All Chapters of Project Dakota: Rising of the dead: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

The following days, in a manner most peculiar and contrary to the grueling, moment-by-moment slog that had characterized our initial survival, seemed to collapse in upon themselves, vanishing into the rearview mirror of time with a disconcerting swiftness. It was as if some cosmic hand had taken the thick, molasses-like substance of those first terrifying weeks and whipped it into a light, airy mousse that simply evaporated upon contact with the present. This acceleration of chronology was, I suspected, a direct byproduct of a newfound, albeit fragile, state of tranquility. I had become something of a hermit within the confines of my assigned quarters, a voluntary recluse whose primary occupation was the diligent avoidance of a certain brooding, dark-haired individual whose very presence seemed to scramble my cognitive functions and set my nerves jangling like a set of poorly tuned wind chimes in a gale. For a period spanning no less than seven sunrises and seven sunsets—a week, a qu

The moment the shattered library door swung shut behind us, the world fractured into two distinct, terrifying realities. Outside, the moaning chorus of the drawn horde swelled, a dissonant symphony of hunger echoing off the brick and concrete of the campus. Inside, it was a tomb. The air was cold, stale, and heavy with the scent of decaying paper, old leather, and the pervasive, sweet-rotten undertone that signaled death. Dust motes, disturbed by our violent entry, danced in the few slivers of gray light that cut through the grimy, high-set windows, illuminating a vast, shadowy expanse of towering bookshelves that receded into an abyssal darkness.The door, splintered around the lock, wouldn’t latch. Jake immediately threw his weight against it, his boots skidding on the polished marble floor. “It won’t hold! I need to brace it!” he grunted, the strain evident in his voice as the door shuddered under an impact from the other side. A pale, grasping hand shot through the gap, fingers cl

The world had shrunk to the dimensions of a single, dusty room, and within that new, smaller universe, the only laws that mattered were the gentle, spiraling rituals of the high. Ethel sat cross-legged on a threadbare rug that had once been a vibrant Persian blue, now faded to the colour of a tired sky. The intricate patterns were worn smooth in patches, a ghostly map of footsteps and furniture long since vanished. Jake was opposite her, his back against a heavy oak dresser, his long legs stretched out before him, the scuffed toes of his boots pointing towards the boarded-up window. Between them, on a low, scarred wooden crate that served as a table, lay the sacred implements of their temporary escape: a small, dark green bud of cannabis, a packet of rolling papers thinner than a moth’s wing, and a cheap, disposable lighter. The air in the room was thick and still, heavy with the scent of old wood, dust, and the faint, metallic tang of fear that always lingered, a persistent odour th

The slam of the window was a full stop, a definitive end to the chaos outside. For a moment, the only sound in the small, dark room was the ragged symphony of their breathing—three different tempos, three different volumes, all underscored by the faint, persistent moaning from the street, now muffled into a distant, ambient threat. The adrenaline that had fueled the rescue was receding, leaving in its wake a hollow, jangling exhaustion and the lingering, fizzy residue of the cannabis high.The boy was the first to move. He slid down the wall beside the window until he was sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest. He dropped his head, and his entire body shuddered with a series of deep, wracking tremors that were more than just shivers. It was the physical manifestation of terror finally being released now that the immediate danger had passed. The tough, profane exterior had cracked, revealing the terrified child beneath.Jake stood over him, a dark silhouette against the

The world inside the stockroom was a pocket of compressed, violent silence, broken only by Ethel’s ragged breaths and the soft, settling dust motes dancing in the slivers of light from the high windows. The five bodies lay in the awkward, graceless poses of the permanently still, their green aprons now stained with the dark, viscous evidence of their second death. The air was thick with the cloying stench of decay, fertilizer, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. Ethel stood amidst the carnage, her chest heaving, the weight of the heavy hunting knife a familiar, grim comfort in her hand. The adrenaline was a live wire under her skin, making her senses hyper-acute. She could hear the faint, distant sounds of Jake’s distraction—a rhythmic, metallic clanging that was already beginning to fade, pulling the main horde further from the building.There was no time to process. The mission was the only thing that mattered. Her eyes, adjusted to the gloom, scanned the towering shelves and sta