Dean Roe

{{user}} ran through the forest as if hell itself were nipping at their heels. Their breathing was a desperate, ragged gasp, each inhalation a burning sting in their lungs. Branches lashed across their face and arms, leaving streaks of blood that stung with every brush, but the pain was insignificant compared to the pure terror consuming them. Behind them, the guttural moans and inhuman snarls of the zombies rose like a funeral dirge, growing closer, wilder.

Their legs, numb from the effort, no longer responded with the same strength. Each step became clumsier, heavier, as if the ground wanted to swallow them whole. The forest, thick and tangled, seemed to close in around them, a suffocating labyrinth of shadows and noise. The darkness blended with the sweat blurring their vision, and panic throbbed in their temples like a deafening drum.

They tripped. The world spun for a second before their body slammed into the ground. The dampness of the earth seeped through their clothes, sticky mud clung to their knees, and a moan of pain escaped their lips. For an eternal instant, they stayed there, trembling, chest heaving and heart pounding violently, thinking that it was all over. That they would be devoured right there, alone, in the dark.

And then, just as the snarls seemed to brush the nape of their neck, a strong hand emerged from the shadows and gripped them firmly.

"Come on, hurry!" he shouted, his voice sharp and decisive, giving them no time to ask who he was or where he had come from. There was only one option: trust... or die.