Chapter 9: Blood and Ashes

Part 1: Torn Apart

The Alams continued their march, moving cautiously through the desolate streets. The shattered city was eerily quiet, save for the faint cries of the undead carried on the wind. Every corner, every shadow, felt like a trap waiting to spring.

Muhammad walked at the front with Sajid, his knife in hand, eyes scanning the horizon for danger. The rest of the family trailed behind, the children flanked by the women, with Khalid and Majid bringing up the rear.

They had just crossed an old intersection littered with wrecked rickshaws and burnt-out vehicles when Muhammad's attention was caught by a faint noise—a distant sound that didn't belong. He froze, holding up a hand.

"What is it?" Sajid asked sharply, stopping in his tracks.

"Shhh," Muhammad hissed, narrowing his eyes. The sound came again, faint and static-filled. It was unmistakable. A voice—coming from a working radio.

The faint hope of other survivors shot through him like a lightning bolt. He turned to his father. "Did you hear that?"

"What did you hear?" Zaid asked, stepping closer, his hammer at the ready.

"Radio static," Muhammad said. "A voice. Someone's broadcasting."

Sajid's face tightened. "It doesn't matter. We can't risk breaking formation to investigate. We keep moving."

"No!" Muhammad snapped, his voice louder than he intended. He pointed in the direction of the sound. "That could be someone. Someone with supplies. Somewhere safer."

"And it could be a trap," Sajid countered.

The debate froze the family in place. Shamir, standing at the middle of the group, let out a low whistle. "Uh, guys? Hate to interrupt the leadership spat, but we've got movement. A lot of it."

All heads turned to where Shamir was pointing. In the distance, emerging from behind an overturned bus, was a group of infected. Their jerky movements quickened as they spotted the family.

"How many?" Khalid growled, shifting into a defensive position.

"Too many!" Shawaiz called, gripping his rebar.

The Split

"Move!" Sajid barked, pushing Muhammad toward the group. "We're sticking together, Muhammad. Stay with us!"

But Muhammad hesitated, his gaze fixed on the distant sound of the radio signal. The infected were getting closer, their guttural snarls growing louder.

"Muhammad, let's go!" Subhana screamed from the back of the group, her voice high with panic.

Just as Muhammad turned to follow them, the chaos erupted.

An explosion rocked the street—a nearby fuel drum, old and rusted, detonated as one of the infected crashed into it. The blast sent a shockwave through the group, throwing them off balance. Smoke filled the air, debris raining down like shrapnel.

Muhammad hit the ground hard, his head slamming against the pavement. His vision blurred, the world spinning as screams and growls overlapped into a deafening cacophony.

When he struggled to his feet, the street was thick with smoke, and the infected had surged forward, cutting through the space where his family had been.

"Baba!" he screamed, his voice cracking as he swung his knife at the nearest infected. The creature staggered back, but more came.

Through the haze, he could hear Subhana calling his name, faint and distant, but the growls swallowed her voice.

"Muhammad, run!" Zaid's voice cut through the chaos, but when Muhammad turned, all he could see was the swarm.

"Baba! Ammi!"

A zombie lunged for him, forcing Muhammad to roll out of its reach. By the time he got to his feet again, the family's location was a swirling mass of motion and noise. The horde was too thick, the smoke too heavy. He couldn't see them.

Lost and Alone

Muhammad staggered backward, his breaths sharp and uneven as the reality of his situation hit him. His family was gone. The infected surged through the intersection, some turning toward him. He didn't have time to think.

He turned and ran.

The streets blurred as he sprinted, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn't know where he was going—only that he had to keep moving. The snarls of the infected followed him, their footsteps growing louder as he darted through narrow alleys and around overturned vehicles.

He climbed over a collapsed wall, his knife gripped tightly, ready to strike. He heard their cries growing fainter behind him, but the panic in his chest didn't ease. He needed to stop, to think, but he couldn't afford it.

He tripped on broken concrete, his knee scraping hard against the jagged surface, but he forced himself to keep moving. Blood trickled down his leg, mixing with the grime and sweat, but he didn't slow.

Finally, he stumbled into a small abandoned shop, its shattered windows offering scant cover. He slammed the broken door shut behind him and pressed his back against the wall, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

The infected passed by outside, their snarls growing faint as they continued chasing phantom sounds. For the first time in what felt like hours, Muhammad was alone.

The Weight of Isolation

The silence pressed down on him, louder than the growls and chaos of before. He sank to the floor, his chest rising and falling as the adrenaline faded and exhaustion set in.

"They're not gone," he muttered to himself, his hands shaking. "They're not gone. They're not..."

Tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision. He slammed his fist against the wall, ignoring the sting of pain.

"I'll find you," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I'll find you, Baba. I'll find you, Ammi."

His grip tightened around his knife as he stared out at the empty street. For the first time, he truly felt the weight of what the apocalypse meant. Alone. Vulnerable.

But he wasn't giving up.

Part 2: The Road to Survival

Muhammad sat in the ruined shop, his back pressed against the cracked wall as the cold seeped through his sweat-soaked clothes. His breaths had slowed, but his mind raced with fragmented thoughts. Images of his family swirled in his head—Subhana's desperate cry, Sajid's commanding voice, Mehmood clutching at her scarf—all slipping away in a fog of smoke and blood.

The streets beyond the shattered window were eerily silent. Only the occasional creak of shifting metal or the faint, distant moan of the infected broke the stillness. Muhammad tightened his grip on his knife, the leather handle slick with sweat and grime.

"I need a plan," he muttered to himself. His voice echoed faintly in the desolate room, a grim reminder that he was alone.

Gathering Strength

Muhammad forced himself to stand, wincing as he tested the weight on his scraped knee. The bleeding had slowed, leaving an angry red gash below his torn jeans. He grabbed a faded cloth from the floor—a remnant of the shop's past life—and wrapped it tightly around his leg.

Moving cautiously, he examined the small space. Dust and debris covered every surface. Shards of glass crunched underfoot as he moved to the counter. A quick scan revealed broken shelves filled with crumbling cardboard boxes.

"Come on," he muttered, sifting through the debris.

Finally, his hands landed on something useful. A half-empty bottle of water, hidden behind a stack of cans. It wasn't much, but in this world, it was priceless. He opened it cautiously, taking only a small sip to avoid wasting a single drop.

His search continued, yielding a rusted screwdriver and a handful of stale crackers wrapped in plastic. The sight of food almost brought tears to his eyes, but he shoved the feeling down. "Enough for a day," he murmured, pocketing the crackers.

A Growing Fear

The longer he lingered, the more the weight of his isolation pressed down on him. Every sound—the groan of the wind, the skitter of debris—set his nerves on edge. He kept replaying the explosion in his head, the moment the horde had swallowed his family.

"They're not dead," he told himself. His voice sounded weak, unconvincing.

He peered out of the window, scanning the street. It stretched endlessly before him, scattered with wreckage and ruined buildings. The bodies of a few infected lay slumped in unnatural positions, evidence of an earlier struggle.

"They're ahead of me. They have to be," he whispered, gripping the sill tightly. "I just need to catch up."

But the thought of facing the streets alone sent a chill through him. He had always fought alongside his family—Sajid at his side, Zaid's hammer swinging overhead, Subhana protecting the children. Now, it was just him.

Stepping Into Danger

The silence couldn't last. Muhammad knew staying in the shop was a death sentence. He slid his knife into his waistband and stepped out into the harsh sunlight, every step deliberate and careful.

The street stretched endlessly, flanked by abandoned homes and broken storefronts. His eyes darted to every shadow, every open window.

The infected were out there. Watching. Waiting.

He clung to the edges of the road, keeping to the walls and moving in fits and starts. Every sound made him stop and listen—a creaking gate, the flutter of fabric in the wind.

At the far end of the street, he spotted something new. A smashed bicycle lay next to a dead infected. Its head was caved in, the blood still fresh and glistening under the sun.

Muhammad knelt by the body, inspecting the wound. It had been struck with something blunt—a bat or a heavy club. His chest tightened.

"Baba?" he muttered, scanning the ground for more clues.

The blood trail led into an alley, its entrance dark and foreboding.

The Alley

Muhammad gripped his knife tightly as he stepped into the shadows of the alley. The air grew cooler, and the stench of decay grew stronger. His footsteps were slow and deliberate, his ears straining for any sound.

Midway through the narrow path, a sound broke the stillness—a faint, rhythmic banging.

He froze, his breath caught in his throat. The noise repeated, growing louder. It wasn't infected. It was too controlled, too deliberate.

He crept closer, his back against the wall, until the source of the noise came into view. A young man was crouched beside a barricade of trash bins, struggling to pry open a rusted metal door with a crowbar. He was thin, his clothes torn and caked with dirt, his movements frantic.

"Hey," Muhammad called softly, trying not to startle him.

The man whipped around, his eyes wide and filled with fear. He dropped the crowbar, fumbling for a makeshift weapon tucked into his waistband—a broken piece of pipe.

"Stay back!" the man shouted, his voice shaky.

"I'm not here to fight," Muhammad said, raising his hands. His knife remained at his side, but he didn't reach for it. "I'm alone."

"Bullshit," the man spat, his grip tightening on the pipe. "No one's alone out here unless they're dead."

"Believe what you want," Muhammad said calmly. "I'm just looking for my family. They might've come this way."

The man studied him for a long moment, his breathing uneven. Finally, he lowered the pipe slightly.

"Your family's not here," he said. "No one is. Just the dead."

A Fragile Alliance

The man finally stepped back from the door, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I thought this place might have something—food, water. But it's sealed tight."

Muhammad eyed the door. "Why aren't you out of the city?"

"Why aren't you?" the man countered, his tone sharp.

Muhammad didn't answer. Instead, he walked toward the door and picked up the crowbar the man had dropped. He tested it against the rusted frame, then slammed it into the edge with all his strength.

"Hey, I tried that!" the man said indignantly.

Muhammad ignored him, slamming the crowbar again and again. The frame groaned, the rusted metal finally giving way enough to reveal a crack.

"You're insane," the man muttered, stepping back.

"Help or leave," Muhammad said flatly, his breath labored as he continued forcing the door open.

After a long pause, the man sighed and stepped forward, gripping the crowbar with Muhammad. Together, they pushed until the frame gave way, the door creaking open to reveal the dark interior beyond.

Muhammad glanced at the man, whose wary gaze met his own.

"What's your name?" Muhammad asked.

"Kamran," the man replied hesitantly. "And you?"

"Muhammad." He tightened his grip on his knife, stepping into the darkness. "Let's see what's inside."

Part 3: The Secrets Within

Muhammad stepped into the dimly lit interior of the abandoned building, his grip tightening on his knife. The air was thick with the musty scent of rot and rust, and the faint light filtering through broken slats revealed overturned furniture, stacks of debris, and a crumbling ceiling streaked with dark stains.

Behind him, Kamran hesitated, peering nervously over Muhammad's shoulder. His makeshift pipe weapon trembled slightly in his hand. "I told you, there's nothing here," he muttered, though his tone carried more fear than certainty.

Muhammad didn't answer. His eyes scanned the room, picking apart every detail: a shattered mirror near the wall, scattered cans across the floor, and the faint traces of bootprints in the dust leading deeper into the structure. He crouched to examine them.

"These tracks," he said softly, tracing one with his finger. "Someone else was here."

Kamran took a step back toward the door. "That doesn't mean they're still alive."

"It doesn't mean they're not," Muhammad said firmly. He rose to his feet and pressed forward, gesturing for Kamran to follow.

"What's the point of this?" Kamran hissed, keeping his distance. "If there's anyone alive, they're either hiding or armed—and if they're not alive, you know what they'll be."

"I'm not afraid of the dead," Muhammad replied. His voice carried an edge that made Kamran shiver. "It's the living that are dangerous."

The Search

The two moved cautiously into the hallway, where the darkness grew heavier. Broken light fixtures dangled from the ceiling, their wires curling down like vines. Every creak of the floorboards beneath their feet echoed in the oppressive silence, making Kamran flinch at each sound.

"You're jumpy," Muhammad said, glancing back at him.

"And you're reckless," Kamran shot back. "Big difference."

"Quiet," Muhammad snapped, holding up a hand.

Kamran froze. The faint shuffle of movement echoed from deeper within the building. Muhammad turned toward the source of the sound, his muscles tense, his knife poised. Kamran clenched his pipe tighter, his breath hitching.

"It's probably just a rat," Kamran said, though his voice wavered.

Muhammad ignored him, stepping into the next room. The door was half-broken, hanging off one hinge. He nudged it open with the tip of his knife, revealing a small storage room.

Inside, the shelves were lined with rusted tools and empty boxes, but the center of the room was what drew Muhammad's attention. A body lay sprawled across the floor, its clothes tattered, its face frozen in a silent scream. Its chest had been torn open, the flesh jagged and raw.

"That's fresh," Kamran muttered, peeking over Muhammad's shoulder. He took a step back. "We shouldn't be here."

Muhammad approached the body cautiously, crouching beside it. The blood was still wet, pooling beneath the corpse. "This wasn't the dead," he said, his voice low.

Kamran furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about?"

"These wounds—" Muhammad gestured toward the slashes across the chest. "They're too clean. Not bites. Something sharp."

"A knife?" Kamran asked, paling.

"Or worse."

The Ambush

Before Muhammad could continue his inspection, a sound cut through the air—a faint clinking, like metal tapping against stone. He stood instantly, his heart racing as he scanned the shadows.

"Did you hear that?" Kamran whispered, stepping closer.

"Shut up," Muhammad hissed, his eyes narrowing. The noise grew louder, more deliberate, until a voice called from the darkness:

"You shouldn't be here."

The words echoed off the walls, sending a chill through the room. Muhammad turned sharply toward the source, his knife raised. "Who's there?"

In response, the shadows shifted. From the far end of the room, three figures emerged, their faces partially obscured by tattered scarves wrapped around their heads. Each held a weapon—a machete, a rusted ax, and a long iron rod.

Kamran let out a sharp breath. "Oh, no."

One of the figures, a tall man with wild eyes and a jagged scar across his forehead, stepped forward, his machete gleaming faintly in the dim light. "This is our place," he growled, his voice low and guttural. "We don't like visitors."

"We didn't know," Muhammad said, keeping his voice steady. He positioned himself between Kamran and the strangers. "We'll leave. No trouble."

The scarred man chuckled darkly, his grip tightening on his weapon. "It's too late for that."

Fight for Survival

The first blow came fast. The man with the iron rod lunged forward, swinging at Muhammad's head. Muhammad ducked, the weapon grazing the air above him. He countered with a quick slash of his knife, slicing the man's arm. Blood spattered onto the floor, and the attacker howled in pain, stumbling back.

"Kamran, move!" Muhammad barked, his voice sharp.

Kamran froze for a moment, panic paralyzing him. The second attacker, wielding the ax, lunged at him. Muhammad shoved Kamran aside, blocking the swing with his arm. The blade grazed his forearm, tearing the fabric and leaving a shallow cut.

Muhammad gritted his teeth and drove his knife into the ax-wielder's side. The man let out a guttural scream and collapsed, clutching at his wound.

The scarred man stepped forward, his machete raised high. "You'll regret that," he snarled.

Muhammad backed toward Kamran, his movements slow and calculated. "You have one chance," he said, his voice steady despite the adrenaline pumping through him. "Walk away. Now."

Scarface laughed, a cruel, guttural sound. "I like your fire, boy. But this is your grave."

The Tide Turns

The machete came down fast, aiming for Muhammad's shoulder. He dodged, the blade slicing through the air just inches from his face. Muhammad used the opening to jab at Scarface's chest, the tip of his knife grazing his ribs.

The man grunted, staggering back, but his wild grin never faltered. He swung again, the blade catching Muhammad's jacket and tearing the sleeve.

"Help him, Kamran!" Muhammad shouted, his voice strained.

Kamran, still gripping his pipe, hesitated as the injured man with the iron rod struggled to his feet. Gritting his teeth, Kamran swung hard, the pipe cracking against the man's skull with a sickening thud. The attacker crumpled to the ground, motionless.

"Good!" Muhammad yelled. "Now get out of my way!"

Scarface lunged again, but this time, Muhammad was faster. He sidestepped the attack and slammed his knee into the man's stomach. As Scarface doubled over, Muhammad brought the knife down in a swift arc, burying it in his shoulder.

The man let out a choked cry, dropping his machete as he staggered back. Blood poured from his wound, staining his tattered clothes.

"You're dead... you're all dead," Scarface sputtered before collapsing onto the ground.

A Fractured Alliance

Muhammad stood over the fallen attackers, his chest heaving. He yanked his knife free from Scarface's shoulder, wiping it on his jeans before turning to Kamran.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice tight.

Kamran shook his head, his face pale. "You didn't have to kill them all."

"They weren't going to let us walk away," Muhammad said flatly.

Kamran opened his mouth to argue but stopped, his gaze flickering to the bodies on the floor. Finally, he swallowed hard and nodded.

"What now?" he asked quietly.

Muhammad's expression hardened as he stepped toward the door leading out of the storage room. "We move."

(End of Chapter)