"Move fast, Crane," the response crackled through. "The shadows are stretching. You don’t want to be caught on the street when the light dies."
He reached the crates just as the first siren wailed—the city’s mournful warning that the sun had dipped below the horizon. The transition was instant. The ambient groans of the "biters" below sharpened into something more predatory. Articles on the topic: "Dying light"
He hit the ground running, his lungs burning. His UV flashlight flickered in his hand, his only shield against the nightmares that shunned the light. He rounded a corner and saw the Tower—the high-rise sanctuary—shining like a lighthouse in a sea of monsters. "Open the gate!" he screamed into the radio. "Move fast, Crane," the response crackled through
"Brecken, I’m near the drop zone," Crane said into his radio, his voice tight. The transition was instant
He felt the wind of a clawed hand narrowly miss his shoulder. He scrambled up a barricade of spiked plywood, kicked a climbing infected square in the face, and threw himself through the closing gap of the Tower’s main gate.
The parkour that felt like play in the daylight became a desperate gamble in the dark. He lunged for a zip line, the wind whipping past his ears as he soared over a pack of infected. Behind him, he heard the screech—a guttural, chest-vibrating roar that told him he’d been spotted.