The industrial strip didn't feel safer so much as less fragile, that was enough.
Arty kept the ute moving at a controlled pace as the buildings ahead grew larger and more defined, long steel sheds set back behind chain-link fences, wide roller doors, and open yards that traded visibility for exposure.
There were fewer windows here, fewer blind interior spaces that could hide movement until it was already on top of you.
The trade-off was space, anything in the open could see you coming from further out.
"Eyes up," he said, not loudly, but with enough weight that the others responded without question.
Leah shifted in the passenger seat, scanning left and right with the tyre iron still in her hand, her breathing steadier now but her posture still tight with the kind of alertness that came from not trusting any quiet to last.
Dale had one hand pressed to his side and the other braced against the seat, his face pale but his eyes open again, tracking movement in short, sharp glances.
In the rear-view mirror, Tom crouched low in the tray, one hand gripping the rail, the other hovering near the backpack as if he didn't quite know what he'd need from it yet but didn't want to be caught without it.
The road widened slightly as they entered the strip, the bitumen giving way in patches to compacted gravel where trucks had chewed the edges over time.
A sign for a fabrication yard loomed on the left, its gate half open, on the right, a plumbing supply depot sat quiet behind a high fence with a locked chain that looked intact from this distance.
Arty slowed.
"Talk to me," he said. "Anyone know this area better than me?"
Leah shook her head. "Not really. I've been out this way a couple of times, that's about it."
Tom leaned forward slightly. "Fabrication yard might have tools, steel stock, maybe gas. If the power's still up, there could be welders inside."
Arty nodded once, useful, dangerous.
Dale swallowed. "Fences look solid," he added, voice rough. "If the gate holds."
If, that word again.
Arty rolled the ute forward a few more metres and stopped just short of the fabrication yard entrance, angling the vehicle slightly so he could see both the interior yard and the road behind them in the mirrors.
The gate stood open wide enough for a truck to pass through, one side chained back against the fence, the other hanging free.
No obvious movement inside, rows of steel beams lay stacked on racks, a forklift sat idle near the far wall, with a large roller door that stood half open, darkness behind it.
Too open, far too quiet.
"This feels all sorts of wrong," Leah said.
"I agree, everything feels wrong," Arty replied. "Question is whether this is less wrong than the road."
His eyes flicked to the fuel gauge again.
Still just under half a tank, enough to keep moving, not enough to keep running forever, a sound came from behind them.
Distant, then closer.
Arty checked the mirror.
Movement on the road they'd come from, not a mass, not yet, a few shapes, spreading out as they moved, drawn along the same path the ute had taken, their pace uneven but persistent.
"They're tracking us," he said quietly.
"Tracking us?" Tom asked.
"Tracking movement," Arty corrected. "We're just the loudest thing around."
That wouldn't last either.
Leah leaned slightly forward. "We can't keep driving forever. We need somewhere to stop. Somewhere we can control."
Arty looked back at the fabrication yard.
Control.
Not safety.
Not comfort.
Control.
He made the call.
"Inside," he said, putting the ute into gear. "Fast look, fast decision. We don't commit unless it holds."
He eased the ute through the gate and into the yard, keeping speed low enough to react but high enough to avoid becoming a stationary target.
The gravel crunched under the tyres, the sound loud in the open space.
He swung the vehicle in a shallow arc, positioning it facing the exit while giving himself a clear line to the roller door.
"Stay ready," he said. "If something moves, we move faster."
The yard remained still.
That didn't mean empty.
Arty cut the engine but left the key in, his hand hovering near it for a second before he opened the door and stepped out, the wrench already back in his grip.
The air here carried a different smell. Metal, oil, dust, heat baked into steel and concrete, no immediate hint of decay.
Good.
Maybe.
He moved toward the roller door, each step deliberate, eyes scanning the shadows beyond the threshold.
The interior of the shed stretched wide and high, rows of workbenches, welding stations, racks of materials, and scattered equipment forming narrow corridors and blind pockets between them.
"Arty," Leah said quietly behind him.
He paused.
"Left side," she added.
He shifted his gaze.
A shape moved between two stacks of steel tubing, slow, dragging, then disappearing again.
Not empty.
"Count?" he asked.
"One," she said. "Maybe two."
Maybe.
Arty nodded once.
"Stay here," he said. "If it comes out, you handle it. If more come out, you get back in the ute and don't wait for me."
Leah's jaw tightened. "Not happening."
"It is if it keeps you alive."
A second shape appeared deeper inside the shed.
Two.
Possibly more.
Arty stepped forward.
He crossed the threshold and entered the shed, the light shifting around him as the sun fell behind the structure, leaving him with a mix of shadow and artificial glow from a few emergency lights still flickering weakly along the walls.
The first zombie emerged from behind the steel stack as he closed the distance, its movement snapping into focus the moment it registered him.
He met it clean, the wrench came down in a tight arc, connecting solidly and dropping it before it could fully commit to the lunge.
The second followed, faster than the first, forcing him to adjust mid-step.
He pivoted, let it overextend slightly, then drove the wrench into its temple from the side, the impact sending it into the base of the shelving where it collapsed in a tangle of limbs and metal.
This time around he didn't stop, he didn't hesitate, the memory of being eaten alive was all to vivid in his memory.
Those memories of the previous fights sat right there with him, reminding him what happened when you paused too long in a place that hadn't proven itself safe.
He scanned the space, no immediate third.
Good.
He crouched quickly, ignoring the smell and the heat and the part of his brain that wanted to look away, and reached for the damaged skull of the first one.
His fingers found it faster this time.
The shard.
He pulled it free with a practiced motion, the dark crystal catching the weak light as it came loose.
He didn't hesitate, it went straight into his pocket.
The second one gave him the same result.
Two.
He stood, breathing steady, and felt something shift inside him.
Not physically.
Not yet.
More like a quiet pressure building just behind his thoughts, the same way the air had felt earlier before the world had started breaking properly.
He frowned slightly.
"That's new," he muttered.
"What is?" Leah called from the doorway.
"Nothing," he said automatically, though he knew that wasn't entirely true. "Two down. Looks clear for now."
He moved deeper into the shed, scanning as he went, checking corners, angles, lines of sight.
The place had potential. Strong walls. Limited entry points. Materials that could be used to reinforce, block, redirect.
Time.
That was still the problem.
A noise came from the far side.
Another shape.
He moved toward it without thinking, the decision already made somewhere deeper than conscious thought.
The third zombie came from behind a welding station, its movement slower than the others but no less determined, he dispatched it quickly, the motion cleaner now, more efficient.
Three.
The crystal came free.
Pocket.
The pressure increased slightly.
He paused this time.
Actually paused.
"What is that?" he said quietly.
No answer came.
No voice.
Just that same subtle pull, the same quiet insistence that what he was doing mattered in a way he didn't fully understand yet.
He looked down at his hands.
Then at the bodies.
Then at the space around him.
"This isn't random," he said under his breath.
Another sound from behind him.
Closer to the entrance.
He turned.
Leah stood just inside the doorway now, eyes locked on something behind him.
"Arty," she said.
He followed her gaze.
A fourth zombie had entered the shed without him noticing, slipping in through the same path he'd taken, drawn by movement, by noise, by whatever invisible thread connected all of this together.
It came at him fast.
Faster than the others had.
He reacted a fraction slower than he should have.
The wrench came up late.
The impact still landed, but not clean.
The thing staggered, didn't drop and kept coming.
"Move!" Leah shouted.
Arty stepped back, adjusted, and struck again, harder this time, ending it properly.
Four.
He crouched.
Pulled the crystal.
Pocket.
The pressure spiked.
Not painful.
Not comfortable either.
Just… present.
He stood slowly this time.
Breathing changed, focus sharpened, the world felt… tighter, he didn't really have a word for it yet.
"What's going on?" Leah asked, stepping closer.
Arty shook his head once. "I don't know."
That was true.
Mostly.
Another sound echoed from outside the shed.
More movement.
More incoming.
He looked at Leah, then back toward the yard, then deeper into the shed where more shadows waited.
Then something clicked into place.
Not fully, not clearly, just enough.
"We don't stop," he said. "Not yet."
Leah frowned. "What do you mean?"
Arty's hand brushed against his pocket, feeling the shapes inside without taking them out.
"Every time I take one of these," he said slowly, "something changes."
Leah's expression shifted. "Changes how?"
"I don't know yet," he said. "But it's there."
Another noise.
Closer.
More than one.
Time was gone again.
Arty tightened his grip on the wrench and turned toward the deeper part of the shed.
"One more," he said quietly.
He didn't know why.
He just knew it mattered.
Somewhere just out of reach, something was waiting for him to reach a number he couldn't yet see.