The screams came first.
Dylan stood frozen, a helpless spectator as the undead tore Clyne's chest open, the wet snap of bone and tear of flesh echoing in the nightmare. His brother's eyes found his, a silent, final scream.
"NO!"
The dream shifted. Now his dad was on the ground, a machete slipping from his grip as a shrieker horde dragged him down. Dylan tried to run, but his legs were rooted in place, useless.
"Dad!" The word was a ragged tear in his throat.
He collapsed, the guilt a physical weight, suffocating him. He should have protected them. He had failed them all.
Then—
The world fell out from under him. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drum.
He jolted awake—panting, wide-eyed.
The dock beneath him groaned, waves lapping softly against the wooden pilings, a gentle counterpoint to the tempest still raging inside him. He slowly stood, his hands trembling as he forced a sharp breath, trying to shake the nightmare's clinging dread. He bent and picked up his tomahawk, its blade still crusted with gore from the hunt earlier, then slung the scuffed canvas sack over his shoulder. Inside, three fish and a few dented cans clinked softly.
At the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of movement—a shadow. His body tightened reflexively, but he scolded himself and shook his head. The apocalypse tended to get inside one's head, so that one began to see threats in every shadow.
The dock groaned behind him. Before he could turn, a figure launched from the shadows, its movements fast and predatory. Dylan spun, hand snapping to his tomahawk, but the stranger was faster. A sharp kick sent the weapon flying from his grasp, clattering onto the dock a few feet away. The fight exploded in a blur of fists and bone-jarring impacts. The stranger moved with deliberate force; Dylan answered with sheer, desperate will.
They struggled. Dylan's knuckles cracked against the man's jaw, sending him staggering back, but the stranger recovered with terrifying speed, his eyes blazing with a greedy hunger. He wanted the food and he was willing to kill for it.
Dylan was able to grab a throwing knife from his pocket and hold it tightly in his hand as the man withdrew a dagger and a small knife from his back pocket. The man attacked, his dagger slicing through the air, but Dylan dodged to the side, thrusting the knife into the man's neck with one quick strike.
The man choked, his eyes wide in shock as blood poured from the wound. He staggered, his movements weakening, until he fell onto the dock, dead.
Dylan took a step back, his side on fire with pain where the small knife had struck home. His vision dimmed, the world spinning around him as he slipped and fell into the water below.
The shock of the ocean was a brutal slap, but the cold was a relief to the burning wound. He fought to stay conscious, his leaden limbs dragging him down.
As darkness closed in, a flash of movement cut through the murky water. A form, indistinct and impossibly fast, moved toward him. His mind scrabbled for an explanation and found none. Firm hands grasped his arms, drawing him upward. An odd warmth radiated from the touch. His awareness faded, the world blurring into nothingness.
When he opened his eyes, he was on the shore. Waves murmured nearby, the salty taste of the sea still clinging to his lips.
He blinked, disoriented. A few meters away, the dock stood quiet, and beyond it lay the body of the man who had attacked him, a dark pool of blood spreading beneath it.
His hand went to his side as he scanned the beach for the figure that had dragged him from the water.
There was nothing.
He tore a strip from his shirt and bound it tightly around his waist, gritting his teeth as pain flared. When he was done, he slumped back against the sand, staring up at the sky.
How was he alive?
Summoning his strength, Dylan pushed himself upright, swaying as dizziness washed over him. He clamped a hand over the makeshift bandage, teeth gritting as pain flared.
Then—a splash cut through the stillness.
His eyes snapped open. He scanned the beach, then the dock—where the man's body had been.
It was gone.
The pool of blood still stained the planks, dark and drying, a grotesque reminder of the struggle. But the corpse had vanished.
Dylan dragged himself to the dock and bent to retrieve his tomahawk, his hands shaking as he closed his fingers around the grip. He reclaimed the sack the man had tried to steal, then straightened slowly, forcing himself to look around.
Nothing.
No body. No movement. Only the wind off the sea and the endless water beyond.
He was alone.
Then a ripple disturbed the water.
Dylan's senses prickled, adrenaline cutting through the haze of pain and fatigue. He squinted, shaking his head, blaming the movement on dizziness—
A head broke the surface a few feet away.
He reacted on instinct. Muscles screamed as he raised his tomahawk, the familiar weight steadying him even as his body threatened to give out. Every nerve locked onto the figure before him.
How long had she been underwater?
The thought flickered and vanished. He kept the blade raised.
Her face was calm, watchful—too calm. She studied him with open curiosity, dark eyes catching the light. Something in her gaze made his grip falter.
The tomahawk dipped.
His knees buckled. The world tilted, and then he was falling, the dock and sky blurring together as he slipped back beneath the surface.
Cold closed around him.
Strong hands caught his body before it could sink. He drifted in and out, aware only of motion—of being held, guided.
Then air. Sand beneath him.
By the time his vision cleared, the water was empty. Only faint ripples lingered where the figure had been.