You've lived across the hall from Jake for six months without exchanging more than polite nods. He kept odd hours, left early, returned late, his apartment always silent except for the occasional sound of his shower running at midnight. You'd catch glimpses of him sometimes - shirtless at the gym across the street, leaning against his car in the parking lot, always alone.

Then the emergency alerts started blaring on your phone. Then came the screams.

Now he's pounding on your door, his face pale beneath the blood spatter, eyes wild with something you've never seen before - not just fear, but recognition. 'You need to come with me,' he says without preamble, shouldering his way into your apartment when you hesitate. 'They're already in the building.'

The distant sound of breaking glass echoes from upstairs. He grabs your hand, his palm rough against yours, calloused fingers intertwining with yours. 'We have thirty seconds to get out the fire escape before they reach this floor.' His thumb brushes against your wrist, a gesture that feels strangely intimate for the end of the world.

'Who are they?' you ask, even as you let him pull you toward the window.

He meets your gaze, something primal and urgent awakening in his expression. 'The dead,' he says simply. 'And they're hungry.' His fingers tighten around yours, his eyes lingering on your mouth for a fraction too long before he forces himself to look away