She pulled back from the window, breathing through her teeth. The low groans blended into a steady, grinding pressure, like the dead were pushing the walls with their presence alone.

  She moved from window to window, careful with every step. Same picture everywhere—zombies drifting between cars, brushing against fences, packing the narrow street. No gaps. No patterns. No chance to slip through.

  A trap.

  Her pulse hammered as she checked the last window on the second floor. Then something caught her eye—a thick plank stretched from the edge of her roof to the neighbor’s. Weathered. Stable-looking. Placed there on purpose.

  She stared at it, mind racing.

  The man who died here… he hadn’t been helpless. He’d built himself a route. He’d lived on the roofs, moving between houses. Maybe for weeks. Maybe months. And maybe he broke his leg on one of those jumps and never recovered.

  But the idea worked.

  It could work again.

  Ember backed away from the window, her decision forming fast, clean, solid. She ate what she could, forcing food down until her stomach warmed. She drank until she couldn’t take more.

  She studied her backpack. Heavy. Loud. A problem on the roofs.

  She dropped it to the floor and left it there.

  She strapped on her belt, checked her knife, holstered the pistol.

  Last, she picked up the hatchet. The weight felt right in her hand—compact, simple, fast.

  She moved down the hallway and stopped under the square outline in the ceiling. The attic hatch. She reached up, pulled the handle. The wooden panel clicked and dropped a few inches. A narrow folding ladder slid down with a dry scrape.

  Ember paused, listening.

  No reaction from outside.

  Good.

  She climbed quickly, feeling the old steps flex under her boots. Warm, dusty air closed around her as she pulled herself into the attic. The space was cramped—low beams, insulation spilling out of torn plastic, old boxes stacked against the walls.

  The small window on the far side glowed faintly with morning light.

  Ember crossed the attic on careful feet, crouching to keep her head under the rafters. She unlatched the window, pushed it open, and cold air washed across her face. The roof shingles were only a foot below the frame.

  She slipped through, boots landing solidly on the sloped roof. The world outside hit her at once—the groans rising, dozens of them, maybe more. The dead shifted and pressed around the house in a restless tide.

  But they couldn’t reach her up here.

  Ember moved to the edge of the roof and found the plank. Thick. Weathered. Settled deep into the grooves of the shingles. The other end rested on the neighbor’s roof, maybe three meters away.

  She pressed her boot on it.

  No give.

  No crack.

  Stable.

  A breath left her chest—thin, cold, but clear.

  She stepped onto the plank. The height tugged at her stomach, but the path felt solid. She crossed fast, light on her feet, hatchet tight in her grip.

  Three seconds later she was on the neighbor’s roof, heart pounding but steady.

  She’d escaped the trap.

  ***

  Ember crouched low on the roof, the hatchet resting across her thigh. She slid her free hand into her pocket and pulled out the folded map. The paper was soft from use, edges worn, a smear of dirt across the corner.

  She opened it carefully and matched the lines to the world below.

  Main Street ran straight south—her route. The police station sat far down that line, maybe a thirty-minute walk in normal times.

  Now?

  Who knew.

  From the roof she could see most of the street. Cars jammed the lanes—sedans, trucks, an old school bus turned sideways near an intersection. Zombies weaved between them in slow, uneven paths, pulled toward every faint sound.

  But the houses here stood tight, shoulder to shoulder. Roofs nearly touched. Gutters almost brushed. A broken antenna hung between two places like a dropped rope.

  She traced the rooftops with her eyes.

  If she stayed above them…

  If she kept her weight steady, her steps quiet…

  She could move. Not fast, but safer than the street.

  Ember folded the map and tucked it away.

  The path was there. Rough, uneven, dangerous—but real.

  She tightened her grip on the hatchet and turned toward the next roofline.

  ***

  Ember reached the last rooftop sooner than she expected. Her legs felt steady, breath calm. Moving above the streets was easier than she had imagined—quiet, almost smooth. No close calls. No hands grabbing at her boots.

  But when she stepped to the edge and looked down, her stomach dropped.

  The police station sat across a wide gap—more than thirty feet of open air. A broken parking lot below. Dozens of zombies drifted between the cars, some pressed against the walls, others wandering in slow circles as if waiting for something to fall into their reach.

  She narrowed her eyes at the gap again.

  No way to jump it. Even with a running start, she’d break both legs and drop right into the crowd.

  Wind pushed her hair across her face. She brushed it aside and studied every angle—the ground, the walls, the roofs around her. The police station was lower, built from heavy concrete with a flat, empty top. Too far to reach from here.

  Ember pressed her boot against the roof’s edge and leaned forward a little more, checking details.

  Thirty feet. Maybe more.

  Zombies shifted below, their heads lifting as they picked up some faint sound she couldn’t hear. One scraped its nails on a trunk. Another groaned, deep and empty.

  She pulled back, jaw tightening.

  Direct jump — impossible.

  Street — suicide.

  So she searched the roofs again, tracing lines, corners, gutters, ledges. There had to be another way. There always was.

  Ember stepped back from the edge and let her eyes sweep the gap again.

  There — not the roof. The tree.

  A tall oak grew beside the station’s parking lot. Its trunk leaned toward her building, pulled that way by years of wind. One thick branch stretched almost across the gap. Not enough to reach the roof… but close enough to grab if she jumped.

  Her pulse nudged faster.

  She measured the distance with her eyes:

  A short run. A hard push.

  Grab the branch. Hold.

  Then climb to the thicker limbs and work her way down toward the station’s roof.

  Risky — but possible. And the only thing that looked even close to possible.

  She moved to the far end of her rooftop, boots scraping lightly on old tar paper. Zombies murmured below, unaware of her plan or how close she was to dropping into their arms if she messed up even once.

  Ember exhaled slowly.

  The branch swayed slightly in the breeze, strong and heavy, its smaller limbs forming a crooked path toward the police station.

  She nodded to herself.

  This is it.

  She tightened her grip on the hatchet, slid it through her belt loop, and rolled her shoulders. The run-up wasn’t long. She would get only one chance.

  Ember backed up another step, felt the edge of the roof behind her heel, and leaned forward, focusing on the branch.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  She could make it.

  She had to.

  ***

  Ember ran.

  Three quick strides, a push, and the world dropped out from under her.

  She flew across the gap—arms reaching, fingers spread—

  Her right hand caught the branch.

  Her left slipped.

  The branch bowed under her weight with a deep wooden groan. Ember’s boots swung over empty space, the breath punched from her lungs. For a heartbeat she hung by one arm above the street full of reaching hands.

  “No—”

  She grabbed again, this time catching rough bark with her left hand. Pain flared across her palm, but she held on. The branch shook, swaying, threatening to pitch her off.

  Ember hauled herself upward, muscles trembling. First her elbows locked over the wood. Then she folded, pressed her chest down, and crawled until her stomach lay flat along the branch.

  She stayed still for a moment, breathing hard, cheek against the warm bark. Below, zombies gathered, brushing against the tree trunk, their arms lifting as if they sensed the movement above.

  Ember didn’t look down again.

  She tightened her grip, dug her boots into the branch, and began inching her way toward the trunk—slow, careful, silent, every muscle focused on the next small movement that would keep her alive.

  ***

  Ember edged along the thick branch, testing each shift of weight. The limb angled toward the police station—still too far, but the closest she would ever get.

  No more hesitation.

  She drew a breath, braced her boots, and leapt.

  The roof rushed up—then slid away beneath her fingers.

  She missed.

  Air tore past her as she dropped. Reflex took over. Ember flung her hands out and caught the frame of an open second-floor window. Her body slammed against the wall, knees cracking hard against the brick.

  “Ah—” She hissed through her teeth, hanging by her arms, pain flashing white along her legs.

  Below, something snarled.

  Don’t look. Move.

  She swung one foot up, found a sliver of support on the window ledge, and pulled. Muscles screamed, but she forced herself higher. As her head cleared the sill, she froze.

  A zombie stood in the room.

  Five steps away.

  Its back was turned, shoulders hunched, head tilted as if listening to something deep inside its dead mind.

  The floor creaked under it weight.

  The zombie began to turn.

  Ember shoved herself up and over the windowsill in one violent motion, landing hard on the floor. Her hand flashed to her belt. The hatchet came free, its weight familiar, comforting.

  The zombie reached for her, fingers crooked like claws.

  Ember stepped in and swung.

  The hatchet buried in its skull with a dull, wet crack. The body sagged instantly, collapsing at her feet.

  She stood over it, chest heaving, the room silent except for the distant groans outside and the thin rattle of the window behind her.

  ***

  Ember wiped the hatchet on her pant leg, then crouched beside the corpse.

  She rolled the zombie over with a grimace. The body cracked and sagged, a stale stench rising off it. No badge. Nothing.

  “Great,” she whispered.

  She listened. The street noise outside droned like a distant storm—groans, shuffling, the occasional thud against metal. Inside, the silence felt tight and deceptive.

  She checked the office.

  A desk sat against the wall, covered in dust. An old phone. A dead monitor. A computer tower half–buried under papers. An ashtray full of gray stubbed-out cigarettes. A faded photograph of a uniformed man, the face barely recognizable. A plain chair. A metal file cabinet with its drawers cracked open.

  She searched everything fast but thoroughly.

  Paperwork—worthless.

  Drawers—pens, folders, a broken stapler.

  And in the back of one drawer: a small gas lighter.

  She flicked it.

  A clean flame rose.

  “Good enough.” She slipped it into her chest pocket.

  She moved to the door, rested her palm on the handle, and froze.

  Listening again.

  Nothing right outside. No scraping, no breath, no dragging feet. Just the low, constant murmur of the dead somewhere below and outside.

  She eased the door open and peeked out.

  A long hallway stretched left and right. Some doors hung open, others shut tight. At the far end, a stairwell dropped down.

  And in the opposite corner—half in shadow—stood a zombie.

  It listed slightly, rocking on its feet as if waiting for something. If she stepped wrong, if she nudged a chair, if her boot scuffed the floor—he’d turn. And when he turned, he’d roar.

  One zombie wasn’t the problem.

  The ones he’d wake up were.

  Ember narrowed her eyes.

  ***

  Ember slipped into the hallway, keeping low.

  The floor was a trap—paper scraps, shattered glass, a pencil snapped in half. She placed each step with care, rolling her foot softly so nothing cracked under her boot.

  Every sudden sound made her freeze.

  A creak in the pipes.

  A soft thump somewhere..

  A long, slow groan drifting from a distant room.

  She moved again.

  Most doors stood open. She paused at each one, leaning just far enough to glance inside.

  A broken office.

  A storage closet.

  A meeting room with chairs knocked over.

  In two of the rooms, zombies wandered inside—faces turned to the walls, bodies swaying like they were dreaming. None looked her way. Ember held her breath and eased past them, inch by inch.

  Her target waited near the corner. A single zombie, turning in slow circles, its fingers brushing the doorframes as if searching for something.

  Ember crouched behind a half-opened door and waited for its rotation.

  One circle.

  Two.

  On the third, its back faced her.

  She stepped out—silent, quick.

  Her hand wrapped around the knife. One clean strike to the temple. The body jerked once.

  She caught it by the shirt before it hit the floor, lowering it gently until it settled without a sound.

  Then she rolled the corpse over.

  No badge.

  “Damn,” she whispered, throat tight.

  But the hallway was still hers, for now.

  ****

  Ember slid along the wall, eyes flicking from doorframe to floor. Every step measured. Every breath quiet. A loose paper fluttered under the ceiling vent; she paused, watching it settle, making sure nothing else moved.

  The first open door stood wide like a mouth.

  She leaned in.

  A walker swayed near a filing cabinet, head down, fingertips brushing drawers. It hadn’t sensed her. She stepped inside, weight over her toes, knife ready. One more step… then another…

  Her blade punched into its temple. The body jerked once. She caught it under the arms and lowered it, cheek brushing its cold hair. When it hit the carpet, it made no sound.

  No badge.

  She backed out and edged to the next office.

  A desk lamp lay shattered. A dried smear on the floor led to a corpse in the corner—flat, still, throat gone. No threat. She checked its pockets anyway, fingers quick. Nothing. She moved on.

  Third room.

  A low growl vibrated from inside.

  Ember steadied the knife and peeked in. The walker was wedged between chairs, arms trapped. Easy kill. She crossed the room, planted a knee in its back, and drove the blade down. Its body went limp. She placed it on the floor, checking jacket, belt, collar.

  No badge.

  Back to the hall. Closed doors now.

  She pressed her ear to the first one—slow dragging, more than one body. She slid the pistol from her holster and screwed the suppressor on, threads clicking softly. She braced herself, cracked the door open.

  Three shapes surged toward her.

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  Each shot thudded through flesh. The corpses collapsed in a heap at her feet. Ember stepped over them, breathing through her mouth. She searched pockets, belts, shirt fronts.

  Nothing.

  She returned to the hall, shoulders tight, sweat prickling under her collar.

  Next closed door. She listened—silence. She opened it a few inches, found a single walker staring at the far wall. She slipped inside, closed the gap, and stabbed upward under the ear. It toppled against her shoulder; she eased it down and searched it.

  Nothing.

  Room after room:

  a tiny office with a copier that still hummed;

  a break room with two walkers eating something unrecognizable;

  a storage closet with one gnawing on a chair leg;

  a records room filled with paper and stale air.

  She killed them all. Quiet, fast, efficient.

  Still no badge.

  The hall ahead stretched darker now, voices echoing from somewhere below. Ember tightened her grip on the knife, wiped blood from her forearm, and moved downstairs.