The first thud came from the front gate dull, dragging fists smacking against metal, over and over again. Then came the screeching. Nails against glass. Bone against frame. The gym's main entrance had become a wall of silhouettes. Dozens of them, twisted and twitching, pressing their faces into the frosted panes. Each time a figure leaned too hard, the glass creaked.
Parth stood near the supply locker, his back to the wall, sweat pouring down his neck. The bag was full. Meds. Syringes. Baby syrup. A few resistance bands and taped dumbbells thrown in on instinct. But none of that mattered if they couldn't leave.
Samarjeet slammed the side door shut again and shoved another bench against it. "They're pushing harder now."
"They heard the door crack," Mukul said, voice tight, eyes locked on the flickering drone feed in his hand. "The horn trap worked for five minutes. Then our door stunt ruined everything."
"Any other exits?" Aarav asked, voice shaking slightly.
"Skylight," Dinesh replied, pointing upward toward the old sunroof vents. "But it's high. No rope ladder."
Samarjeet was already scanning the walls. "Weight straps. Belts. Yoga ropes. We'll make something."
Outside, another bang echoed through the gym, louder this time. Something slammed into the door hard enough to rattle the steel frame. A muffled growl followed, then the sound of something dragging itself against the wall. The air turned thick with the scent of decay old sweat and rotting meat.
Mukul slowly backed toward the stack of foam mats. "We shouldn't stay near the windows."
"I know," Parth whispered.
Another window cracked. Just a spiderweb line. But it was enough.
Parth's hands tightened around the crowbar. His body was trembling not from fear, not entirely but from the pressure of it all. They were so close. The medicine was in the bag. But the door out was blocked by a growing sea of the dead.
It wasn't supposed to go like this.
He turned toward the far corner of the gym. There, in shadow, a shrine-like mess had gathered abandoned prayer beads, a broken Ganesh idol from someone's gym bag, placed next to a melted candle. As if someone, days ago, had hoped faith would survive what muscles couldn't.
Samarjeet crouched beside it, eyes closed, mumbling something under his breath. Then he stood and said, "If we can get to the skylight, I'll hold the back door as long as I can."
"No," Parth replied immediately. "We all go. Together."
Another bang. Closer now. The metal bench shifted slightly.
"They know we're here," Mukul whispered. "It's not just instinct anymore. They know." Parth crouched near the cracked supply cabinet, heart pounding like a war drum in his ears. The gym reeked of stale sweat, rubber mats, and something deeper an animal tension that made breathing feel like gulping sand. Another thud rocked the side door, this time louder, sharper. The bench bracing it shifted by a full inch.
"We can't fight our way out," he muttered.
Samarjeet turned from the skylight and narrowed his eyes. "Then we go up."
Parth looked up at the rectangular sunroof vent. Dust-lined edges, a faded metal frame. Maybe ten feet high. "We need rope. Anything long enough."
"Yoga bands," Mukul said, already moving. "Resistance cords. Jump ropes."
Dinesh was quicker than he looked. He sprinted to the storage rack, yanked down a coil of resistance tubes, then found a long belt from the old boxing room. "Tie these together. They'll hold."
The front glass flexed an infected body slammed against it, face pressed so hard its cheekbones flattened. Muffled snarls filtered through the cracks. They were surrounding the building now. More than thirty, maybe more.
Parth turned, scanning the gym floor. His eyes landed on the cleaning shelf near the office door. Dozens of half-used sanitizer bottles lined the bottom.
He grabbed one, opened it, sniffed. Strong. Alcohol-rich.
A plan formed.
"Samarjeet," he called, voice low. "Smoke and fire."
The ex-CRPF man didn't need an explanation. He'd seen enough fieldwork to understand chaos was a better shield than any bulletproof vest. He ran to the wall and yanked open the emergency fire box empty of hose, but the valve was intact. Connected to a small, long-dead suppression system, probably still filled with expired pressurized gas.
"We rupture the valve," he said. "It'll hiss like a flare. Add smoke. Soak a towel in sanitizer and light it. They'll go crazy."
"Or stampede the place," Aarav said.
"We don't have better odds," Parth shot back. "Let's move."
Within two minutes, they had it ready. The makeshift rope lay coiled at the base of the dumbbell rack, tied tight with carabiners and loops of torn fabric. The towel soaked in sanitizer and wrapped around a broken mop handle rested against the floor by the main door.
Mukul lit it last, hands trembling.
The flame caught fast blue-white, sharp, chemical.
Samarjeet struck the old valve with the end of a 5kg plate. It screeched as the metal cracked open.
The gym filled with white smoke and a high-pitched hiss that drowned out even the zombies outside. The flames licked upward, not enough to burn, but bright enough to terrify anything without a soul.
Outside, groans turned to shrieks.
They were scattering.
"Now!" Parth shouted.
Mukul was already on the rope. Aarav pushed him upward, coughing. The smoke was choking them, thick and acrid. Dinesh went next, boots slipping against the ropes but rising fast. Samarjeet waited, guarding the rear. Parth climbed third.
The glass behind them shattered. Not fully just a spider-crack giving way, a hand reaching through, bloody and boneless.
Samarjeet climbed last, lungs screaming, body trembling from too many years of service and one more sprint toward death.
They burst onto the gym roof one by one gasping, smoke trailing behind them like war ghosts. They were out. But behind them, the gym burned slowly, and below… the infected screamed louder than ever.
The smell of burnt rubber and chemical smoke drifted into Tower C long before the survivors did. Gurleen opened the stairwell door and pressed a wet cloth to her face. The light from the hallway flickered as shadows passed five of them. Ashen, coughing, eyes red from smoke but still alive.
Parth stumbled in first, the gym duffel slung across his shoulder like a dead weight. "We got it," he croaked, voice raw. "We got the meds."
Kavita was already at the door, baby Tina in her arms, soaked in sweat and whimpering softly. Her skin was still burning hot. She didn't cry anymore just shivered. That silence scared everyone more than the sobs had.
Aalia didn't wait. She grabbed the bag, fished through it, pulled out the baby syrup and measured it quickly into a plastic dropper. Kavita held Tina's head steady as the medicine slipped into her mouth.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then Tina whimpered twice and let out a low, raspy cry. Kavita nearly dropped her from relief.
"She swallowed it," Aalia said, exhaling. "Now we wait."
Kavita sank to the floor, cradling the child, tears streaking down her cheeks. "Please, baby… please…"
The gym team collapsed near the entrance coughing, wheezing, drenched in sweat. Dinesh sat back against the wall, bleeding from his elbow. Mukul wiped his face with a torn vest. Samarjeet just stood silently, hands clenched, eyes distant. He hadn't said a word since the escape.
Outside, the air had shifted. From the window, Mukul saw it first. "They're gone," he said. "The garden's almost clear. The fire... it killed at least twenty, maybe more. They're charred on the ground like burnt mannequins."
Parth nodded. "That bought us time." The silence felt heavier now.
Half an hour later, Tina's fever began to drop. She stirred slightly in Kavita's arms, let out a soft cough, and then finally slept.
Kavita didn't move. She just held her tighter, as if letting go now would invite death again.
But as Aalia wiped Tina's face, her eyes narrowed. "There's blood," she said softly. Everyone looked. A small trickle had formed near Tina's nostril. A single, thin line of red.
"No," Kavita whispered. "No, she's better. The fever's dropping. Look at her she's fine."
Aalia took a deep breath, touched the baby's pulse, checked her eyelids, lifted one tiny arm. Then, she exhaled and shook her head. "It's not infection. It's dehydration. The fever's been cooking her from the inside. Blood vessels get fragile in babies."
"She's not turning?" Parth asked, his voice hoarse.
"No," Aalia said. "Not yet. But if we didn't get that medicine in time…"
Parth glanced over, his voice low but steady. "How long would she have had?"
Aalia sighed, wiping sweat from her brow. "A day. Maybe two, tops. But once babies dehydrate like that, things can crash fast."
Kavita looked down at her daughter, brushing a lock of damp hair from her forehead. "You're not going anywhere," she whispered. "You hear me, Tina? Not until I say so."
The room stayed still for a while five survivors sitting in ash and blood, watching a fever break like a storm that almost drowned them. The room had fallen quiet again.
Tina was sleeping now, her tiny chest rising and falling against Kavita's arm. Zoya sat nearby, still watching her like the fever might return if she blinked too long. Aalia leaned against the wall, her eyes heavy but alert, the medic in her never fully switching off.
For a while, no one spoke. The fire from the gym had scorched more than twenty zombies. Mukul's drone confirmed it: the garden was scattered with charred corpses and twisted limbs. For the first time in days, a patch of earth actually looked empty.
But no one dared call it a victory.
Parth sat near the hallway, back against the wall, his face still streaked with soot. "We bought time," he said. "That's all."
Shivansh entered the flat quietly. He looked at Tina first her cheeks cooler now, her body no longer curled in distress. Then he looked at Parth.
"You made it back," he said.
"Barely," Parth muttered. "We've got meds. Some supplies. But no way we're getting through another run like that."
Shivansh nodded, jaw clenched. Then his eyes found Samarjeet, who stood near the balcony window, still silent since returning.
"Tell them," Imran's voice rumbled from behind.
Everyone turned. The old army man stood with a large duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His face was grim, but there was a strange calm in his eyes.
"We've been hiding something," Imran said. "Didn't want to bring it out too early. Sound draws them. We weren't ready."
He set the bag down on the floor and unzipped it.
Inside: metal and wood, wrapped in cloth and layered with worn cleaning rags. A shotgun, its black barrel etched with CRPF insignia. Beside it, a bolt-action hunting rifle, then another. A pouch of rounds, each clipped tight into rubber loops.
Shivansh blinked. "Where the hell ?"
"Retirement isn't always boring," Imran said. "Samarjeet's kept one too. We planned to use them only if the line collapsed."
"Well," Parth muttered, "the line's gone. Only thing left now is to draw one ourselves."
Samarjeet finally spoke. "We go tower to tower. Garden to gate. One floor at a time. Not loud. Not reckless. But fast. Coordinated. We clear this campus and shut every opening behind us."
"How many bullets?" Aarav asked.
"Not enough," Imran replied. "Two full loads for the shotgun. Thirty-five rounds for the rifles. No spray-and-pray. Every shot counts."
Mukul checked his drone feed again. "Most of them are still stunned. The fire disoriented them. We've got a window."
Shivansh looked around the room at faces worn raw by fear and fire. Then at his mother, standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a kitchen knife with hands that no longer trembled. Then back to his brother, asleep at the door.
"Then this is it," he said.
He stood, cracking his neck. "We hunt tomorrow. At dawn."
Imran pulled out one of the rifles and handed it to Samarjeet like it was a passing of oath. "Quiet. Clean. Headshots." Samarjeet nodded. "I trained for years to protect civilians. Not to wait behind doors."
Dinesh entered with a crowbar slung over his shoulder. "Guess we're soldiers now."
Shivansh looked toward the open window, where the sun was just starting to burn its way through the smog. The infected still groaned somewhere below, but the tone had changed. They weren't swarming now. They were drifting.
"We finish this," he said. "We take back the campus. We give them nothing else."
No one cheered. There were no claps or battle cries. Just nods. Just silence. The kind of silence that comes before a storm.
Outside, the infected moaned from far off but farther than before. The fire had done more than distract. It had taken the war on the dead one step ahead.7