Chapter 43 — The Moon Stained Red
Hank tore his eyes away from the sky and inhaled the cold night air.
"Yeah… it's something," he murmured. He ruffled Clementine's hat with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the blood still drying on his clothes.
"Come on, Clem. It's getting cold. Let's head back inside."
He took her hand and walked toward the flickering lights of the motel courtyard.
The power grid was already failing — the bulbs were flickering weakly, and soon they'd die for good.
The pickup truck and the RV were nearly bursting with supplies — crammed to the roof inside and strapped on outside.
Everyone had been scrambling to load up ever since Hank returned with the weapons.
Now, they were just stuffing in the last of it — backpacks, crates, canned food, water jugs, blankets. Anything remotely useful was packed tight. Even the roof racks and gaps in the cargo were tied down with gear.
Larry stood off to the side, the hunting rifle Hank had given him slung across his shoulder.
As everyone worked, his face grew darker and darker.
Then he muttered — loud enough for nearby people to hear, quiet enough to pretend it wasn't meant to be heard:
"Funny. Risk our lives to gather supplies, and somehow they end up in certain people's private armory and pantry."
He snorted again.
"We get just enough food for a month. What, afraid we'll eat too much? Or afraid if we get more guns we won't roll over and obey like good little dogs?"
Lilly froze mid-count, shame and embarrassment flooding her face.
She tugged at her father's sleeve, whispering urgently,
"Dad, stop. Without them risking their lives we wouldn't have anything—"
Larry jerked his arm away and scoffed, though his voice dropped a little.
"Risking their lives? Hah. And who knows if that's true? Maybe they 'ran into trouble'—or maybe they just hid the better stuff."
He spat to the side.
"This world? Never trust what's in anyone's stomach or their heart."
Lilly had no comeback. She knew her father feared starvation and resented dependence — but his paranoia cut deep. She bowed her head silently and kept sorting the supplies they did get, unwilling to escalate.
Hank didn't even bother responding to the father-daughter duo.
He walked past them with Clementine — then suddenly froze in place.
The moon.
Red.
Wait.
His mind caught up a heartbeat later.
Oh shit.
He jerked his head toward the sky.
The moon was staining deeper… and deeper… red.
A blood moon.
Hank stared at it, and the memory hit him like an electric shock — imagery from the game 7 Days to Die flooding into his consciousness.
"Blood moon… it's the damn blood moon," he muttered — then louder, the fear cracking through his voice for the first time,
"Blood moon!"
In 7 Days to Die lore, when the moon turned crimson — whether on the seventh day or a random cycle — something happened.
Zombies — every shape, every age, every condition —
became feral.
They ran.
They hunted.
They never stopped.
No shambling. No sluggishness.
Only relentless sprinting and heightened aggression.
Their strength doubled.
Their bite force and tear strength increased.
And worst of all — they awakened the ability to track living humans by scent and sound.
They would not stop until the blood moon faded.
And just as Hank processed that—
BOOM!!!
A thunderous explosion shook the ground beneath their feet.
Gunfire thundered before anyone even had time to ask what Hank meant about the blood moon.
Engines roared in the distance — then exploded onto the street.
"VROOOOM—!!!"
Blinding headlights speared through the dusk, slicing across the courtyard like blades.
"Enemy attack — TAKE COVER!" Hank roared.
But his voice was swallowed instantly by something even louder:
"BRRRRRRRRRT!!!"
"BOOM! BAM! BAM!"
A wall of bullets poured through the motel entrance like molten steel.
Brick shards flew. The windows shattered instantly. Everything was hammered under suppressive fire.
Clementine screamed just once — and Hank wrapped an arm around her small waist and threw them both behind the RV before another burst tore through the spot where they'd been.
Kenny and Lee dove behind the pickup, barely making it.
Carley, Doug, and Katjaa yanked Duck into the closest room on the first floor.
Lilly staggered while helping Larry limp toward the stairs — trying to drag him up to the second floor for cover.
The attack was organized — calculated — and vicious.
This wasn't random. It was payback, and they came loaded for war.
Rounds hammered the pickup and RV, metal ringing like a gong under the barrage. No one could even raise their heads.
Hank pressed Clementine flat against the tires — sheltering her with his whole body as rounds cratered the metal inches above them.
Between volleys he leaned out just enough, listening, reading the angles.
Then — in less than three seconds — he popped out from behind the RV, sighted, and fired.
BANG! BANG!
A moving gunner on the lead off-road truck jerked backward and tumbled off the bed.
Two perfect shots.
But it triggered retaliation instantly.
Bullets jackhammered the RV, sparking off inches from Hank's skull.
Too many shooters. Too much firepower.
He couldn't risk another peek.
Clementine trembled in his arms — silent, shocked, terrified — but she didn't cry. She bit down and held on.
"KENNY! LEE!" Hank yelled toward the pickup — barely audible over the gunfire. "STATUS! ANYONE HIT?!"
"We're good!" Kenny shouted back, voice tight with panic. "Holy hell — they're pinning us down! We can't move!"
"CARLEY! DOUG! CHECK IN!"
"We're alive!" Carley shouted from inside — still keeping her cool. "But we're trapped! No exit!"
Hank snapped his head toward the stairs — just in time to see what he feared.
Lilly was pinned halfway up the steps — shielding Larry with her body while rounds chewed up the walls around them.
"My dad's hit!" she cried, voice cracking. "His leg — he's bleeding bad! We can't move!"
Larry's pained groans echoed down the stairwell.
"Dammit," Hank growled.
There was no room for hesitation — he forced himself calm.
"Kenny!" he shouted again. "Shotgun! On my command — blind fire at the gate! Don't aim — just suppress!"
"Got it!" Kenny barked.
"Lee — Glock — watch the left wall! If anyone tries to flank, drop them!"
"Copy!"
Hank tucked Clementine further under the RV.
"Stay down. No matter what happens, do NOT crawl out. Understand?"
She nodded hard, tears in her eyes.
Hank checked his magazine — plenty of rounds left.
"One—"
He braced.
"Two—"
He inhaled sharply.
"Three — GO!"
The courtyard erupted.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!
Kenny's shotgun blasts thundered like explosions, splintering wood and stone at the gate. The shock forced the attackers to pause and adjust.
And in that tiny window—
Hank sprinted.
But not toward the gate — toward the stairs.
His P226 spat fire.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
He wasn't trying to kill — not yet.
He was creating a smokescreen — kicking up dust, chips of plaster, debris — lowering visibility for anyone aiming at Lilly and Larry.
"MOVE NOW!" Hank barked.
The small reprieve was all Lilly needed. She gritted her teeth, hauled her father up the last few steps, and rolled them both onto the second-floor landing — temporarily out of the kill zone.
Hank dove to the underside of the staircase — the triangular dead zone where no bullet could reach directly.
It wasn't safety — just less death.
They had bought maybe three seconds.
The attackers regrouped, shouting orders, switching magazines.
The next wave of fire was even heavier — precise and merciless.
And then—
something changed.
Something wrong.
From somewhere outside the walls…
A shriek.
Not human.
Not normal.
A sound like metal grinding through flesh — feral, hungry, vibrating every nerve in the human body.
Hank felt the hair on his arms stand up.
He knew that sound.
Blood moon.
And it had begun.