, the wall needs to come down.
The infected slam into the door again. A hollow thud, followed by the sound of cracking wood. Jason's teeth grind together. "If you've got better ideas, please, enlighten me."
Eric scoffs, his eyes darting toward the door. "We're all dead."
The door is buckling. Jason can see the split running down its center. The infected are visible through the cracks, their grotesque faces contorted with hunger, the veins in their necks pulsing like old rubber bands about to snap.
Jason grips the extinguisher tighter. The noise from the infected is deafening, a guttural roar punctuated by the slap of wet flesh against wood. He swings again, harder this time. The drywall cracks and crumbles under his force, but it's slow work. Too slow.
Eric steps in, his feet clicking across the floor in his designer shoes. "You're literally going to kill us with this—" He gestures to the wall, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Jason spins, his face flushed with anger. "You want to try it, Eric? Be my guest. But you're not getting past the fucking door either, are you?"
There's a long, silent beat. Then Eric sneers, taking a step back, clearly thinking better of it.
Jason strikes the wall again, sending a fresh tremor through the room. Every swing is fueled by that simmering rage, the one that's been building every time Eric opened his mouth.
The infected bang again. Their moans grow louder. Closer.
Fran's voice cuts through the tension. "You're gonna have to work together, or we're all fucked."
Fran grabs a chair and joins Jason at the wall. Together, they widen the hole, pulling at insulation, breaking through the studs. The smell of stale weed, mildew, and sweat stings their nostrils.
Finally, the hole's big enough. Jason peers through, confirming it leads to the boss's office.
At that moment, the storage room door gives way. The barricade tumbles as the infected pour in, their decayed bodies jerking with unnatural movements.
"Go!" Jason shouts. "Now!"
Fran dives through the hole first, his body wriggling into the narrow gap. Then it's Danielle, Eric, Hillary—all of them squeezing through like rats escaping a trap.
Sara remains slumped against the wall, unmoving, barely conscious. Jason lifts her, his arms straining with the weight of her limp body, and pushes her through the hole to Fran on the other side.
Jason is the last one through, scrambling into the office as grasping hands claw at his feet. He kicks one away, then tumbles into the office.
The office is small, cluttered, and reeks of stale weed and sweat. A single battered desk sits in the center, an ashtray overflowing with roaches on one corner. A metal filing cabinet leans in the corner, a faded 'Keep Off the Grass' sticker peeling from its surface. The overhead light flickers. Nothing extravagant. But it's a goddamn safe haven compared to the storage room.
"Anyone got a plan?" Eric asks, looking out the window, fingers tapping impatiently on the windowsill.
Fran scans the room. He starts pulling open drawers, one, then another. He stops.
"Dude." He holds up a gun—a small revolver, old but serviceable. "Guess the boss was packing."
Jason takes it, checks the chamber. Loaded.
Jason moves to the window, pressing his palm against the glass. The parking lot outside stretches into the night. The dispensary sits in the middle of a commercial strip in a residential neighborhood, somewhere off Santa Monica or Venice Boulevard.
Across the street, an IHOP sign flickers, casting weak, amber halos on the empty cars. For a moment, everything looks normal. Quiet.
Then a car comes barreling down the road, swerving wildly. Jason watches, transfixed, as it careens toward the parking lot. It fishtails, jumps the curb, slams into a parked sedan with a sickening crunch of metal.
The driver's door flings open. A man stumbles out—bleeding, dazed, his face a mask of horror.
Figures emerge from the shadows. The infected. Six, maybe seven of them. Gaunt. Limbs twitching with unnatural jerks. Their mouths gape open in silent hunger.
They swarm the driver in a frenzy. The man doesn't stand a chance. Jason grips the windowsill, watching, frozen, as the infected rip into the man, dragging him to the pavement. They're on him like wolves, tearing, feeding.
The sight of the driver's fate is a cold reminder of what's waiting for them.
Then—just as suddenly—the infected scatter, vanishing into the night.
"Where'd they go?" Fran asks.
"They're coming," Danielle says, her voice trembling.
A silence heavier than death lingers.
Jason exhales. "We need to move."
Behind them, the sound of crashing in the storage room grows louder. The infected are the wall. It won't hold them for long.
"Sara?" Jason shakes her gently. "Sara?"
Hillary kneels beside them, pressing her fingers to Sara's neck. Her face crumples. "She's... she's gone."
The room plunges into silence. Jason stares at Sara's pale, still face, his mind reeling. He didn't know her, not really, but the loss hits him like a punch to the gut.
"She was fine a second ago," Fran mutters. "How... how does this happen?"
Before anyone can answer, Sara's body jerks. Her eyes snap open, glassy and unseeing. She sits up with a sudden, unnatural movement that sends the group scrambling backward.
CHAPTER SIX
Chapter 6
Jason's heart pounds as Sara turns her head toward him, her lips curling into a snarl.
Sara groans. Then—her breath catches.
She stiffens.
Then she moves—fast.
Before anyone can react, Sara lunges at Hillary, teeth snapping inches from her throat. Hillary stumbles back with a strangled scream, arms flailing.
Fran panics. Jason grabs the gun from him, aims, and fires. A deafening crack splits the air.
Sara drops, twitching once before going still.
Hillary stares at her, panting. "She—she turned."
Jason doesn't answer. He's already moving to the window, sliding it open. "We need to go. Now."
One by one, they slip through the window into the cool night air. Jason goes first, scanning the parking lot for movement. It's clear—for now. He helps the others through.
They move quickly, silently across the parking lot toward the cars. Jason spots his car in the parking garage across the street. Too far.
"Whose car is closest?" he whispers.
Fran points to a glossy black Challenger parked at the edge of the lot. "Mine."
Jason blinks in surprise. He didn't expect Fran to own something like this. The muscle car gleams in the streetlights, its engine a promise of power, of survival.
"Where the hell did you get this?" Jason asks.
Fran grins. "My dad. Before we made peace, I was the disappointment, remember?"
From inside the office, a deafening crash echoes. The infected have broken through the wall.
"Run!" Jason shouts.
They sprint across the lot, the sound of sneakers slapping pavement mixing with the guttural shrieks of the infected behind them.
Danielle is just a step behind Eric when he twists, grabs her wrist—and shoves her backward.
"Eric—?" she gasps, stumbling.
The horde swarms her before she can finish. Jason sees her arm jerk upward, reaching for Eric, for anyone, but then her fingers disappear beneath a sea of gnashing teeth.
Eric keeps running, not looking back.
Jason doesn't hesitate. He grabs Fran's sleeve, yanking him forward. "Go!"
They reach the Challenger. Fran fumbles with the keys, his hands shaking.
Eric arrives just as Fran unlocks the doors. He reaches for the door handle, but Jason steps in his way, eyes blazing with fury.
"What the hell was that?" Jason demands, the gun still in his hand.
Eric's eyes dart between Jason and the approaching infected. "What? We have to go!"
"You pushed her," Jason says, his voice dangerously low. "You sacrificed her."
"It was her or me!" Eric shouts, desperation etched across his face. "Come on, man, they're coming!"
Behind them, the infected pour from the office window, their movements jerky but relentless. Among them, Hillary stumbles forward, her eyes now vacant, blood trickling from her mouth. She must have been bitten during the chaos—another casualty of Eric's selfish escape.
Jason looks at Fran, who's already sliding into the driver's seat. Then back at Eric, whose fake tan can't hide the pallor of fear beneath.
"Jason!" Fran calls. "We gotta go!"
In one swift movement, Jason opens the passenger door and climbs in. Eric lunges for the back door, relief washing over his face.
"Thank God," Eric breathes, reaching for the handle.
Jason looks at him through the window, their eyes meeting for one charged moment. Then, deliberately, he reaches over and locks the door.
"Wait—" Eric's face contorts in disbelief. "You can't—"
“Yeah, I fucking can,” Jason says, his voice ice cold.
The first of the infected reaches Eric. He screams, pounding on the window.
Jason turns to Fran, “Go.”
Fran guns the engine. The Challenger roars to life, tires spinning on the asphalt as they pull away. In the side mirror, Jason watches Eric disappear beneath a wave of grasping hands and snapping teeth—just like Danielle had moments before.
Justice, of a sort.
The Challenger tears down the empty street, leaving the horror of The Zone dispensary behind. The rhythmic thump of the wipers is the only sound as they drive in silence, both men processing what they've just survived.
After several blocks, Fran speaks. "You think there's anywhere safe left?"
Jason stares out the window at the darkened houses they pass. Somewhere out there, Nicole is waiting. He has to believe she's still alive.
"I doubt it," he says. "But I need to get home. Check on Nicole."
Fran nods. "Where's home?"
"Studio City," Jason replies. "You?"
"Culver City, but..." Fran hesitates. "Man, I don't know if going home is the right move. If this shit is happening all over..."
Jason considers this. "Drop me near Studio City, then get yourself somewhere safe. Maybe head up the coast. Less populated."
They drive in silence for another few minutes, the reality of their new world settling over them like a shroud. The streets are unnervingly empty, punctuated occasionally by abandoned cars or distant figures shambling in the darkness.
"Wild night," Fran finally says, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "When I opened the store this morning, biggest crisis I was facing was whether to reorder that shitty strain nobody was buying."
Jason's hand drifts to his pocket, where he feels the familiar outline of a pack of joints. He'd grabbed them from Sara's pocket after she turned—an instinct he hadn't questioned at the time.
He pulls the pack out, studying it. "Mind if I...?"
Fran glances over, then grins. "Three weeks down the drain, huh?"
"End of the world seems like a good enough reason to break a streak," Jason says, rolling down the window slightly.
He pulls out a joint, places it between his lips, and flicks the lighter. The flame illuminates his face for a moment before he inhales deeply, the familiar burn filling his lungs. As he exhales, watching the smoke swirl and disappear into the night air, a strange sense of peace washes over him.
It's not that everything will be okay—it won't. The world as they knew it ended tonight in that dispensary. But in this moment, speeding through the empty streets of Los Angeles in a stolen Challenger with a stranger who might now be his only friend, Jason finds a grim sort of clarity.
Whatever comes next, whatever horror awaits, he'll face it. One day at a time. One breath at a time.
He takes another drag, the car's headlights cutting through the darkness ahead, illuminating a road that leads to an uncertain future.
"You know," Jason says, "I came to that dispensary tonight thinking my biggest problem was staying sober."
Fran laughs, a genuine sound that breaks the tension. "Funny how perspective changes."
Jason nods, watching the city blur past the windows. “Let’s go get Nicole. Then we figure out what's next."
Fran agrees. Then adds, "If we make it that long."
Jason closes his eyes, letting the THC calm his frayed nerves. For now, they're alive. For now, they've survived.
In a world suddenly filled with the walking dead, sometimes that's the best you can hope for.
The Challenger's engine roars as they speed into the night, leaving behind the place where it all began—The Zone dispensary, where the end of the world started with a single bite.