He snatches Sampson by the collar and drags him straight to the ledge.

I don’t have time to scream before he throws him over.

The impact is sickening. A wet, bone-snapping crunch.

Sampson tries to push up on one arm. A shadow falls over him.

Then another.

Then five.

The zombies descend.

“You still alive, Sampson?” Zachs leans over the edge, voice mocking, easy.

Sampson screams.

Then the shots come.

Not from below. From the next rooftop. A sniper.

The bullet whizzes past us, so close my hair moves.

“Fuck!” Wilkes knocks me down hard.

Zachs drops too, crawling low toward the edge.

“They shouldn’t have given you a gun,” Sampson chokes out below, voice wet, broken.

Another shot.

Wilkes presses me flat, shielding me with his body. “Stay low.”

Zachs peeks again, then yanks his head back. “He’s fucking gone.”

Sampson’s screams cut off, drowned out by the wet, brutal sounds of tearing flesh.

Wilkes pulls out his walkie and switches channels. “Hold fire,” he says.

The reply is immediate, staticky and sharp. “Fuck you, traitor.”

That voice is too close. The sniper is hearing us, tracking us.

Wilkes sighs. “You heard me try, right?” He switches back to our channel. “We’ve got hostile fire on the roof. Possible inside with you.”

Silence.

My stomach twists. Dax should have answered.

Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s in a fight.Maybe he’s dead.

No. No. I shove that thought aside.

“What’s the plan?” I whisper, wiggling under Wilkes’ weight.

“Don’t get shot. Kill the asshole shooting at us.” He nods toward the door. “And don’t let the snail over there gnaw our faces off.”

The zombie, slow but determined, drags itself toward us.