《I am a survivor》 Chapter 1: Double Life Brooklyn, New York As night fell over Brooklyn, the borough came alive with the chaotic energy of urban life. Neon lights bathed the streets in a kaleidoscope of colors, while a diverse mix of people¡ªwhite, Black, and Asian¡ªmoved through the bustling crowds. New York City, the largest metropolis in the world, is a melting pot of cultures, and Brooklyn, its most populous borough, is home to over three million residents. But Brooklyn is also known for its darker side. The streets are often lined with addicts, prostitutes, drunks, and gang members. Women in revealing clothing, their lips painted a bold red and faces caked in cheap makeup, smoke low-quality cigarettes as they eye the men passing by. This scene is especially common in an area known as "Hunts Point," often referred to as New York''s red-light district. South Bar, Brooklyn Inside the South Bar, the atmosphere was electric. Strobe lights flashed, heavy metal music blared, and a singer screamed into the microphone. A stripper twisted around a pole, surrounded by men with excess testosterone and women shrieking in excitement. The bar was a microcosm of the era''s impetuous. Basement of the Bar In a dimly lit, 30-square-meter basement, the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. A bloodied young white man lay on a hard wooden bed, barely clinging to life. A middle-aged man in a white coat, glasses perched on his nose, was sweating profusely as he tried to stitch up the young man''s gaping wound. His hands trembled with nervousness. In the corner near the door stood three men, all armed. The leader, a burly Black man, furrowed his brow in concern. "I... I can''t do it!" The bespectacled man suddenly turned to the three men by the door, swallowing hard. The Black man looked at him expressionlessly, pulling a small black cylinder from his pocket¡ªa silencer for his gun. "Please, he''s beyond saving..." The middle-aged man panicked, trying to back away but stumbling and falling to the ground. In his frantic movements, he knocked over a box of surgical instruments, the clattering noise piercing the silence of the basement. Thud! The Black man attached the silencer and fired a single shot. The middle-aged man collapsed, a bullet hole in his forehead, his lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling. The Black man gestured to his companions. A bald white man opened the door and called out. Two men entered and dragged the body away. "Is my brother going to make it?" the bald man asked, his eyes burning with anger. "Wait, it''s too sudden. Maybe there''s still hope," the Black man replied in a low voice. Just then, the door creaked open, and a young man in his late twenties appeared. He was clearly of Asian descent but had striking sea-blue eyes, indicating mixed heritage. "Vincent, you''re finally here," the Black man said, visibly relieved. He let the young man in and closed the door. Vincent, dressed in a leather jacket, nodded silently and approached the bed, looking down at the barely conscious young man. "...Save... me..." the young man whispered weakly, his lips trembling. "Who is he?" Vincent asked. "The doctor," the Black man replied. Meanwhile, the bald man and the Black man exchanged a few words. The bald man stepped forward, urgency in his voice. "Can you save him?" "Yes," Vincent said, but he didn''t move immediately. Instead, he looked at the young man on the bed and added, "Robbie, your best shooter, is in bad shape this time." The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. "Stop wasting time and save him!" the bald man snapped, raising his gun at Vincent. Vincent frowned, turning to the bald man and then to the Black man behind him. "New guy?" "Robbie''s brother, just arrived from New Jersey... Robbie, put the gun down!" the Black man commanded. The bald man hesitated, then reluctantly lowered his weapon. At that moment, a sweaty man burst into the basement, breathing heavily. He handed an envelope to the Black man, who tossed it to Vincent without a second glance. Vincent caught the envelope, opened it, and saw two stacks of crisp dollar bills. He raised an eyebrow, tucked the envelope into his pocket, and pulled out a small cloth roll from another pocket. Unrolling it, he revealed a set of surgical tools. Vincent only carried these essentials; the rest, like gauze and disinfectants, were provided by the client. He put on sterile gloves and examined Robbie''s wounds. "Four gunshot wounds, two stab wounds... he''s in bad shape," he muttered to himself. Half an hour later, Vincent left. Robbie, now bandaged and receiving a blood transfusion, was out of danger. "Boss, who was that? Why did you pay him first?" the bald man asked. "That''s Vincent, the doctor. He''s a genius, only works for gangs, charges a fortune, and demands payment upfront," the Black man explained. "He saved my life once, and Mario''s too. No one in the New York underworld dares to touch him." Mario, a legendary name in the American underworld, was the godfather of New York''s largest gang. Later That Night Vincent hurriedly left the bar and took a cab back to his small, rundown apartment on Oak Street. He tossed the envelope onto the bed, stripped off his clothes, revealing a lean, slightly muscular frame. He grabbed a burger and milk from the fridge, sat on the bed, and turned on the TV. The news reported an explosion at Johns Hopkins University in Maryland, with casualties still being counted. Vincent absentmindedly flipped through channels, unable to focus on any program. He turned off the TV, feeling restless. Chewing his food, he stared at the ceiling, his mood somber. The Next Morning At 7:30 AM, Vincent woke up, stretched, and opened the curtains. He did some push-ups and sit-ups, then went for a run. By 8:00 AM, he was back, showered, and dressed in a sharp suit. He fixed his hair with gel and smiled at the mirror, transforming from a brooding young man into a confident, upwardly mobile professional. He took the envelope and his briefcase, stopped by the bank to deposit the $20,000 into a designated account, and then headed to the subway. Thirty minutes later, he arrived in Manhattan, the heart of New York''s financial district, home to the famous Wall Street. Green Dot Biopharma, one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the U.S., was headquartered in a 30-story building in southern Manhattan. At 8:50 AM, Vincent arrived at the CEO''s office. He wasn''t the CEO, but the executive assistant. Vincent didn''t drink coffee, but he always brought a cup into the office because someone else did. At 9:00 AM, the sound of high heels clicked down the hallway. A woman in her thirties, with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, entered. She exuded a mature, commanding presence, though her stern expression made her seem unapproachable. This was Hillary Horvath, the CEO of Green Dot Biopharma. "Boss," Vincent greeted, handing her the coffee. He quickly briefed her on the day''s agenda, including a meeting with a European distributor and a financial report that needed her signature. Hillary listened in silence, sipping her coffee. When Vincent finished, she dismissed him with a wave. "Cancel the board meeting. Have Mr. Nash come at 10:00 AM. Notify all mid-level managers of a meeting at 2:00 PM." "Yes, boss," Vincent replied, heading to his desk. Hillary glanced at him and called out, "Wait!" Vincent turned. "Yes, boss?" Your tie is hideous. Change it next time," she said, her lips curling in distaste. Vincent looked down at his brown tie, which he thought was fine, but he nodded. "Of course, boss." He returned to his desk, ready for another day of managing calls, handling documents, and scheduling meetings. Vincent took his job seriously; it paid him over $60,000 a month, and many in the company coveted his position. He worked diligently, ensuring he met every demand of his boss. That afternoon, during lunch, he left the office to buy a new tie. Later That Afternoon In the hallway outside the conference room, Vincent made a phone call. "Hi, Dr. Mien. The money was wired this morning... Yes, I know. I''ll send another payment once I get my paycheck... How is she?... Good. Tell her I''ll visit this weekend... Okay, bye." He hung up and let out a long sigh. 6:00 PM After a long day, Vincent took the subway back to his apartment in Brooklyn. He chose to live there because the rent was cheap. Back in his small, old apartment, Vincent checked his answering machine¡ªno messages. Vincent''s "underground business" brought him two or three clients a month. He only took on critically injured patients, specializing in gunshot and stab wounds. In other words, he worked almost exclusively for the mob. If you weren''t part of the underworld, you wouldn''t even know how to reach him. Vincent, the underground doctor, was known to many in New York, but few had seen him. For two years, Vincent had lived this double life, all to make more money. May 20, 2025 At 7:00 AM, Vincent was jolted awake by the sudden noise outside his window. Bang! Bang! Bang! The violent knocking on his door sent a chill down his spine. His keen sense of smell picked up the faint scent of blood. Something was wrong. Chapter 2: The Doctor and the Streetwalker May 20, 2025, around 7:00 AM The day should have started like any other, with the bustling metropolis of the United States waking up to another day of chaos and routine. But suddenly, the world changed¡ªabruptly and without warning. Streets, residential areas, shopping centers, government buildings, military bases, research facilities, and even the White House were plunged into unprecedented chaos. The entire nation was in turmoil, and the disorder was spreading uncontrollably. Vincent was jolted awake in his old apartment by car crashes outside, high-pitched screams, and strange growls. He smelled blood, but it wasn¡¯t coming from outside¡ªhis windows were shut, and he wasn¡¯t *that* sensitive. The scent was coming from inside the building. *Bang! Bang! Bang!* The violent knocking on his door snapped his attention to the hallway. He could hear strange growls and a woman¡¯s desperate cries. ¡°Is anyone there? Please open the door! They¡¯re coming! Help me!¡± The voice was frantic, and Vincent recognized it. It was his neighbor, Manuela, a 22-year-old streetwalker who lived next door with another woman named Bianca. Vincent didn¡¯t know her well, but they¡¯d crossed paths enough times for him to recognize her voice. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± The thought flashed through Vincent¡¯s mind, but he didn¡¯t have time to dwell on it. Someone was screaming for help, and he had to act. Vincent jumped out of bed in his boxers, grabbed a baseball bat from beside his bed, and rushed to the door. ¡°Manuela, what¡¯s wrong?¡± Vincent asked quickly, peering through the peephole. All he could see was Manuela¡¯s terrified face. The growls outside were louder now, accompanied by the sickening sound of chewing¡ªlike a dog tearing into raw meat. The smell of blood was overwhelming. ¡°Please, hurry! Ah!¡± Manuela screamed as a bloody hand grabbed her shoulder and yanked her out of view. Vincent didn¡¯t hesitate. He flung the door open and stepped into the hallway. What he saw shocked him to his core. To his right, about seven meters away, near Manuela¡¯s apartment door, a naked, overweight middle-aged man was crouched over another naked woman, tearing into her flesh. Blood was everywhere¡ªit was Bianca, Manuela¡¯s roommate. Her throat had been ripped out, and her stomach was torn open, intestines spilling onto the floor. The man was eating her. To his left, about four meters away, another naked man had pinned Manuela to the ground, growling as he tried to bite her. Manuela was screaming, struggling to push him off. Vincent didn¡¯t have time to process what he was seeing. He rushed to Manuela¡¯s side, swung the bat, and hit the man in the head, knocking him off her. He grabbed Manuela and pulled her to her feet. The man, covered in Bianca¡¯s blood, staggered back up. His eyes were completely red, and he let out a guttural growl as he lurched toward Vincent. His movements were stiff but deliberate, like a puppet with tangled strings. Behind Vincent, the man who had been eating Bianca stood up and turned toward him, growling. ¡°What the hell is going on?¡± Vincent muttered, pulling Manuela back toward his apartment. He had no idea what was happening, but he knew they needed to get inside. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. As they retreated, two more doors in the hallway opened. One was forced open, and a young couple stumbled out, their eyes blood-red and their bodies covered in blood. Vincent recognized them¡ªthey lived down the hall with their young daughter. The daughter wasn¡¯t with them, and Vincent could guess why. The other door opened, and a man stumbled out, clutching his bleeding neck. He collapsed to the floor, screaming as a woman dragged him back into the apartment by his ankles. Vincent didn¡¯t wait to see more. He pulled Manuela into his apartment and slammed the door shut. *Bang! Bang! Bang!* The door shook as the two men outside pounded on it. Vincent peered through the peephole and saw their blood-red eyes and bloodstained faces. They were still chewing on pieces of flesh. Vincent backed away, signaling for Manuela to stay quiet. If these people were acting on instinct, maybe they¡¯d lose interest if they didn¡¯t hear anything. Manuela covered her mouth, tears streaming down her face as she stared at the door. After two minutes, the pounding stopped. The ¡°lunatics¡± had moved on, drawn by other sounds in the building. ¡°They¡¯re gone,¡± Vincent whispered, letting out a breath he didn¡¯t realize he¡¯d been holding. He crept to the window and pulled back the curtain slightly to look outside. The street was chaos. Dozens of those same stiff, growling people were everywhere. Cars had crashed, some were on fire, and people were running for their lives. But there were too many of the ¡°lunatics.¡± They moved slowly but relentlessly, surrounding and overwhelming anyone they caught. The screams were unbearable. ¡°They¡¯re insane¡­ they ate Bianca¡­ God, they killed her¡­¡± Manuela sobbed quietly. ¡°It¡¯s not just them. Most people. Come see.¡± Vincent motioned for her to join him at the window. Manuela hesitated, then stood and looked outside. She immediately covered her face and sank to the floor. ¡°It¡¯s like a bio-weapon,¡± Vincent muttered, closing the curtains. His mind raced. Was this a terrorist attack? Or something worse? He turned on the TV, keeping the volume low. The news channels were in disarray. Some showed empty, bloodstained studios, while others displayed static or error messages. Only a few pre-recorded programs were still running. ¡°Everyone¡¯s affected¡­ this can¡¯t be a coincidence¡­¡± Vincent muttered. He grabbed his phone and scrolled through his contacts, stopping at ¡°Dr. Mien.¡± He dialed the number. ¡°Come on¡­ pick up¡­¡± Vincent whispered. No answer. He tried calling his parents next¡ªstill nothing. The room fell silent. Manuela sat by the window, hugging her knees, her lips trembling as she muttered silently to herself. Vincent lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to process what was happening. After half an hour, the chaos outside began to subside. Those who could run had fled, and those who couldn¡¯t were dead. Only the growls of the ¡°lunatics¡± remained. ¡°What happened back there?¡± Vincent asked suddenly, turning to Manuela. She looked up, her eyes red from crying. ¡°This morning, I was showering when I heard Bianca scream. I ran out and saw those two men biting her. I panicked, grabbed something, and hit them. I tried to pull Bianca away, but they caught her¡­ and then¡­¡± She broke down again. ¡°I get it,¡± Vincent said, cutting her off. He¡¯d seen enough. Vincent got up and glanced at Manuela. She was naked, and as a man, he couldn¡¯t help but notice her figure. She was young, attractive, and had a mature, alluring presence¡ªlikely a side effect of her profession. But now wasn¡¯t the time for distractions. He grabbed a large T-shirt and shorts from his closet and tossed them to her. ¡°Put these on.¡± After she dressed, Vincent pulled on jeans, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket. He reached under his bed and pulled out a small black case. Inside was a silver Beretta 92F¡ªa 9mm handgun commonly known as the M9. In a country where guns were everywhere, Vincent had bought it for protection, given his underground work. He¡¯d never had to use it, but he¡¯d practiced at the range. The case also held two extra magazines, a box of bullets, and a set of surgical tools¡ªscalpels, forceps, sutures, and disinfectants. Vincent checked the gun, loaded it, and tucked it into the back of his waistband. Manuela watched him, her eyes lingering on the gun. ¡°What are you going to do?¡± she asked quietly. Vincent didn¡¯t answer right away. He locked the case and slid it back under the bed. ¡°Survive,¡± he said finally. ¡°And figure out what the hell is going on.¡± Chapter 3: I Am a Survivor Manuela had lived in the old apartment on Oak Street for a long time. She moved in when she started working as a streetwalker, and that was six years ago. Yes, she had been in the business since she was sixteen. This neighborhood offered her more clients, and it was where she could make a living. Vincent had moved in two years ago. In that time, Manuela usually only saw him in the mornings or evenings, coming and going from work. Their interactions were minimal¡ªmostly just passing greetings. A year ago, when her lights went out, Vincent had helped her fix them. That was their longest conversation, a casual chat about nothing in particular. Vincent had never been a client, even when she jokingly offered him a discount. He always politely declined. In Manuela¡¯s eyes, Vincent was just another ordinary office worker in the big city of New York. He worked long hours, probably didn¡¯t earn much, or else he wouldn¡¯t be living in this rundown apartment. Aside from his striking mixed-race features, Manuela had never noticed anything extraordinary about him. To her, Vincent was just another face in the crowd, a reflection of the city¡¯s working-class struggle. But today, her perception of Vincent changed. He was too calm. When they first ran back to the apartment, she had seen the tension on his face. That was normal¡ªanyone would be scared in the face of such incomprehensible horror. But after that, Vincent became eerily composed. Despite knowing that the streets were filled with those terrifying ¡°lunatics¡± who could burst in at any moment, he acted methodically. He turned on the TV to check the news, called his loved ones, and only then did he retrieve his gun. Everything was done in a calculated, deliberate manner. What did that mean? A person with a gun, faced with imminent danger, would typically grab the weapon first, guard the door, maybe light a cigarette, or frantically dial 911. That¡¯s how most people would react. But Vincent had waited to get his gun, as if he knew the ¡°lunatics¡± couldn¡¯t break in. It wasn¡¯t wishful thinking¡ªhe genuinely believed they were safe for the moment. That¡¯s why he prioritized gathering information before arming himself. Manuela, despite her less-than-respectable profession, was a sharp woman. When a woman finds herself in danger and there¡¯s a man willing to help, she naturally focuses her attention on him. Men are generally stronger and braver, and Manuela had seen enough men in her line of work to know how to read them. Sometimes, she could even tell which clients would try to skip out on paying or become violent afterward, and she¡¯d refuse their business. Since Vincent had pulled out the gun, Manuela had been watching him from the window. ¡°What are you looking at?¡± Vincent noticed her gaze and turned to ask casually, his voice low. ¡°Oh¡­¡± Manuela looked down, hiding her slight embarrassment. She tugged at the oversized T-shirt she was wearing and asked, ¡°Do you have a cigarette?¡± ¡°Sorry, I don¡¯t smoke.¡± Vincent sat on the bed facing the window, his phone in hand. He gestured toward the fridge on the other side of the room. ¡°You can grab something to eat. There¡¯s bread, milk, and probably some cereal in there.¡± After speaking, he lowered his head and scrolled through his phone contacts. To Vincent, Manuela was a neighbor, not quite a friend, but certainly more than a stranger. ¡°Thanks,¡± Manuela said, walking barefoot to the fridge. She opened it, glanced inside, and then leaned back slightly to look at Vincent. ¡°Vincent, do you want anything?¡± Vincent waved her off without turning around. He put the phone to his ear, waited for about ten seconds, and then set it down. In the quiet room, Manuela could faintly hear the voicemail prompt from the other end. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. **Two Hours Later** It was around 10:00 AM. Vincent lay on the left side of the bed near the window, his left arm behind his head and his right hand resting on his chest, absently twirling a sharp scalpel. The blade moved so fast it became a blur of silver, only pausing occasionally to reveal its true form. Vincent was watching TV, the volume turned low, flipping through channels. Most stations showed either ¡°No Signal¡± or static. Outside, occasional gunshots echoed. In a country where firearms were commonplace, this wasn¡¯t unusual. Some survivors were fighting back against the ¡°lunatics,¡± but the outcome was often grim. There were just too many of them. At first, Vincent had been curious, even glancing out the window to see what was happening. But now, he had lost interest. He lay on the bed, waiting. Something this big had to provoke a response from the government. So far, Vincent had no idea what was really going on. All he could do was wait and stay put. Manuela sat at the foot of the bed, having just hung up the phone. She turned to Vincent and said, ¡°No one¡¯s answering.¡± ¡°Same here,¡± Vincent replied, still focused on the TV, the scalpel still spinning in his hand. Vincent didn¡¯t know many people¡ªmostly coworkers and a few underworld figures. He had already called everyone he could think of, but no one picked up. **Breaking News** Suddenly, the TV screen flickered to life. A Black military officer, around 36 or 37 years old, appeared. His uniform was wrinkled and stained with blood. This was a military broadcast, the kind usually reserved for wartime. Vincent sat up straight, setting the scalpel on the bedside table. Manuela also turned her attention to the TV. ¡°This is Captain Tracy May from the Everett Naval Base in Washington State. Unfortunately¡­ I must inform you that an unknown virus has spread globally. Satellite imagery shows that the outbreak began simultaneously worldwide at 6:58 AM on May 20, 2025. Those infected by the virus will first die, then reanimate, losing all cognitive function and becoming highly aggressive. They will attack all living creatures, driven by an insatiable hunger for flesh¡­¡± ¡°The virus is highly contagious, spreading through saliva and blood. Those bitten by the infected will turn within ten minutes to six hours. Preliminary estimates suggest that 70% of the global population has already been infected through airborne transmission. These individuals are no longer human. For lack of a better term¡­ we can call them zombies. If you encounter them, avoid them if possible. If not, aim for the head. They are no longer your friends, family, or mentors. They are zombies. Do not hesitate to kill them.¡± The captain looked exhausted. It had only been three hours since the outbreak, but those three hours had clearly taken their toll. The screen then shifted to a woman in her forties wearing a lab coat. She adjusted her glasses and addressed the camera. ¡°Virus analysis indicates that the pathogen spreads similarly to snake venom. If bitten, immediately excising the affected tissue may prevent the virus from spreading. Once the virus reaches the central nervous system, the infected will die within ten minutes to six hours, after which the CNS mutates, reanimating the body into a zombie state.¡± ¡°Initial analysis suggests the virus may be linked to the explosion at the Johns Hopkins University biolab in Maryland fifteen days ago. Those who have not turned into zombies appear to have developed antibodies, making them immune to airborne transmission.¡± ¡°As of now, all government institutions have collapsed. This pandemic has affected all of humanity. Half an hour ago, we received word that the President died in the Oval Office at 9:00 AM. The United States is now in a state of anarchy. Survivors, do not wait for government or military aid. Fend for yourselves. The apocalypse has arrived. Television broadcasts will cease shortly. If we survive, we will relay further updates via radio. God bless America!¡± ¡°God bless America!¡± echoed several voices before the screen went black, replaced by the words ¡°No Signal.¡± Vincent stared at the blank screen, his mind reeling. He had thought this was a large-scale terrorist attack, a bioweapon. Even when his calls went unanswered, he clung to that belief. He had never considered the possibility of the end of the world. To him, that was impossible¡ªunless it was nuclear war. But he was wrong. Some things are more terrifying than nukes. They can push humanity to the brink of extinction. Without government coordination or military support, no one¡¯s pre-apocalypse status mattered anymore. Those still alive had only one title now¡ªsurvivors. Vincent quietly got out of bed and walked to the window, pulling back the curtain slightly to look outside. ¡°I am a survivor,¡± he murmured to himself. Chapter 4: Can You Kill? Vincent stood by the window, staring out at the chaos below. The streets were filled with wandering zombies, their movements slow but deliberate. His eyes were distant, as if he was suddenly unsure of what to do next. Manuela sat on the floor on the other side of the bed, her back against the mattress. She kept muttering under her breath, calling on God for help. Her voice was shaky, her body tense. Oak Street was an old commercial strip, lined with buildings no taller than seven stories. The ground floors were occupied by small shops, while the upper floors were rented out as apartments. The people who lived here were the city¡¯s working poor, scraping by on the fringes of society. The street itself was wide, now littered with wrecked cars, some still smoldering. Bodies¡ªor what was left of them¡ªwere scattered across the pavement. Blood stained the ground, and the air was thick with the metallic scent of it. Zombies shuffled aimlessly, their blood-red eyes scanning for movement. At first glance, there didn¡¯t seem to be many, but Vincent knew better. If a living person were to step outside, the zombies would swarm in numbers far greater than they appeared. These creatures were strong, fearless, and carried a deadly virus. Even the strongest man would be no match for the weakest zombie. The only silver lining was their speed¡ªor lack thereof. They couldn¡¯t run, but they could walk quickly. If you encountered one, you had two options: run or kill. There was no in-between. Vincent stared out the window for a long time before finally pulling himself away. He crouched by the TV stand, opened the drawer, and rummaged through it until he found a photo frame. Inside was a picture of a woman¡ªa beautiful, bald white woman in a hospital gown. She couldn¡¯t have been older than thirty, holding a bouquet and smiling sweetly at the camera, despite her pale complexion. Vincent quickly dismantled the frame, carefully removed the photo, and studied it for a moment. He kissed it gently before tucking it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He pulled out his phone, switched it to radio mode, and turned the volume down to the lowest setting. After plugging it into the charger and placing it on top of the TV, he returned to the bed and retrieved the black case from underneath. Inside were two empty magazines and a half-empty box of 9mm Luger bullets. The M9 pistol he carried held fifteen rounds, and the spare magazines would hold the same. Vincent methodically loaded the bullets into the magazines, his movements precise and practiced. Once the magazines were full, he slipped them into the left pocket of his jacket. He then took out a silencer from the case and placed it on the nightstand. The case still held some unused medical supplies, which Vincent quickly transferred into a backpack he pulled from a nearby closet. He tossed the empty case aside. ¡°What are you doing?¡± Manuela asked, running her fingers through her hair and pulling it back. She looked up at Vincent, her expression strained. ¡°Preparing. Uncle Sam isn¡¯t coming to save us. I don¡¯t plan on becoming zombie food,¡± Vincent replied, glancing at her. He walked over to the closet, grabbed a pair of lace-up flats from the shoe rack, and handed them to her. ¡°Put these on. They might not fit perfectly, but tighten the laces.¡± ¡°Thanks,¡± Manuela said softly. She had run out of her apartment barefoot during the chaos, and the shoes were a welcome relief. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. Vincent quickly laced up his shoes, then picked up the silencer from the nightstand. He attached it to the barrel of his pistol and walked back to the window. He pulled the curtain aside just enough to open the window a crack¡ªabout two fingers wide¡ªand raised the gun, aiming carefully. Manuela watched him, confusion flickering across her face. She tiptoed over to his side and peered out the window. ¡°What are you¡­?¡± She knew from the TV broadcast that the streets were teeming with zombies. Killing them seemed pointless¡ªthere were too many, and bullets were precious. She didn¡¯t understand what Vincent was doing. Vincent didn¡¯t answer. His focus was on a zombie near the center of the street, standing between two wrecked cars. He vaguely recognized her¡ªa young girl, no older than twenty, who had worked at the children¡¯s clothing store downstairs. Now, she was just another monster, her blood-red eyes glaring, her nails blackened, and her teeth bared. She looked like something out of a horror movie. Vincent¡¯s hand was steady as he aimed. The M9 weighed over a kilogram, but his grip didn¡¯t waver. His hands were used to holding surgical tools, and precision was second nature to him. Manuela watched him, waiting. *Thud.* Vincent pulled the trigger. The silenced shot was muffled, barely audible. The zombie dropped instantly, a hole in its left eye socket. It''s body hit the car with a loud thud, and Vincent quickly closed the curtain, taking a deep breath. ¡°That was my first time shooting something living. I needed to know I could do it,¡± Vincent explained, his voice calm. Vincent was no stranger to blood or death. As a surgeon, he had seen it all. But using a gun was different. It was one thing to fight with your hands or a knife, but pulling the trigger required a different kind of resolve. Vincent needed to know he could do it without hesitation. In a world overrun by flesh-eating zombies, hesitation could mean death. ¡°What¡¯s your plan?¡± Manuela asked, leaning against the wall and studying him. Vincent was becoming more intriguing to her by the minute. His calmness was almost unnerving. While countless survivors across the country were likely panicking, Vincent was methodically preparing for survival. ¡°How much food is left in the fridge?¡± Vincent asked, holstering his gun. He usually kept enough food for a few days, but he hadn¡¯t been keeping track recently. Manuela had just eaten, so she might have a better idea. ¡°I¡­ I didn¡¯t check. You can¡ª¡± ¡°I¡¯ll look.¡± Vincent walked to the fridge and opened it. Inside were a couple of loaves of bread, a few cartons of milk, half a pizza, and some cereal. If they rationed carefully, it might last two days¡ªthree at most. ¡°We¡¯ve got enough for two days. After that, I¡¯m leaving. Hopefully, the streets will be clearer by then,¡± Vincent said, closing the fridge. He didn¡¯t mention Manuela in his plans, and she noticed. In a world like this, taking on a non-combatant like her would be a liability. ¡°You¡¯re going to leave me?¡± Manuela asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. ¡°We¡¯re not exactly a team,¡± Vincent replied coldly. They were barely acquaintances, and he had no obligation to protect her. He had his priorities, his reasons to survive. Letting her eat his food and wear his clothes was already more than he owed her. Manuela didn¡¯t want to believe Vincent would abandon her, but his calm, calculated demeanor made it hard to argue. He had thought this through. ¡°Please¡­ don¡¯t leave me,¡± she pleaded, stepping closer. Her hands gestured desperately as she spoke. ¡°Take me with you. Please.¡± ¡°What can you do?¡± Vincent asked, sitting on the bed and eyeing her critically. She was attractive, sure, but her slender frame didn¡¯t exactly scream ¡°fighter.¡± He doubted she could handle a weapon, let alone kill a zombie. Manuela¡¯s expression shifted. Her eyes flicked downward, and she misinterpreted his question. She had dealt with enough men to recognize that look. ¡°I can¡­ do whatever you want,¡± she said, her voice dropping into a sultry tone. She crawled onto the bed, her movements deliberately seductive. Her fingers tugged at the hem of her shirt, revealing a sliver of tanned skin. ¡°Just tell me what you need.¡± Vincent didn¡¯t move, his gaze steady. ¡°Can you kill?¡± he asked bluntly. Manuela froze, her hand dropping from her shirt. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Can you kill those things out there? The zombies?¡± Vincent pressed, his tone serious. Manuela stared at him, the seductive act crumbling. This wasn¡¯t about what she thought it was. Vincent wasn¡¯t looking for a distraction¡ªhe was looking for a survivor. Chapter 5: Vincent鈥檚 Scalpel Manuela quietly slipped off the bed and walked to the window, her back to Vincent. She pulled the curtain aside just enough to peer out at the street below, her arms crossed over her chest. The sight of the grotesque zombies shuffling aimlessly made her stomach churn, but she said nothing. Manuela wasn¡¯t a fragile woman¡ªnot emotionally, at least. She had started her career at sixteen, and over the years, she¡¯d lost count of the clients she¡¯d serviced¡ªyoung, old, ordinary, repulsive. As long as they paid, she didn¡¯t care. Money meant survival. She¡¯d been through a lot, even battled a drug addiction at one point, though she¡¯d kicked the habit. Those experiences had hardened her, giving her a resilience that many lacked. But zombies¡­ they were different. Fear wasn¡¯t something you could just push aside. Vincent sat on the edge of the bed, mentally running through his checklist of supplies. A faint sound caught his attention¡ªsoft, muffled sobs. He turned his head and saw Manuela¡¯s shoulders shaking. ¡°You don¡¯t need to cry,¡± Vincent said, his tone tinged with resignation. ¡°If you¡¯re brave enough, getting out of here isn¡¯t impossible. And¡­ maybe you can come with me.¡± Manuela spun around, wiping her eyes. ¡°Really? Thank you!¡± she exclaimed, her voice brimming with relief. ¡°Don¡¯t get the wrong idea,¡± Vincent clarified, gesturing as he spoke. ¡°When I say ¡®come with me,¡¯ I mean you follow behind me. I¡¯ll be in front, and I won¡¯t help you if you get into trouble. If a zombie grabs you, it means you weren¡¯t fast enough. I won¡¯t come back for you. Understand?¡± ¡°Understood,¡± Manuela replied quickly, a small smile breaking through. She got it. Vincent was willing to let her tag along, but if she slowed him down or got herself into trouble, he wouldn¡¯t risk his life to save her. As long as she kept up, she¡¯d be under his protection. **Noon** Vincent was a straightforward man, not one to let emotions cloud his judgment. The atmosphere between them was surprisingly calm. Manuela, however, seemed determined to test his resolve. She ate her bread with deliberate slowness, letting cream linger on her lips before licking it off, her eyes never leaving Vincent. But Vincent remained unfazed, occasionally giving her a knowing, almost amused look. He wasn¡¯t oblivious¡ªhe just had better self-control. **Afternoon** The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the room. The air was cool, but the tension was palpable. The stench of blood lingered, and the occasional gunshot or distant scream reminded them of the chaos outside. Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! Vincent had moved the room¡¯s only armchair to the window. He sat half-reclined, gazing at the blue sky through the crack in the curtains. A scalpel spun effortlessly between his fingers, its blade catching the light. His phone, set to radio mode, rested beside him. Scalpels came in many varieties, with different handles and blades. The one Vincent held had a #4 handle, about 14 centimeters long, paired with a #24 blade, roughly five to six centimeters in length. Its shape resembled the tip of a dagger, designed for precise, shallow cuts. But in the right hands, it could be just as deadly as any weapon. The scalpel was made of S30V steel, a material prized for its hardness and commonly used in military equipment. While it lacked some flexibility, it was perfect for crafting short blades and daggers. Manuela had known little about Vincent before the outbreak. Their only real conversation had been a year ago when he¡¯d fixed her broken light. She¡¯d learned then that he¡¯d studied medicine, so seeing him idly twirl a scalpel didn¡¯t strike her as odd. ¡°Aren¡¯t you afraid of cutting yourself?¡± Manuela asked softly, crouching beside the armchair. She wore a V-neck shirt, and as Vincent turned to look at her, his gaze inevitably dropped to the alluring curve of her chest. She was up to her old tricks again. Vincent¡¯s hand stopped mid-spin. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the scalpel flying. *Thunk.* ¡°I think I¡¯ll be fine. Thanks for the concern,¡± Vincent said, forcing a small smile. In a world like this, even a faint smile was a gesture of goodwill. Manuela¡¯s eyes widened as she realized what had just happened. She hadn¡¯t heard the scalpel hit the floor. Turning her head, she saw it embedded in the wall, the blade sunk deep into the concrete. She stood slowly, her eyes darting between Vincent and the wall. After a moment, she walked over and pulled the scalpel free, running her fingers over the small hole it had left. The wall was solid concrete, yet the blade had penetrated several centimeters. Even a grown man with a dagger would struggle to achieve that kind of force. Her hand moved to the right, finding another hole, then another. Stepping back, she took in the full scope of the wall beside the bed. It was riddled with hundreds of tiny marks, each one a testament to Vincent¡¯s precision. She hadn¡¯t noticed them before, too distracted by fear and the general disarray of the room. ¡°You throw knives?¡± Manuela asked, turning back to Vincent with the scalpel in hand, her voice tinged with awe. ¡°Just something to pass the time,¡± Vincent replied with a shrug, his gaze returning to the sky outside. It was true. He¡¯d started throwing scalpels out of boredom. Each blade was designed for single use, discarded after surgery to prevent contamination or dulling. Instead of tossing them, Vincent had repurposed them, honing his aim during long, lonely nights. Over time, he¡¯d gotten good¡ªvery good. He didn¡¯t tell Manuela that the wall had been patched and repainted multiple times, the current marks representing just the last three months of practice. There was no need to boast. In a world overrun by the undead, skill with a scalpel was a small comfort at best. ¡°Could this kill those things outside?¡± Manuela asked, crouching again and holding up the scalpel. ¡°Probably,¡± Vincent said flatly, taking the blade from her. He didn¡¯t seem particularly impressed with his skill. To him, a well-thrown scalpel was no substitute for a gun. It was a small advantage, but it did little to ease the weight of the world outside. Chapter 6: The Roar of the Morning The first day of the apocalypse had been relatively uneventful after the initial chaos. As darkness fell over the city, the world seemed to grow quieter. The usual sights of streetwalkers smoking by their doors, drunkards stumbling in groups, and neon lights illuminating the streets of New York were gone¡ªvanished, as if they had never existed. Vincent knew he couldn¡¯t stay in his apartment for long. The door might look sturdy, but if four or five zombies started pounding on it, they wouldn¡¯t hold back. Zombies didn¡¯t care about muscle strain or broken bones; their strength often surpassed that of a living human. The door could give way at any moment. Vincent hadn¡¯t barricaded it because it was his only exit. If zombies broke in, he¡¯d be trapped. Jumping from the fourth floor wasn¡¯t an option¡ªit would either kill him or leave him crippled. His best bet was to stay quiet. Zombies were drawn to sound, though their hearing wasn¡¯t any better than a human¡¯s. As long as they kept their voices down, they¡¯d be fine. The biggest issue with staying in the apartment was food. Without it, they¡¯d starve. Rationing could stretch their supplies to three days, but Vincent decided they had to leave within two. Starving weakened the body, and weakness meant death in a world overrun by zombies. Vincent wasn¡¯t one to gamble with his life. In the apocalypse, luck was a luxury no one could afford. Zombies didn¡¯t seem attracted to dim light, Vincent had noticed. After nightfall, a few windows in the building across the street glowed faintly, likely from survivors. Yet the zombies on the street remained calm, only occasionally letting out a low growl. Darkness seemed to pacify them. Vincent turned on a small bedside lamp, dimming its glow, and returned to his spot by the window. He sat in the armchair, his eyes scanning the street below. ¡°Can I take a shower?¡± Manuela¡¯s voice broke the silence. She sat on the edge of the bed, her tone soft but insistent. When Vincent turned to look at her, she quickly added, ¡°I didn¡¯t rinse off properly this morning. It¡¯s¡­ uncomfortable.¡± She shifted slightly, as if to emphasize her point. ¡°Close the door. Don¡¯t use the shower head¡ªjust the faucet,¡± Vincent replied after a moment¡¯s thought. The bathroom door and the apartment door would muffle the sound, but he wasn¡¯t taking any chances. Running water could attract unwanted attention. ¡°Thanks,¡± Manuela said with a smile. She stood and pulled her shirt over her head, revealing her bare skin. The dim light caught the curves of her body, her chest heaving slightly as she moved. She was stunning, her confidence undeniable. Vincent had always wondered why Manuela didn¡¯t work in a high-end club. With her looks, she could easily charge three or four hundred dollars an hour. Her life would¡¯ve been far better than scraping by in this rundown apartment. But he¡¯d never asked, and she¡¯d never explained. Manuela had been trying to seduce Vincent since the moment they¡¯d met, and she wasn¡¯t about to stop now. After dropping her shirt, she slowly slid her pants down, her eyes locked on Vincent. He, however, remained unfazed. He gave her an appreciative smile. ¡°You¡¯re beautiful,¡± he said, before turning his gaze back to the window. ¡°Want to join me?¡± Manuela asked, her voice dripping with invitation. She stood completely naked now, one hand cupping her breast, her other hand resting on her hip. The offer was clear, even if she framed it as a simple shower invitation. ¡°I¡¯m good,¡± Vincent replied, his tone polite but firm. He turned back to the window, his expression unreadable. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. Manuela¡¯s smile faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered. She shrugged and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. The faint sound of running water soon filled the apartment. **Forty Minutes Later** The bathroom door creaked open, and Manuela stepped out, a towel wrapped around her hair. She was still damp, her skin glistening in the dim light. ¡°I used your towel¡­ and your toothbrush,¡± she said, walking toward the bed. ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± Vincent replied without looking at her. Manuela climbed onto the bed, pulling the covers over her body. She lay there, her eyes on Vincent, her intentions clear. The room fell silent, save for the soft sound of their breathing. Vincent stared out the window, his mind elsewhere. ¡°Aren¡¯t you coming to bed?¡± Manuela asked suddenly, her voice soft but insistent. She propped herself up on one elbow, the covers slipping slightly to reveal her bare shoulder. ¡°The chair can¡¯t be comfortable.¡± Vincent opened his eyes and turned to look at her. ¡°I¡¯m fine here,¡± he said, his tone firm but not unkind. Manuela¡¯s expression shifted from playful to frustrated. She yanked the covers back over herself and turned away, her back to Vincent. The lamp clicked off, plunging the room into darkness. ¡°You should probably get dressed,¡± Vincent said after a moment. ¡°If zombies break in, you don¡¯t want to be running around naked.¡± Manuela didn¡¯t respond. She sat up, turned the lamp back on, and quickly pulled on her clothes. Then she lay back down, pulling the covers over her head. The lamp clicked off again. Vincent sighed softly, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. He closed his eyes, only to open them again moments later. Sleep didn¡¯t come easily. **May 21, 2025, 7:30 AM** Vincent was jolted awake by the roar of an engine. He shot up from the armchair and pulled the curtain aside, peering out at the street below. A battered Ford E450, its sides streaked with blood, skidded around the corner at the northern end of Oak Street. It plowed through a group of zombies, sending them sprawling, before speeding south down the street. The Ford E450 was a beast of a vehicle¡ªa ten-seater with a 6.8-liter engine, built for power and durability. Its sudden appearance sent the zombies into a frenzy. They surged toward the sound, their guttural growls filling the air. This was Vincent¡¯s chance. The truck would draw most of the zombies away, clearing a path for him to escape. He grabbed his pre-packed backpack from the armchair and rushed to the bed, shaking Manuela awake. She sat up with a start, her eyes wide with fear. ¡°We¡¯re leaving. Now,¡± Vincent said, tossing her shoes onto the bed. ¡°What¡¯s happening?¡± Manuela asked, scrambling to put on her shoes. ¡°A truck just drove by. It¡¯s drawing the zombies away. If we move fast, we can get out of here. Stay close if you want to live,¡± Vincent said, slinging the backpack over his shoulders. He didn¡¯t wait for her response. He opened the door and stepped into the hallway, his gun drawn. The hallway reeked of blood and decay. Dark stains covered the walls and floor, and a bloody handprint stretched across one wall, a grim reminder of the chaos that had unfolded. Five zombies¡ªthree men and two women¡ªlurched toward Vincent, their arms outstretched, their mouths gaping. Vincent didn¡¯t hesitate. He fired three silenced shots, dropping two zombies. His aim was shaky, but it didn¡¯t matter. He reached the elevator and slammed the button, his heart pounding. The elevator doors opened, revealing an empty car. Vincent stepped inside and pressed the button for the first floor. He hesitated for a moment, his finger hovering over the button. He could hear Manuela¡¯s screams echoing down the hallway, but he forced himself to stay focused. The doors began to close. Just as they were about to shut, a slender hand shot through the gap, forcing the doors open. Vincent raised his gun but quickly lowered it when he saw it was Manuela. He grabbed her arm and yanked her into the elevator. ¡°Hurry¡­ hurry¡­¡± Vincent muttered under his breath, his eyes fixed on the closing doors. He hadn¡¯t taken the stairs because they connected to every floor. Going down that way would¡¯ve been suicide. A zombie lunged at the elevator, its grotesque face pressing against the narrowing gap. Vincent fired several shots, blowing its arm off and sending it stumbling backward. The doors closed, and the elevator began its descent. Vincent let out a breath he didn¡¯t realize he¡¯d been holding. ¡°You were going to leave me?¡± Manuela demanded, her chest heaving as she leaned against the wall of the elevator. ¡°You¡¯re here, aren¡¯t you?¡± Vincent replied, his tone calm but dismissive. The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. They had reached the first floor. Chapter 7: Humanity *Ding!* The elevator doors slid open slowly. Vincent raised a finger to his lips, signaling for silence, and cautiously peered out. The first floor of the old apartment building had a separate hallway¡ªa short corridor connecting the elevator and the stairwell. At the end of the hallway was a metal door leading to the street. The hallway didn¡¯t connect to any of the shops or other rooms on the first floor, making it a relatively isolated path. Vincent stepped out of the elevator, glancing back at Manuela before scanning the hallway. While the corridor itself was clear, the stairwell leading to the second floor was a blind spot. Zombies didn¡¯t follow logic, and there was no telling where they might be lurking¡ªmaybe in the second-floor hallway, maybe on the stairs. Vincent could see that the metal door at the end of the hallway was slightly ajar, likely from a zombie pushing through earlier. But the stairwell? That was a mystery. The roar of the car engine and the chaotic growls of the zombies outside filtered through the cracks in the metal door. Vincent knew he had to move fast. If the car left the street, some zombies would inevitably give up the chase and linger. Once that happened, Vincent and Manuela would become their primary targets. Survival odds would plummet. Vincent had a gun, but he wasn¡¯t taking any chances. He wasn¡¯t a sharpshooter, and zombies only went down with headshots. He only had three magazines, and he couldn¡¯t afford to waste bullets like he was in an action movie. Plus, he wasn¡¯t some martial arts expert. If he ran out of ammo, he¡¯d be left with a scalpel¡ªhardly a match for a horde of zombies. ¡°No zombies here,¡± Vincent muttered, relieved as he checked the stairwell. No shuffling figures in sight. Then, *clatter clatter clatter*¡ªa series of hurried footsteps echoed from the stairs above. ¡°Run!¡± Vincent hissed, bolting down the hallway. He yanked the metal door open and burst into the daylight, only to be greeted by the sight of¡­ zombies. Manuela, sweating profusely from either exhaustion or sheer terror, followed closely behind, gripping her baseball bat so tightly her knuckles turned white. ¡°Skreee!¡± ¡°Raaah!¡± The cacophony of zombie growls assaulted Vincent¡¯s ears as he stepped into the street. The Ford E450 had already sped past the midpoint of the street, heading south. It plowed through zombies, leaving broken bodies in its wake. The windshield wipers worked furiously, smearing streaks of blood across the glass. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. The driver was skilled, weaving around abandoned cars and debris, but the sheer number of zombies slowed the vehicle¡¯s progress. Vincent didn¡¯t have time to admire the driver¡¯s skills. He had his plan: get to the convenience store across the street, grab supplies, find a car, and get the hell out of there. ¡°Damn it, there¡¯s still so many!¡± Vincent cursed under his breath. He fired his gun as he sprinted diagonally across the street, heading for the store. He¡¯d mapped this out in his head: get food, find keys on a dead body, steal a car. Simple, right? Zombies weren¡¯t slow. They couldn¡¯t run, but their stiff, jerky movements still carried them forward at about 3.5 meters per second. That was faster than most people could sustain over long distances. Sure, humans could sprint faster, but no one could keep that up for long. And zombies? They didn¡¯t tire. They just kept coming. The smell of decay hung heavy in the air. As Vincent burst onto the street, several zombies turned their attention from the car to him. The closest ones were only a few steps away. Vincent didn¡¯t hesitate. He fired precise shots, dropping the nearest zombies with headshots. The distance from the apartment door to the convenience store was about 200 meters¡ªnot far, but every step was fraught with danger. Vincent tried to conserve ammo, only shooting when necessary. He¡¯d already taken down six zombies by the time he reached the middle of the street. He hit the magazine release, letting the empty mag drop to the ground, and quickly slammed in a fresh one. As he picked up speed again, a scream tore through the air. ¡°Ah! Get off! Don¡¯t leave¡­ help me¡­ please!¡± Vincent glanced over his shoulder. Manuela had been tackled by a zombie. She was on her back, using her baseball bat to keep the creature¡¯s snapping jaws at bay. Three more zombies were closing in. Manuela¡¯s eyes locked onto Vincent¡¯s retreating figure, filled with desperation and pleading. Vincent hesitated. He¡¯d told himself he wouldn¡¯t risk his life for her. But as he met her gaze, something inside him snapped. ¡°Damn it!¡± Vincent growled, punching the air in frustration. He couldn¡¯t just leave her. With a sharp turn, he sprinted back toward Manuela. The distance between them was only about ten meters. Vincent took out the zombies closing in on her with precise shots, then put a bullet in the head of the one pinning her down. He yanked her to her feet and dragged her toward the convenience store. The delay cost them. Zombies that had been far behind were now closing in. Over fifty of them were converging on Vincent and Manuela. Vincent focused on clearing a path, only shooting zombies that blocked their way. By the time they reached the store, his second magazine was empty. Rescuing Manuela had cost him precious ammo. The convenience store was small, its windows and doors shuttered with metal roll-down gates. It hadn¡¯t opened for the day when the outbreak hit. Vincent fired two shots to blow the lock off the gate, yanked it open, and shoved Manuela inside before slamming it shut behind them. The store was dim, the only light filtering through the cracks around the edges of the gate. The air was thick with tension as the gate rattled under the pounding of zombie hands. ¡°Shh! Stay quiet,¡± Vincent whispered, crouching down and stepping on the gate¡¯s handle to keep it closed. The store fell silent, save for the faint sound of their breathing. The weight of the situation pressed down on them, heavy and suffocating. Chapter 8: Manuelas Heart The roll-up gate of the convenience store was designed to keep thieves out, not zombies. Made of thin metal, it was sturdy enough for its purpose, but under the relentless pounding of the undead, it had already begun to buckle. If the assault continued, it wouldn¡¯t hold for long. Fortunately, zombies weren¡¯t exactly geniuses. Their memory was short-lived. After two minutes of mindless pounding, they stopped, as if they¡¯d forgotten why they were even there. The humans who had slipped inside moments ago were no longer on their radar. Vincent let out a quiet sigh of relief. He¡¯d been crouched in the same position for two minutes, his legs tingling with numbness. His eyes, adjusting to the dim light filtering through the cracks around the gate, could now make out the layout of the store. The convenience store was small, no more than 50 square meters, with no back exit. Three rows of shelves filled the space, stocked with everything from snacks to cheap kitchenware. The walls were lined with goods¡ªchildren¡¯s toys, household items, and more. Near the gate, a cash register stood under a Coca-Cola poster. The store was untouched, pristine even, as if the world outside hadn¡¯t fallen apart. Vincent gently tugged on Manuela¡¯s arm, signaling her to move. He stood, stretching his stiff legs, and whispered, ¡°Follow me.¡± They moved to the back of the store, where Vincent felt safe enough to speak in a low voice. ¡°There are cheap duffel bags on that shelf. Double them up for strength. Grab food¡ªanything with a long shelf life. Take whatever you want, but be quiet. And careful¡ªit¡¯s dark in here.¡± Manuela nodded, her eyes glinting faintly in the dim light. She watched as Vincent turned to leave, then hesitated before grabbing his arm. ¡°What now?¡± Vincent asked, glancing back. ¡°Thank you,¡± Manuela whispered, her voice barely audible. It was a thank you for saving her earlier. Vincent gave her a strange smile¡ªpart frustration, part resignation. In the darkness, Manuela couldn¡¯t see it. She held onto his arm again as he tried to leave. ¡°What is it this time?¡± Vincent asked, his patience wearing thin. ¡°I¡­ I just¡­¡± Manuela hesitated, then took a deep breath. ¡°When you ran out earlier¡­ were you planning to leave me behind? I could¡¯ve been a distraction for the zombies, giving you a better chance to escape. But then¡­ you came back.¡± She smiled faintly. ¡°This isn¡¯t funny,¡± Vincent cut her off. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean¡ª¡± Manuela started to explain, but Vincent interrupted again. ¡°Listen,¡± he said, his voice low and sharp. ¡°I never planned to take you with me. I said you could follow me. That¡¯s it. I saved you because I¡¯m still human. I couldn¡¯t just watch you die. That¡¯s all. I¡¯m not a saint, but I¡¯m not the monster you think I am either.¡± He turned and walked away, leaving Manuela standing in the dark. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. Manuela stared at his retreating figure, then crouched down, hugging her knees. She felt a mix of emotions¡ªconfusion, frustration, and a strange sense of rejection. She¡¯d always believed in her allure, her ability to captivate any man. But Vincent? He was different. He didn¡¯t seem to care about her charms, and it left her feeling¡­ exposed. After a moment, she stood and grabbed two duffel bags from the shelf, doubling them up as Vincent had suggested. She moved through the aisles, stuffing the bags with packaged food without even looking at what she was grabbing. She added gum, cigarettes, and chocolate from the counter, then checked behind the register for a gun. Most convenience stores in the U.S. had one, but she found nothing. Disappointed, she opened the cash drawer. *Ding!* The sound of the drawer opening echoed through the store. Manuela froze, as did Vincent on the other side of the room. A minute passed in tense silence. When no zombies came pounding at the gate, they both resumed their tasks. Manuela looked at the small bills and coins in the drawer¡ªmaybe a hundred dollars in total. Money. Something she¡¯d once sold herself for. Now, in this new world, it was worthless. She closed the drawer without taking a single bill. When she was done, she slung the duffel bag over her shoulder and joined Vincent. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± she asked, her tone flat, almost annoyed. Vincent held up a makeshift spear. ¡°A weapon.¡± Using a hollow stainless-steel mop handle and a kitchen knife, Vincent had fashioned two crude spears. They looked ridiculous, but they were effective¡ªlong enough to keep zombies at bay. ¡°This is yours,¡± Vincent said, handing one to Manuela. ¡°What¡¯s the plan?¡± she asked, testing the weight of the spear. ¡°We¡¯re leaving,¡± Vincent said, shouldering the duffel bag. ¡°I noticed earlier that most of the zombies were drawn to the other street. We¡¯ll head north to the intersection, turn left onto Vigo Street, and find a car at the parking lot there. Then we¡¯re getting out of here.¡± ¡°That¡¯s almost a kilometer away,¡± Manuela said, frowning. ¡°With these?¡± She shook the spear. ¡°We could stay here. There¡¯s enough food to last us a while.¡± ¡°Vigo Street doesn¡¯t have residential areas. The car that passed earlier came from there, and it didn¡¯t bring many zombies. That means the street¡¯s clear. I¡¯m not staying here. You can if you want, but I¡¯m leaving.¡± Vincent¡¯s tone left no room for argument. Manuela glared at his back, tempted to jab him with the spear. *You can stay here?* What kind of choice was that? She wasn¡¯t about to wait around to die. Vincent crouched by the gate, peering through the narrow gap. Four or five zombies loitered outside. He took a deep breath, set his spear down, and gripped the gate¡¯s handle. With a sharp yank, he pulled it open. The metal screeched as it rolled up, flooding the store with sunlight. Vincent grabbed his spear and darted outside, firing his gun to take down the nearest zombies. He sprinted north, leaving Manuela to make her choice. She hesitated for only a moment before following him. Staying behind meant certain death. At least with Vincent, she had a chance. The street was a nightmare. The stench of decay filled the air, and the growls of the undead echoed around them. Zombies closed in from all sides, their bloodshot eyes fixed on the two humans. Vincent¡¯s gun ran out of ammo quickly, and he resorted to his spear, slashing and stabbing with brutal efficiency. Manuela stayed close, using her spear to fend off any zombies that got too close. They were making progress, the intersection was just 300 meters ahead. But then, from the other end of Oak Street, the Ford E450 came roaring back¡ªand behind it, a horde of at least 200 zombies. ¡°Oh, damn it!¡± Vincent shouted, his voice filled with dread. The car skidded around the corner, heading straight for them, with the massive swarm of undead in hot pursuit. Chapter 9: Something鈥檚 Not Right Inside the Ford E450 The driver was a middle-aged white man in his fifties, with a slight beer belly and a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. His face was tense, but his hands on the wheel were steady, maneuvering the bulky vehicle with practiced ease. In the backseat, near the sliding door, sat a young Black man, no older than twenty. He wore a gray T-shirt with punk-style lettering, baggy harem pants, and a chain around his neck. His head was shaved close, and he had a pair of earrings glinting in the dim light. He looked every bit the hip-hop enthusiast. Behind him, near the rear door, sat a young girl¡ªprobably still in high school, though she carried herself with a maturity beyond her years. Her blonde hair was styled in loose waves, and her makeup was subtle, with a touch of blue eyeshadow. She stared out the window, lost in thought, her hands gripping the back of the front seat as the car jolted over the uneven road. The driver, Mike, wasn¡¯t at fault; the streets were littered with debris and the occasional zombie corpse. ¡°Hey, look! There are people up ahead!¡± the young man, Jason, exclaimed, pointing through the windshield. ¡°What are they holding?¡± He glanced at the fire axe resting beside him. The girl in the back, Christine, snapped out of her daze and leaned forward, peering over the seat. ¡°Two people. What are they shouting?¡± **On the Road** ¡°Hey! Wait! Take us with you!¡± a woman¡¯s voice cried out. ¡°Damn it, they¡¯re bringing all the zombies with them!¡± a man¡¯s voice growled, trailing off as he turned to fend off a zombie lunging at him. He swung his makeshift spear, driving it into the creature¡¯s skull before yanking it free. Vincent frowned deeply as he and Manuela ran, stopping occasionally to deal with the relentless horde. ¡°There are too many. They¡¯re going to lead them straight to Vigo Street.¡± ¡°Hey! Help us! Hey!¡± Manuela waved her arms frantically, her chest heaving under her loose T-shirt. If zombies could be distracted by such things, the entire street would¡¯ve come to a standstill. **Inside the Ford** ¡°Whoa, that girl¡¯s hot! Mike, stop the car! Let them in!¡± Jason said, clearly impressed by Manuela¡¯s¡­ enthusiasm. He leaned forward, slapping the back of Mike¡¯s seat. ¡°Are you crazy? Look at all the zombies around us!¡± Mike shot back, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. ¡°Come on, Mike! If Aunt Laura finds out you left people to die, she¡¯ll kick you out!¡± Jason argued, his voice rising. ¡°Watch your mouth, kid. I¡¯m your uncle now, remember? Laura wouldn¡¯t be too happy with you talking to me like that either,¡± Mike snapped, keeping his foot on the gas. The car sped past Vincent and Manuela, leaving them in its wake. Christine, still looking out the window, turned to watch the two figures recede into the distance. Jason glanced at Mike, then at Christine, giving her a subtle nod. She hesitated for a moment before climbing over the seats to the back of the van. ¡°What are you doing, kid?¡± Mike barked, catching her movement in the mirror. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. *Click.* The rear door unlocked, and Christine pushed it open. ¡°Hurry! Get in!¡± she shouted to Vincent and Manuela. Jason scrambled to the back as well, fire axe in hand. He swung it at a zombie trying to climb into the van, cleaving its skull in two. ¡°Get lost, you freak!¡± ¡°Damn it!¡± Mike cursed under his breath. There was no turning back now. He adjusted his cap, gripped the wheel, and slammed on the brakes. The van screeched to a halt, then reversed rapidly. ¡°Oh, thank God!¡± Manuela cried, sprinting toward the van. Vincent was right behind her, taking down another zombie with his spear. The van stopped just a few feet away, and Manuela tossed her spear aside, leaping into the open door. Christine and Jason grabbed her arms, pulling her inside. Vincent followed, hurling his spear like a javelin into a zombie that had gotten too close. He yanked the door shut behind him. *Click.* The door locked, and Mike hit the gas, speeding down Vigo Street and leaving the horde behind. **Inside the Van** Vincent and Manuela sat in the back, catching their breath and sizing up their rescuers. Christine pulled a pack of tissues from her pocket and handed one to Manuela. ¡°You¡¯ve got¡­ uh, blood on your face.¡± ¡°Thanks,¡± Manuela said, wiping her face clean. ¡°Hey, man, I¡¯m Jason,¡± the young man said, turning around with a grin and extending his hand to Vincent. ¡°Vincent,¡± Vincent replied, shaking Jason¡¯s hand. Jason then turned to Manuela, his grin widening. ¡°And you are?¡± ¡°Manuela,¡± she said, shaking his hand but distracted. ¡°I¡¯m Christine,¡± the blonde girl added, giving a small wave. She wasn¡¯t as outgoing as Jason, but her tone was friendly. ¡°Hi,¡± Vincent and Manuela said in unison. Mike, the driver, finally spoke up, his voice gruff but not unkind. ¡°Name¡¯s Mike. You can call me Old Mike.¡± Mike wasn¡¯t hostile toward Vincent and Manuela, but he hadn¡¯t wanted to risk stopping for them either. To him, Jason and Christine were kids¡ªeven if Jason was technically an adult. Now that the two were in the van, though, he wasn¡¯t about to throw them out. Vincent¡¯s plan to find a car at the parking lot was scrapped. The Ford had drawn too many zombies to Vigo Street, and the horde would linger there for a while. The van sped through the streets, weaving around abandoned cars and swerving to avoid zombies. The undead chased after them, but the Ford¡¯s sturdy build and Mike¡¯s driving kept them at bay¡ªfor now. ¡°I saw you drive past Oak Street earlier. Why¡¯d you come back?¡± Vincent asked, finally catching his breath. Jason shrugged. ¡°We were heading to a gun shop, but the place was crawling with zombies. So¡­ we turned around.¡± ¡°Where are we going now?¡± Manuela asked, peering out the window. The streets were unfamiliar, and the number of zombies wasn¡¯t reassuring. Jason hesitated, glancing at Mike. Mike kept his eyes on the road but said nothing. ¡°We¡¯re going to Dreamland Clothing on Westgate Street. Two more people are waiting for us there,¡± Christine explained. **Westgate Street** Westgate Street was much like Oak Street¡ªold, rundown, and littered with wrecked cars and corpses. Dreamland Clothing was a mid-sized store, its windows and doors shuttered with metal roll-down gates. It hadn¡¯t opened for the day when the outbreak hit. The Ford screeched around a corner and onto Westgate Street, plowing through zombies as it sped toward the store. Mike slowed slightly as they approached a narrow alley beside the building, then expertly guided the van into the tight space. The left side of the van scraped against the wall, leaving barely enough room for the sliding door to open. A metal door in the wall creaked open, and Jason tossed his fire axe inside before climbing out. Zombies swarmed the alley, but the narrow gap between the van and the wall kept them from reaching the door. ¡°Move it, everyone! Out now!¡± Mike barked, waving for the others to follow. Christine, Manuela, Vincent, and Mike scrambled out of the van and through the door, which slammed shut behind them. **Inside Dreamland Clothing** The store was dimly lit, its walls lined with racks of clothing and posters of celebrities wearing the latest fashions. Waiting for them inside were two figures: a towering, muscular white man covered in tattoos, and a middle-aged Black woman. The man held a Sig P210 pistol, its barrel pointed casually at the woman beside him. His sharp, angular features gave him a menacing air, and his cold eyes flicked toward Vincent and Manuela. ¡°Where are the guns?¡± the man demanded, his voice low and threatening. He gestured toward Vincent and Manuela with the pistol. ¡°And who the hell are they?¡± Something about the situation felt¡­ off. Chapter 10: Andrew the Monster ¡°They were being chased by zombies. We couldn¡¯t just leave them to die¡­¡± Old Mike explained nervously, his voice trembling. The towering white man, Andrew, clearly intimidated him. Andrew¡¯s eyes narrowed as he glared at Mike, then shifted his gaze to Vincent and Manuela. He didn¡¯t seem pleased that Mike had brought strangers back. His eyes lingered on Manuela for a moment, but he said nothing. ¡°Where are the guns?¡± Andrew barked, his left hand gripping the arm of the Black woman beside him. He shoved her forward, using her as a human shield while pointing his gun at her head. The woman, whose eyes were red and puffy from crying, looked terrified. ¡°The gun shop¡­ it was swarming with zombies. We couldn¡¯t get close,¡± Mike stammered, his eyes darting nervously between Andrew and the gun. He was afraid of what Andrew might do. Vincent quickly assessed the situation. It seemed Andrew was holding the woman hostage, forcing Mike and the others to retrieve guns for him. Now that they¡¯d failed, tensions were high. ¡°Useless!¡± Andrew spat, his eyes landing on the duffel bag in Vincent¡¯s hand. He raised his gun, pointing it at Vincent, and snapped, ¡°What¡¯s in there?¡± ¡°We don¡¯t know. He brought it with him,¡± Mike said quickly, shaking his head. Behind him, Jason and Christine stayed silent, their fear of Andrew palpable. Even Jason, who was usually outgoing, didn¡¯t dare try to charm the muscular, gun-toting man. ¡°Hand it over!¡± Andrew demanded, his eyes locked on Vincent. Vincent had two bags¡ªa small backpack on his back and the duffel bag in his hand. The latter looked suspicious. Vincent, covered in blood and looking worse for wear, narrowed his eyes slightly. He glanced at Andrew, who was twice his size and armed, then tossed the duffel bag to him without a word. From the way Mike and the others reacted to Andrew, Vincent knew this man was dangerous¡ªpossibly a former gang member. There was no point in provoking him. Food could be replaced; a bullet to the head couldn¡¯t. Vincent was a pragmatist. It was why he¡¯d survived working for the mob for over a year. Andrew caught the bag and roughly shoved the Black woman aside. She stumbled into Mike¡¯s arms, her hands trembling as she checked him for injuries. ¡°Are you hurt?¡± she asked, her voice shaking. ¡°I¡¯m fine, Laura,¡± Mike reassured her, holding her close. Laura leaned into him for a moment before looking up, her eyes darting to Jason and Christine. ¡°And the kids?¡± ¡°We¡¯re okay, Aunt Laura,¡± Jason said quickly. ¡°I¡¯m fine, Mrs. Brown,¡± Christine added. Vincent pieced together their relationships. Mike¡¯s full name was likely Mike Brown, which explained why Christine called Laura ¡°Mrs. Brown.¡± Jason was Laura¡¯s nephew, and Christine was probably a neighbor or family friend. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. As Vincent observed the group, Manuela stood nervously to the side. ¡°Food¡­ good. And this?¡± Andrew rummaged through the bag and pulled out a box of¡­ condoms. He raised an eyebrow, glancing at Vincent and then at Manuela. Vincent shot Manuela a look. She quickly turned away, pretending not to notice. ¡°You all better stay in line. Don¡¯t give me any trouble,¡± Andrew growled, zipping up the bag and waving his gun at the group. He then walked toward the back of the store, his heavy footsteps echoing as he climbed the stairs to the second floor. Mike visibly relaxed, his shoulders sagging as he led Laura toward the stairs. ¡°Let¡¯s go upstairs. It¡¯s safer there,¡± he said, gesturing for the others to follow. The first floor of the clothing store was surrounded by roll-up shutters, which muffled the sounds of the zombies outside. But the shutters wouldn¡¯t hold forever, and the horde drawn by the Ford was still out there. The second floor was a safer bet. As they climbed the stairs, Vincent walked beside Jason and asked in a low voice, ¡°Who is that guy?¡± ¡°Andrew. He lived near my aunt. When the virus hit, we all escaped together. But¡­ be careful with him. He¡¯s got a temper. He¡¯s already killed people,¡± Jason whispered back. ¡°Got it. Thanks,¡± Vincent replied, his eyes flicking toward Manuela, who was walking with Christine. He wasn¡¯t sure what to make of her just yet. The second floor of the store was a storage area, filled with racks of clothing and boxes of inventory. Near the entrance was a small sitting area with a couple of couches and chairs. Further back was a small break room, its door tightly shut. Andrew had disappeared into the break room with Vincent¡¯s duffel bag, leaving the others to settle in the sitting area. Manuela, uncomfortable in her bloodstained clothes, rummaged through the racks of clothing, picking out a few items, including some underwear. She then headed to the small bathroom next to the break room to clean up and change. The second floor wasn¡¯t large¡ªmaybe 100 square meters, including the break room and bathroom. The sitting area was cramped, with barely enough space for everyone to sit. Vincent took a chair in the corner, leaning against the wall and staying silent. Mike and Laura sat on one of the couches, Laura crying softly as Mike comforted her. Christine, the high schooler, sat across from them, holding a compact mirror and fussing with her hair. Jason stood by the window, peeking through the curtains at the chaos outside. The room was quiet, the growls of the zombies outside a constant reminder of the danger. But for now, they were safe. Then, the break room door creaked open. Andrew stepped out, his face grim. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on Christine. Christine froze, her mirror slipping from her hands as Andrew approached. He crouched in front of her, his massive frame towering over her even as he tried to appear less threatening. He whispered something to her, his voice too low for the others to hear. Christine shook her head, her eyes wide with fear. ¡°No, please¡­ don¡¯t¡­¡± Andrew¡¯s expression darkened. He grabbed her wrist, yanking her to her feet. ¡°Come on, don¡¯t make this harder than it has to be,¡± he growled, dragging her toward the break room. ¡°Hey! Andrew, what are you doing?¡± Mike jumped up from the couch, rushing toward them. Andrew spun around, his gun pointed at Mike¡¯s head. ¡°Sit the hell down, or I¡¯ll blow your brains out,¡± he snarled. Mike froze, his hands raised in surrender. ¡°Okay, okay¡­ I¡¯m sitting,¡± he stammered, backing away slowly. Jason, who had started to move toward Andrew, stopped in his tracks and retreated to the window. ¡°That¡¯s better. Don¡¯t piss me off,¡± Andrew said with a twisted smile. He turned back to Christine, who was now sobbing and pleading. ¡°Please, don¡¯t do this¡­ I can¡¯t¡­¡± she begged, her voice breaking. Vincent sat in the corner, his jaw clenched. He knew Christine was only sixteen, despite her mature appearance. But he stayed silent, his mind racing as he weighed his options. Chapter 11: An Unexpected Rescue Vincent appeared to be an easygoing person, but in reality, his heart was always closed off. Becoming his friend was not easy, and becoming someone he was willing to sacrifice for was even harder. As for Christine, it wasn''t that Vincent lacked compassion, but he remained unmoved. Andrew was tall and strong, physically superior to Vincent in more ways than one. Regarding weapons, Andrew had a gun, while Vincent had a scalpel, though it was hidden in the inner pocket of his leather jacket. Vincent only had one chance to strike. If he couldn''t kill Andrew instantly, Andrew would surely shoot him. So Vincent didn''t act impulsively, perhaps because Christine was just a beautiful stranger, not worth the risk. Sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, Vincent watched as Andrew slowly dragged Christine into the lounge, lowering his head in silence. "Let me go, please, don''t do this..." In the cramped bathroom, under the dim yellow light, the mirror reflected a graceful figure. When she heard the commotion outside, Manuela had already cleaned herself and was wearing underwear. Manuela quickly dressed, not even bothering with shoes, and ran her fingers through her wet hair before pushing the door open and stepping out. "Please, don''t do this, don''t..." Christine was crying, shaking her head and pleading with Andrew. "Damn it, come with me. If you make me unhappy, I''ll shoot you," Andrew growled, pulling Christine toward the lounge. A strong man dragging a beautiful girl into a lounge against her will¡ªit didn''t take much imagination to figure out what he intended to do. Andrew didn''t seem like a good person even before the apocalypse, and now, with the collapse of law and morality, his darker side had fully emerged. Manuela leaned against the bathroom door, her eyes quickly scanning the others in the living room. Old Mike and his wife sat on the sofa, holding each other tightly. Jason stood by the window, watching everything unfold. He seemed like he wanted to say or do something, but he didn''t. Manuela''s gaze finally settled on Vincent. His demeanor immediately sparked anger in her. Vincent was sitting with his head down, examining his nails as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. Manuela didn''t know why she was so angry. Perhaps she believed Vincent could stop what was happening, but he acted as if he hadn''t seen anything, as if it were none of his business. Christine was still crying and struggling. Manuela suddenly took a deep breath, unbuttoned two buttons on her blouse. Barefoot, Manuela walked over to Andrew and grabbed his arm. Andrew instinctively raised his hand to strike, but when he felt the softness against his arm, he stopped and turned to look. "Hey," Manuela whispered seductively, her lips pouting, her long lashes fluttering as she gazed at Andrew. "Hey," Andrew replied, slightly dazed as he turned to look at her. "She''s just a little girl, she doesn''t understand anything. How about..." Manuela pressed her body against Andrew, her long, slender leg in tight shorts rubbing against his. Her right hand rested on his shoulder, while her left gently caressed his chest. Her voice was soft, dripping with allure. "How about I keep you company?" Everyone in the room, including Vincent, turned to look at Manuela. "Alright, come with me," Andrew, completely captivated by Manuela''s deliberate seduction, released Christine and grabbed Manuela''s hand, which was still caressing his chest. He kept his eyes on her face as he led her into the lounge. Vincent watched expressionlessly as Manuela willingly followed Andrew into the lounge. Before the door closed, Manuela glanced back at Vincent, giving him a look of disdain before turning to Andrew with a sweet smile. The door shut. Jason, who had been standing by the window, immediately rushed to the sofa, vaulting over the back and landing lightly beside Christine. "Christine, are you okay?" Jason asked, tilting his head to look at her. Christine was still wiping her tears, her head turned toward the lounge door, silent. "Child... we..." Old Mike wanted to say something to Christine, but Laura tugged at him, signaling him to stop. Old Mike sighed and said no more. Explanations were futile. They hadn''t dared to help Christine earlier, and now there was nothing they could say. Everyone else had tried to comfort Christine, except for Vincent. His behavior seemed strange to the others. If his indifference to Christine''s plight could be explained by his unwillingness to risk himself for a stranger, then his lack of reaction to Manuela''s seduction of Andrew was harder to justify. After all, the two had arrived together, and their relationship, if not romantic, was at least close¡ªlikely even romantic. Jason, Old Mike, and Laura had all glanced at Vincent but quickly looked away. Vincent remained calm, leaving them unsure whether to approach him. They couldn''t just walk up and say, "Hey, man, your girl''s about to sleep with someone. What do you think?" In truth, Vincent''s emotions were tangled. He was struggling with the realization that he had misjudged Manuela. He never expected her to willingly sacrifice herself to help Christine, and that was what troubled him. Faint, suppressed moans began to emanate from the lounge, followed by Andrew''s muffled voice. It was unclear what he was saying, but soon Manuela''s moans grew louder. The lounge''s poor soundproofing made everything audible. Vincent''s thoughts were complex. He suddenly tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. Was Manuela sacrificing herself for a greater good? But how long could she protect Christine? Thinking this, Vincent smiled self-deprecatingly. He had done nothing, so what right did he have to judge her? If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. The sounds from the lounge ceased after about ten minutes. It seemed Andrew''s prowess didn''t match his physique. A couple of minutes later, Manuela emerged, buttoning her blouse, her hair disheveled, her face still flushed. After closing the lounge door, Manuela walked over to Christine and sat on the other side of the sofa. Jason quickly moved aside. "Are you okay?" Manuela asked, buttoning her blouse and tucking her hair behind her ear as she looked at Christine, who was still hanging her head. "Thank you," Christine suddenly hugged Manuela''s waist, crying softly. "It''s okay, it''ll pass. Everything will be fine," Manuela patted Christine''s back, comforting her in a low voice, even kissing her hair. Vincent remained seated in the corner, watching Manuela. After comforting Christine for a while, Manuela suddenly turned to look at Vincent. Their eyes met, and Manuela gave him another look of disdain. "Alright, be strong," Manuela said, gripping Christine''s shoulders and looking into her eyes. "Stop crying, okay?" Christine nodded. Manuela ruffled Christine''s hair and stood up, walking to the corner of the living room. She sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, her arms wrapped around her knees. She sat right next to Vincent''s chair but didn''t look at him. Vincent didn''t know what to say. Though they were close, the atmosphere was awkward. "Not a man." After a while, Manuela suddenly spoke, tilting her head slightly to glance at Vincent sitting in the chair. Vincent had no retort. He smiled self-deprecatingly and looked at Manuela, asking softly, "Why did you help her?" "She''s just a child. She saved us!" Manuela stared into Vincent''s eyes. Vincent let out a soft "oh," his gaze drifting away as he lost himself in thought. Manuela continued to watch Vincent. After a long while, she suddenly lowered her head and said, "Do you know why I did that?" "Life forced you, right?" Vincent guessed with a sigh. Manuela was silent for a moment, then turned to look out the window. In a low voice, she said, "My mother died when I was twelve. She was a drug addict. I never found my biological father. After that, my stepfather raised me. On my sixteenth birthday, he drank a lot and said I was finally grown up... then he raped me. He started forcing me to take clients to pay off his gambling debts..." This was the real reason she was willing to save Christine. She had been sixteen when it happened, and now Christine was sixteen. The tragedy that had befallen her seemed about to repeat itself with Christine. It was a difficult story to tell, but Manuela didn''t know what had come over her. Some strange impulse made her share it with Vincent. "Your... stepfather, where is he now?" Vincent didn''t want Manuela to continue, interrupting her. "He''s dead. Not long after that, he was killed over gambling debts," Manuela said gloomily. She suddenly stood up, walked through the living room, and entered the lounge. It was unclear what she said inside, but she soon emerged, holding a cigarette and a lighter. Barefoot, she walked back to Vincent and sat down beside him. She tore open the cigarette pack, took one out, and lit it. Then she tossed the pack and lighter at Vincent''s feet. Vincent glanced at them but didn''t move. "Do you always think I''m cheap, shameless?" Manuela leaned against the wall, took a deep drag, and exhaled a plume of smoke, tilting her head to look at Vincent. "No, you''re kind," Vincent denied. Manuela chuckled, took another drag, and flicked the ash. She shook her head, clearly not believing him. Vincent didn''t want to explain further. He suddenly glanced toward the lounge''s closed door and asked, "What''s he doing? Sleeping?" Manuela followed his gaze and said softly, "He''s using drugs." "Oh?" Vincent''s expression shifted slightly. Drugs were the cheapest and most widespread substances in the world. Humans had been using them for over a thousand years. Drug use caused hallucinations, confusion, paranoia, and impaired self-awareness. In short, people became disoriented after using drugs. "Right. He even offered me some, but I''ve quit," Manuela said, smoking, her eyes slightly distant, as if remembering something. "Did he start using right after you finished, or did he start when you went in to get the cigarettes?" Vincent suddenly had more questions. He glanced at his watch; it was 8:47 AM. Manuela gave Vincent a strange look, unsure why he was asking, but she answered anyway, "He started right after we finished." "Ah," Vincent nodded, his mind working. He stood up and headed to the bathroom. The effects of the drugs usually kicked in after about thirty minutes, and only about ten minutes had passed in the bathroom. Vincent looked at himself in the mirror, slowly forming a friendly smile. The smile faded as he took off his bloodstained jacket. He picked up a towel by the sink, wiped the jacket clean, and pulled out a small cloth bundle from inside. He hung the jacket on a hook on the wall. Vincent''s inner shirt was clean¡ªa long-sleeved T-shirt. He unfolded the cloth bundle, revealing a scalpel with a blade and handle totaling fifteen centimeters. He slipped it into his sleeve and adjusted it. He checked his watch again: 8:58. Vincent took a deep breath, looked at the mirror, and smiled again, revealing a set of gleaming white teeth. Chapter 12: The Bloodied Scalpel A smile¡ªsomething so simple to understand, yet so profoundly powerful. A polite smile to a stranger can elicit kindness, even when the other person is in a foul mood. Why is that? For women, a smile can exude charm. Even those who aren¡¯t conventionally beautiful can become captivating when they smile. For men, a smile can be a tool¡ªa way to break the ice, to disarm, to manipulate. At exactly nine o¡¯clock, Vincent checked his watch once more and stepped out of the bathroom, a faint smile playing on his lips, as if he were in high spirits. *Knock, knock, knock!* Vincent approached the lounge door and rapped on it firmly. He wasn¡¯t Manuela. If he barged in unannounced, Andrew might just shoot him on the spot. Everyone in the living room watched Vincent intently. His smile was disarming, but it was also deceptive. Yet, it worked. He had fooled them all. What kind of mindset allowed Vincent to face Andrew with a smile, especially after what had happened to Manuela? From inside the lounge came the sound of something heavy hitting the floor¡ªperhaps Andrew had stumbled while getting out of bed. Then, the door creaked open. Andrew stood there, gun in hand, his face flushed with excitement, his eyes glazed and unfocused. ¡°What do you want?¡± Andrew growled, grabbing Vincent by the collar and yanking him closer until their faces were inches apart. ¡°You better have a damn good reason for bothering me, or I¡¯ll break your legs,¡± he snarled. The drugs had taken hold, and in this state, Andrew was unpredictable¡ªcapable of anything, even murder. ¡°Uh¡­¡± Vincent raised his hands in a placating gesture, his smile turning ingratiating. ¡°Andrew, relax, relax. I know where we can find more guns. Easy to get.¡± ¡°Really?¡± Andrew blinked hard, his vision blurred from the drugs. He wasn¡¯t completely out of it, but his paranoia as a seasoned criminal kept him on edge. ¡°Really¡­ Can we talk inside?¡± Vincent sidestepped toward the lounge, his hands still raised in a gesture of harmlessness. His eyes never left Andrew¡¯s, and his smile remained humble, perfectly playing the part of a desperate ally. Vincent¡¯s performance was flawless. His deceptive smile had worked its magic, and Andrew released his grip, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head before closing the lounge door behind them. Outside, the guttural growls of zombies echoed through the streets, a constant reminder of the horrors lurking just beyond the walls. The tension in the living room thickened the moment the lounge door clicked shut. Old Mike and Laura exchanged uneasy glances. If Vincent had truly allied himself with Andrew, the rest of them were in for a world of trouble¡ªperhaps even enslavement. ¡°Oh, God¡­¡± Jack muttered under his breath, making a quick sign of the cross before turning to Manuela, who sat slumped against the wall. ¡°What¡¯s going on with him?¡± Manuela, who had been speaking quietly with Vincent earlier, took a drag from her cigarette and ran a hand through her disheveled hair. Her eyes were hollow, her voice tinged with disappointment. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Christine, sitting across from Old Mike and Laura, suddenly stood up. Her face pale, she walked over to Manuela and sat down beside her, holding out two fingers. ¡°Can I have a drag?¡± she asked, her eyes filled with sorrow. She knew her nightmare wasn¡¯t over¡ªit was only a matter of time before it returned. Manuela couldn¡¯t protect her forever. Without a word, Manuela handed over the cigarette she¡¯d been smoking and lit another for herself. In the United Americas, the legal age for smoking was eighteen, and drinking was twenty-one. Letting a sixteen-year-old high schooler smoke was technically illegal, but in this broken world, who cared about laws anymore? Laura, watching from a distance, opened her mouth to say something but ultimately stayed silent. Christine, clearly new to smoking, coughed a few times before Manuela gently took the cigarette back, patting her on the back. ¡°Maybe you shouldn¡¯t.¡± This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Christine insisted, grabbing the cigarette back and taking another drag. Manuela didn¡¯t stop her. For Christine, there was no future to protect¡ªonly the looming threats of zombies and Andrew. If smoking brought her even a sliver of comfort, who was Manuela to deny her that? In the corner of the second floor of the ¡°Dream House¡± clothing store, two women sat against the wall, shrouded in smoke and despair. One, a woman worn down by constant disappointment; the other, a girl drowning in sorrow for a tomorrow she couldn¡¯t see. From the lounge, faint noises could be heard, followed by an eerie silence. No one knew what was happening inside. Perhaps the two men were quietly discussing plans. Inside the lounge, the window was tightly shut to keep out the stench of the outside world. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat and sex. The small room was sparsely furnished¡ªa bed, a nightstand, and a TV. The floor was littered with food wrappers, used tissues, and condoms, a testament to the chaos within. The bed creaked softly, the sound too faint to reach the living room. At first, there were muffled grunts and wet, squelching noises. But soon, the first sound ceased, and the second followed. *Drip. Drip.* Bright red liquid dripped from the edge of the bed, splattering onto the floor. More blood followed, pooling and spreading, forming a crimson puddle that grew larger with each passing second. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, sharp and suffocating. ¡°Hah¡­¡± Vincent exhaled, sitting atop Andrew¡¯s lifeless body. Below him, Andrew lay frozen in a final, desperate struggle, his eyes wide with terror, devoid of life. A deep, eight-centimeter gash stretched across Andrew¡¯s neck, severing a quarter of it, including the carotid artery. Blood gushed forth, unrelenting. His chest was a gruesome mosaic of stab wounds, each two centimeters wide and impossibly deep. His organs were shredded, his tattered shirt soaked through with blood. Embedded in his left chest was a scalpel, its fifteen-centimeter blade buried to the hilt. Andrew¡¯s right hand, dangling off the bed, bore a stab wound that had pierced clean through. On the floor beside the bed lay a handgun. Vincent¡¯s face, clothes, and even his mouth were spattered with blood. His expression was calm as he removed his left hand from Andrew¡¯s mouth and spat out a mouthful of blood. Wiping his face, he yanked the scalpel free, sending another spurt of blood arcing into the air. Climbing off the bed, Vincent staggered slightly before steadying himself. The intense exertion had left him momentarily weak. He bent down, picked up the handgun, ejected the magazine to check it, then slid it back in and tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants. Scalpel in hand, drenched in Andrew¡¯s blood, Vincent sniffed the air and walked toward the door. Vincent had killed Andrew¡ªa result no one had anticipated. While part of his motivation stemmed from pity for Christine and the anger it stirred within him, the primary reason was far more pragmatic. Andrew was a liability¡ªselfish, dangerous, and willing to sacrifice anyone to save himself. Vincent couldn¡¯t leave this place anytime soon, and if he didn¡¯t eliminate Andrew now, he¡¯d have to play along with the man¡¯s whims. But Andrew had given Vincent the perfect opportunity, and he had taken it. There was another reason, one Vincent was reluctant to admit, even to himself. Perhaps it was the true driving force behind his brutal, bloody act. In the living room, the atmosphere was heavy. No one spoke. Christine was on her second cigarette. *Click.* The lounge door opened slowly, revealing a blood-soaked man standing in the doorway. Vincent¡¯s calm eyes scanned the room as he held the bloodied scalpel, his presence both terrifying and inexplicably reassuring. Chapter 13: The Counterattack What had happened? Vincent stood there, drenched in blood, holding a sharp scalpel. Drops of blood dripped from the blade onto the floor, and the pungent smell of blood wafted out from the lounge, filling the living room. Everyone in the living room was frozen in shock. Manuela unconsciously held a cigarette in her mouth, staring blankly ahead, not even noticing the ash falling onto her clothes. Laura, sitting next to Old Mike, covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide with horror. The reaction was expected. Vincent walked step by step through the living room, and everyone¡¯s eyes followed him. He stopped near Christine and Manuela, crouching down. ¡°What did you do?¡± Manuela quickly took the cigarette from her mouth and tossed it to the ground. She looked at Vincent, who was now right in front of her, her voice trembling slightly. She seemed to have guessed, but she couldn¡¯t quite believe it. After all, killing a person was entirely different from killing a zombie. Vincent raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a half-smile as if to say, *You guess.* Then he turned his gaze to Christine beside Manuela. ¡°Smoking at such a young age isn¡¯t good for your health. What about your future?¡± Vincent smiled, plucking the cigarette from Christine¡¯s lips and crushing it under his foot. Christine shrank back, hugging herself and looking at Vincent timidly. Her beautiful golden curls were disheveled. ¡°Oh my God!¡± A scream came from behind Vincent. He turned his head to see Old Mike and Laura standing at the door of the lounge. They must have walked over while Vincent was talking to Christine. Old Mike was peering inside, while Laura covered her mouth in shock, pulling Old Mike back and looking at Vincent. Vincent shrugged at them, his lips twitching as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, he only muttered three words: ¡°He deserved it.¡± Christine¡¯s eyes suddenly brightened. She tried to look past Vincent to see what was inside the lounge, but from her angle, she couldn¡¯t see Andrew¡¯s body. Her gaze returned to Vincent. The man who had seemed like a blood-soaked demon now looked entirely different in her eyes. ¡°Jason, come help me,¡± Vincent said, still crouched on the ground. He stood up and walked back into the lounge, gesturing for Jason to follow. Jason hesitated, glancing around at the others. Old Mike gave him a nod, and Jason followed Vincent into the lounge. ¡°Oh God, what did you do to him?¡± Jason took a step back, nearly gagging at the sight of Andrew¡¯s body. Even though he had seen his share of zombies, the gruesome state of Andrew¡¯s corpse was hard to stomach. Vincent sighed and pushed open the lounge window. The strong smell of blood wafted outside, and the zombies grew excited, their sharp growls echoing into the room. ¡°He kept struggling¡­¡± Vincent explained as he walked back to the bed and grabbed Andrew¡¯s limp arms. ¡°Come on, help me throw him out.¡± Andrew¡¯s body weighed at least a hundred kilograms. It wouldn¡¯t be easy for Vincent to throw him out alone. By now, everyone in the living room had gathered at the lounge door. Manuela tried to cover Christine¡¯s eyes, but Christine pulled her hand away. The bloody scene was unsettling for anyone, but strangely, Christine showed no signs of discomfort. Perhaps it was because Andrew had tried to assault her earlier. Her eyes kept darting between Andrew¡¯s body and Vincent. Vincent was twenty-seven, practically an ¡°uncle¡± to a sixteen-year-old girl like Christine. But with his handsome features, he made quite an impression. And in the United Americas, girls matured early. Christine couldn¡¯t help but feel a strange mix of emotions toward him. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. *Thud!* Andrew¡¯s body hit the ground like a sack of sand. The lounge window faced the street, and many zombies saw Vincent and Jason at the window. They roared and charged toward the Dream House clothing store. The zombies already gathered outside the store pounced on Andrew¡¯s body, tearing it apart in a frenzy of blood and gore. Vincent watched for a moment before closing the window, muffling the zombies¡¯ growls. He picked up the travel bag that Jason had brought earlier and left the lounge with him, closing the door tightly behind them. No one would likely enter that room again. ¡°Anyone hungry?¡± Vincent tossed the travel bag onto the old coffee table between the two sofas. He then walked toward the bathroom, pulling off his blood-soaked T-shirt. The bathroom door clicked shut behind him. Jason looked down at his blood-stained clothes and shook his head. It would be a while before he could clean up¡ªthe bathroom was too small. He wiped his bloody hands on his shirt and reached for the travel bag Vincent had left behind, but stopped when he noticed the others hesitating, exchanging uncertain glances. Jason straightened up, feeling awkward. Manuela, sensing their hesitation, walked over to the coffee table and opened the travel bag. Inside were various foods¡ªchocolate, canned meat, bread, ham, and other ready-to-eat items. There were also cigarettes, gum, condoms¡­ things Manuela had packed earlier. ¡°It¡¯s fine. Vincent¡­ he¡¯s not bad,¡± Manuela said, catching herself before she could call him ¡°good.¡± She remembered how he had treated her earlier. She pulled out some food and handed it to the others. Manuela knew what they were thinking. Vincent appeared calm, quiet, and composed, but the brutal way he had killed Andrew¡ªwho posed no immediate threat¡ªshowed a darker side. The bloody scene had shaken them. Vincent wasn¡¯t as ¡°kind¡± as he seemed. His violent tendencies might not be far from Andrew¡¯s, just better hidden. They were afraid Vincent would become another Andrew, especially now that he had the gun. Fortunately, Manuela¡¯s presence eased their worries. They sat on the sofas or chairs, eating quietly. Manuela leaned against the wall outside the lounge, holding a chocolate bar and staring at the bloodstains on the floor. The bathroom was just a few steps away. After a moment, Manuela seemed to remember something. She stuffed the remaining chocolate into her mouth, chewed quickly, and swallowed. Wiping the dark smudges from her lips, she turned and pushed open the bathroom door. The door clicked shut. Inside the small bathroom, the dim yellow light cast long shadows. ¡°Hey,¡± Manuela leaned against the door, arms crossed, and tilted her head to look at Vincent. ¡°Hey,¡± Vincent responded, turning slightly from the mirror where he was shaving. He had only glanced at her when she entered. Vincent was shirtless, wearing only black shorts, and his upper body glistened with water. ¡°I came to apologize. I¡¯m sorry. I take back what I said about you not being a man. You¡­ you¡¯re very much a man,¡± Manuela said, her finger tracing the wall absentmindedly. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s fine,¡± Vincent replied without turning, focusing on the mirror as he shaved. The bathroom fell silent. Manuela watched him for a while before speaking again. ¡°You know, you don¡¯t have to shave. A little stubble looks good on a man your age. It might even attract girls like Christine.¡± She gestured toward the door, her tone light and teasing. ¡°Habit,¡± Vincent replied simply. It had been over a day since the outbreak, and a light stubble had grown on his face. He preferred to stay clean-shaven, so when he found a razor in the bathroom, he decided to use it. The bathroom grew quiet again. Vincent seemed uninterested in talking. ¡°Are you still mad at me?¡± Manuela suddenly took two steps forward, resting her hands on the sink and tilting her head to catch Vincent¡¯s reflection in the mirror. ¡°No,¡± Vincent denied. ¡°Do you want me to make it up to you?¡± Manuela¡¯s voice was soft, almost a whisper. She took another half-step forward, her hand reaching out to touch Vincent¡¯s face gently. Her chest pressed against his arm as she deliberately ignored his denial. Vincent set the razor down and turned to face her, frowning slightly. ¡°Do you always flirt with men like this?¡± The words stung. Manuela was a streetwalker, but that was business¡ªa means of survival. Flirting with a man without expecting anything in return? That was something else entirely. ¡°Is that how you see me?¡± Manuela¡¯s hand froze, and her smile faded. She took a step back, her eyes reddening. ¡°Hey, I didn¡¯t mean¡ª¡± Vincent realized he had misspoken and tried to explain. Manuela turned to leave, but Vincent quickly grabbed her arm, his voice tinged with regret. ¡°Wait, let me explain. I didn¡¯t mean it like that¡­¡± Manuela suddenly spun around, pushing Vincent against the wall and kissing him hard. The move was so quick that Vincent had no time to react. Chapter 14: The Group Vincent instinctively wanted to push Manuela away, but her kiss was wild, desperate. She was already pulling off her clothes, and every time Vincent tried to break the kiss, she shoved him back against the wall, pressing her body against his. Vincent knew that pushing her away now would only hurt her more. Manuela was no longer a stranger to Vincent. Her bravery in helping Christine earlier had earned his respect. If Vincent had once seen her as just another streetwalker, useless in this apocalyptic world, that perception had changed. So, Vincent didn¡¯t push her away. He hadn¡¯t wanted to cross the line with Manuela, knowing that emotional ties could be a liability in a world where survival was paramount. But in the short span of a day, their relationship had become complicated. Maybe it was fate. Maybe Vincent was destined to have some kind of connection with this woman. It¡¯s not my fault, Vincent thought, almost deluding himself. He could have refused her, but he didn¡¯t. His body relaxed, and he grabbed Manuela¡¯s shoulders, returning her kiss. Her lips were soft, still carrying the faint taste of chocolate. Their tongues intertwined, saliva mixing. Frequent kissing and saliva exchange can boost immunity, Vincent, ever the medical professional, couldn¡¯t help but think. ¡°Mmm¡­ wait,¡± Manuela suddenly pushed Vincent back, her hands reaching behind her to unhook her bra. She tossed it aside and pressed her bare chest against Vincent, kissing him deeply. One of her hands guided his left hand to her breast, encouraging him to touch her. In the cramped bathroom, under the dim yellow light, the two of them tumbled onto the wet floor, their lips locked, the sound of their passion filling the small space. Manuela¡¯s breathing grew heavier. ¡°Baby, love me¡­¡± Manuela murmured, her eyes glazed with desire. She tugged at Vincent¡¯s pants, quickly kicking off her own. ¡°Wait, we don¡¯t have a condom¡­¡± Vincent tried to stop her. ¡°I¡¯m clean,¡± Manuela assured him. Vincent wanted to explain that it wasn¡¯t just about diseases¡ªit was about the risk of pregnancy. But Manuela didn¡¯t give him a chance. She positioned herself over him and lowered herself down. ¡°Oh¡­¡± The bathroom filled with muffled moans. Much later, Manuela suddenly grabbed Vincent¡¯s arms, pulling him up as she leaned back, her head bumping against the bathroom door. She shifted her body further onto the wet floor. ¡°Mmm¡­ you¡¯re so good¡­¡± Manuela¡¯s face was flushed, her forehead glistening with sweat, her hair disheveled as her body moved rhythmically. Vincent didn¡¯t speak, focusing on the act. Once something like this started, it was hard to stop, and it only grew more intense. Twenty minutes later. Vincent leaned against the mirror, breathing heavily. The reflection showed only his upper body, Manuela was out of frame. Moments later, Manuela stood up, covering her mouth as she hurried to the sink. She turned on the faucet and began rinsing her mouth. She had taken precautions to avoid pregnancy. After spitting out the water, Manuela wiped her mouth and turned to look at Vincent, who was still catching his breath. Their eyes met, and Vincent smiled, a hint of resignation in his expression. Manuela smiled back, genuinely happy. In the living room, the atmosphere was awkward. The bathroom¡¯s thin walls did little to muffle the sounds. Manuela had tried to keep quiet, but her muffled moans had still reached the others. Old Mike and Laura seemed unfazed¡ªthey¡¯d seen and heard it all before. But Jason and Christine looked uncomfortable. Jason lay sprawled on the sofa across from Old Mike, his expression conflicted. He couldn¡¯t figure out what Vincent and Manuela¡¯s relationship was. If they were a couple, why had Vincent been so calm when Manuela went into the lounge with Andrew? And if they weren¡¯t, what was going on now? Had they just hooked up that quickly? Christine sat in the corner of the living room, a cigarette dangling from her lips. She stared at the bathroom door, her gaze unwavering. It seemed normal, but it wasn¡¯t. No one would stare at a door like that¡ªexcept Christine. The sounds from the bathroom had barely faded when the door clicked open. Jason sat up abruptly, and Christine quickly stubbed out her cigarette. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Vincent stepped out, wearing only shorts. He opened the door just enough to slip through, then closed it behind him. He glanced at the group in the living room before walking over to a pile of clothes. He rummaged through them, picking out a few items¡ªboth men¡¯s and women¡¯s¡ªbefore returning to the bathroom. About two minutes later, Vincent and Manuela emerged, fully dressed. Manuela had tied her hair back into a long ponytail that draped over her shoulder. Her past had made her immune to judgmental stares. Vincent wore new clothes, except for his leather jacket, which he seemed fond of despite its worn cuffs. He was good at hiding his emotions, and with Manuela acting normal, he showed no signs of discomfort. ¡°Alright, let¡¯s talk,¡± Vincent said, pulling a chair over to the coffee table. He gestured for Christine to join them, and she quickly dragged her chair over. Vincent sat down, with Manuela standing behind him, leaning on the back of his chair. To his left sat Jason on the sofa, and to his right were Old Mike and Laura. Christine sat across from him. The group of six was now gathered. ¡°What¡¯s this about?¡± Old Mike asked, breaking the silence. ¡°What are your plans?¡± Vincent scanned the group. ¡°How do you plan to survive in this world?¡± ¡°Take it one day at a time,¡± Jason said with a shrug. ¡°There¡¯s not much hope left anyway.¡± Despite his words, his tone was light, almost optimistic. ¡°And the rest of you?¡± Vincent looked at the others. Old Mike and Laura exchanged a glance. ¡°What about you?¡± Old Mike asked, turning the question back to Vincent. ¡°I want to leave this place, go somewhere less populated, and survive,¡± Vincent said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced. ¡°I think we should work together. Leave New York, head to the countryside. What do you think?¡± ¡°I agree,¡± Old Mike said immediately. There was strength in numbers, and their chances of survival would be better if they stuck together¡ªassuming everyone pulled their weight. Old Mike¡¯s response spoke for Laura as well. Vincent turned to Christine, but Laura cut in. ¡°Christine and Jason will come with us. You don¡¯t need to ask.¡± ¡°So, we¡¯re all in agreement?¡± Vincent straightened up, reaching back to tousle Manuela¡¯s hair. It was a clear signal that she was with him now. Everyone nodded. There was no reason to disagree. Vincent scanned the group again, his gaze lingering on Old Mike for a moment. Then he leaned forward, resting his hands on the coffee table. ¡°Let¡¯s get straight to the point. We need to know each other¡¯s strengths and experiences. That¡¯s the only way we can work together effectively.¡± Vincent had been thinking about this for a while. The area around the clothing store was swarming with zombies, and trying to fight their way out alone would be suicide. With the group¡¯s help, especially Old Mike¡¯s, their chances of survival were much higher. Vincent had seen Old Mike¡¯s driving skills firsthand¡ªhis calmness under pressure was rare. Old Mike¡¯s profession likely involved driving. As for the others, Vincent saw them as potential liabilities. But Laura was Old Mike¡¯s wife, and Jason was her nephew. Laura would never leave Christine behind. If Vincent wanted Old Mike¡¯s help, he had to take everyone. ¡°Laura, you first,¡± Vincent said, turning to her. He seemed to have taken control of the situation, partly because he had the gun. Andrew¡¯s fate was a stark reminder of what happened to those who crossed him. ¡°I¡­ used to work at a social welfare center. I like cooking¡­¡± Laura hesitated, looking at Mike and then at Vincent. She couldn¡¯t think of any particular skills she had. She was just an ordinary woman. ¡°Old Mike, what about you?¡± Vincent quickly shifted the focus to Mike, sensing Laura¡¯s discomfort. ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± Old Mike said, patting Laura¡¯s shoulder reassuringly. He looked at Vincent and said simply, ¡°I¡¯m a bus driver. I¡¯m good behind the wheel. When I was younger, I wanted to be a professional racer, but then I met her¡­¡± He glanced at Laura, who smiled fondly. ¡°She said racing was too dangerous, so I gave it up to marry her.¡± Not an ordinary man, Vincent thought. Old Mike suddenly remembered something and added, ¡°Oh, and Laura and I first met at a shooting range in California. She was a pretty good shot back then.¡± Laura seemed to have forgotten about that until Mike mentioned it. She turned to Vincent and said, ¡°That¡¯s right. I was twenty-six, and I loved shooting. But I stopped after we got married.¡± Given Laura¡¯s age, that was at least fifteen years ago. No wonder she hadn¡¯t thought of it. Vincent nodded, smiling. ¡°That¡¯s great.¡± Even if someone hadn¡¯t handled a gun in years, the skills would come back quickly. Vincent had thought Laura might be the least useful in the group, but her experience with firearms changed that. ¡°Christine, what about you?¡± Vincent turned to the girl sitting across from him. ¡°I¡¯m a high school student¡­¡± Christine trailed off, unsure of what else to say. She had no real life experience, and she was too young to have handled guns. ¡°Never mind¡­¡± ¡°I was last year¡¯s prom queen¡­¡± Christine tried to defend herself, but her voice grew quieter. Being prom queen didn¡¯t exactly help in a zombie apocalypse. Vincent gave her a sympathetic look. ¡°Alright.¡± He turned to Jason. ¡°And you?¡± ¡°I can dance,¡± Jason said simply. Vincent was initially disappointed¡ªdancing wasn¡¯t exactly useful against zombies. But then Jason stood up and executed a flawless backflip over the sofa, landing gracefully on the other side. Vincent¡¯s interest was piqued. Jason wasn¡¯t just a dancer¡ªhe was an acrobat. His agility and control over his body were far beyond that of an average person. In a world like this, those skills could be lifesaving. ¡°Okay, that¡¯s impressive. You can stop now,¡± Vincent said, waving a hand. Jason awkwardly stopped his display and hopped back over the sofa. ¡°Good. Now let¡¯s talk about our plan¡­¡± ¡°What about you?¡± Old Mike interrupted. ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to tell us about yourself?¡± ¡°Me?¡± Vincent rubbed his nose, dragging out the word. Chapter 15: Self-Introduction Vincent, a mixed-race individual of Chinese and American descent, began his introduction with a calm demeanor. "I''m Vincent," he stated, pausing briefly before continuing. "I''m 27 years old. My mother is a translator in the diplomatic service, and my father is a surgeon. I am fluent in seven languages: Chinese, English, German, Korean, French, Russian, and Thai. Four years ago, I graduated from Harvard Medical School and subsequently spent two years participating in research projects at two federal laboratories in the Americas, earning dual master''s degrees in biopharmaceuticals and clinical surgery. Two years ago, I moved to New York for work. Before the apocalypse, I worked as an executive assistant at the New York headquarters of Greenpoint Biopharmaceuticals during the day, and by night, I was an underground doctor, providing medical services to the black market, specializing in treating severe trauma patients. Over two years, I performed 57 surgeries without a single failure." "About a year and a half ago, I bought a gun and practiced shooting, just in case, given my involvement with the underworld. However, my shooting skills are only average¡ªnot outstanding, but not terrible either." "Oh, and I''m quite skilled with a scalpel¡ªit can double as a throwing knife!" "Also, I remain exceptionally calm under pressure. A steady hand is essential for surgery, and I consider this one of my strengths," Vincent concluded with a relaxed smile, leaning back in his chair. He shared a great deal, revealing aspects of his life that no one else knew. His intention was clear: to demonstrate his unique capabilities. In the context of the apocalypse, the value of a skilled doctor is immeasurable. After all, being bitten by a zombie doesn''t necessarily mean death¡ªquickly excising the infected tissue can prevent the spread of the virus. Vincent''s underlying message was unmistakable: *I am the most capable person here, and you should follow my lead.* The group fell silent after Vincent''s introduction, unsure how to respond. His resume was undeniably impressive, and in the apocalypse, there was no room for exaggeration¡ªoverstating one''s abilities would be suicidal. However, Mannie, who had lived next door to Vincent for two years, cast a skeptical glance his way. She knew Vincent''s lifestyle had been far from lavish¡ªhe wore the same leather jacket for two years without replacing it, which didn''t align with the image of a high-ranking executive assistant at a biopharmaceutical company. "Where did all your money go?" Mannie whispered into Vincent''s ear, her voice low enough that only he could hear. In the pre-apocalypse world, asking a man about his finances might have been taboo, but now, money was worthless. If Vincent wasn''t lying, he should have been wealthy, yet Mannie had never seen any evidence of it. "Spent it," Vincent replied curtly, turning slightly to face Mannie before quickly shifting his attention back to the group. "Let''s focus on planning our next steps. The sooner we leave this place, the better." "You''ve already thought this through, haven''t you? Go ahead, share your plan," Old Mike said, his tone suggesting he had already pieced together Vincent''s intentions. "Alright, here''s the plan," Vincent began without hesitation. "Leaving New York won''t be easy, so our priority is securing enough weapons. When we first met, you were trying to raid a gun store but failed due to the overwhelming number of zombies. This time, we''ll go back to that same store. Here''s how we''ll do it..." Vincent outlined his plan succinctly, and Old Mike nodded along, though he cautioned, "It''s risky. We''re running low on fuel." "The risk is worth it. Without guns, we won''t make it out of New York¡ªa city with at least 15 million zombies. Besides, you''ll be driving, and I trust your skills," Vincent replied. His estimate of 15 million zombies was based on New York''s population of nearly 20 million in 2025, making it the third most populous city in the world after Tokyo and Mexico City. With a 70% infection rate at the onset of the apocalypse, and the chaos that followed, the number of zombies had likely increased significantly. Fifteen million was a conservative estimate. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. With the plan settled, Vincent suggested they rest at the Dream House clothing store for the day and begin their mission at dawn. Zombies, having just emerged from their nocturnal state of inactivity, would be slower to react in the early morning. More importantly, Old Mike and the others hadn''t had a proper rest since the apocalypse began, and they desperately needed it. "Alright, that''s it for now," Vincent said, standing up. Suddenly, as if remembering something, he pulled out his only handgun from the back of his waistband. It was a SIG P210, and though its magazine could hold seven rounds, only five remained. "Hey..." The group tensed up as Vincent drew his gun, and Jason even let out a startled cry. "Relax," Vincent said with a smile, deftly flipping the gun so that the grip faced outward. He handed it to Laura, saying, "You take the gun. There aren''t many bullets left, but you''ll get the hang of it. You''ll probably end up being a better shot than me." Vincent knew his limitations and chose to trust Laura. This gesture was also a way to build rapport. If Vincent kept the gun, the others might always see him as a threat, which wasn''t ideal. While Vincent wasn''t one to easily warm up to strangers, he wasn''t incapable of forming connections. If he wanted to befriend someone, his calm demeanor and composed nature would make it possible. By giving the gun to Laura, Vincent was making a calculated move, but over time, he believed they could become genuine friends¡ªassuming they both survived. After all, humans are emotional creatures. Laura looked surprised but accepted the gun, examining it carefully. It was relatively new, as private firearms rarely saw extensive use. Even at shooting ranges, people typically used provided guns and ammunition. "Thank you," Laura said, looking up briefly before returning her gaze to the gun. It had been a while since she''d held a handgun. In the Americas, while guns were common, they were mostly shotguns kept for home defense and rarely carried outside. Handguns, unless for specific purposes, weren''t typically owned by people her age. "You''re welcome," Vincent replied with a smile. He leaned forward, rummaged through a travel bag on the coffee table, and pulled out a bag of chips. Tearing open the packaging, he walked to the window, opened the curtain slightly, and peered outside while casually munching on the chips. Watching the bloodied zombies while eating chips was, in Mannie''s eyes, a rather macabre scene. But Vincent had no issue with blood¡ªhis tolerance was exceptionally high. He ate the chips not out of indifference but because, despite being labeled as junk food, they were high in calories and provided much-needed energy. As he observed the zombies, he was also analyzing their behavior, hoping to identify potential weaknesses. "Impressive appetite," Mannie remarked, standing beside him. She couldn''t help but admire his ability to eat while watching such gruesome scenes. "Ask me anything," Vincent said, offering the bag of chips to Mannie. "Want some?" "No, thanks," Mannie declined, pushing the bag back. She then asked quietly, "Is there something you''re not telling us?" "Everyone has secrets," Vincent replied, turning to her with a smile, his white teeth gleaming. *Crunch! Crunch!* At that moment, Christine joined them, munching on her bag of chips. She glanced out the window without flinching, then looked at Vincent''s chips and grabbed one, popping it into her mouth. After a few chews, she shook her head slightly, apparently unimpressed with the taro flavor. "Want to try mine? They''re barbecue flavor," Christine offered, holding out her bag of chips. "Sure, let me try... Hmm, not bad. We can swap," Vincent said. "Deal. Yours are... not bad either." "Vincent, look at that zombie¡ªit''s got something in its mouth." "Looks like a liver... No, wait, maybe a lung. Livers aren''t that big... It''s too dirty to tell." Under the shadow of death looming over the city, a man and a girl stood by the window on the second floor of a clothing store, sharing chips and casually discussing the zombies outside. Vincent didn''t see any issue with exposing Christine to such sights. Age was irrelevant¡ªthis was the reality of the world now. Being able to face zombies calmly would only increase their chances of survival in the apocalypse. Mannie stood silently beside them, a faint line of exasperation forming on her forehead. The word "eccentric" took on a whole new meaning in her mind. Chapter 16: The Perilous Game The second night after the apocalypse had fallen, a night destined to be sleepless for many. Some were fleeing in panic, others huddled in unsafe places, trembling with fear, and some lay clutching their bite wounds, awaiting the inevitable embrace of death. Darkness enveloped New York, a once-thriving metropolis now eerily silent. Amidst the steel jungle, occasional faint glimmers of light hinted at survivors. Zombies, typically more subdued at night, only occasionally let out guttural growls. Vincent believed that everything could be explained by science. If something defied current scientific understanding, it was merely a limitation of our technology. Zombies, though a freak occurrence, were no exception. A virus that killed and then "revived" its hosts through some mysterious mechanism. Zombies weren''t alive in the traditional sense, yet they weren''t entirely dead either. Dead things don''t move, so perhaps "the living dead" was an apt term¡ªcreatures caught between life and death. According to the law of energy conservation, zombies must be consuming something to sustain their movement and aggression. It was logical to assume they fed on the flesh of other creatures, including humans. Their nocturnal stillness might be a form of rest, conserving whatever energy they had left. Vincent wasn''t sure; he could only speculate. Inside a clothing store''s second floor, windows and doors were tightly shut, curtains drawn. A single desk lamp cast a dim, yellowish glow over the room. The group huddled around a coffee table, making final preparations. Their arsenal was modest: a five-shot revolver, a fire axe, a half-meter-long wrench, and two large kitchen knives. Vincent''s surgical tools, stashed in his backpack, were the exception. After arranging their makeshift bedding with soft clothes and placing weapons within easy reach, they lay down, fully clothed, ready to flee at a moment''s notice. The night grew still. Vincent and Manuela lay in a corner, cushioned by thick layers of clothing. Manuela, her hair disheveled, nestled in the crook of Vincent''s arm, deep in sleep. Suddenly, Vincent''s eyes snapped open, a scalpel appearing in his right hand. His gaze sharpened, then softened. "What''s wrong?" he whispered, lowering the scalpel. "I''m scared alone. Can I sleep here?" A pair of bright eyes peered at him in the dark. It was Christina, clutching a pile of clothes. She had been sleeping on the sofa. "You''re scared?" Vincent chuckled. "Yes," Christina nodded earnestly, quickly laying out her clothes beside him and curling up. "Let''s sleep. I''m so tired." "Sleep," Vincent murmured, closing his eyes. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. The night passed uneventfully. At 6:30 the next morning, sunlight filtered through the curtains, illuminating the room. Vincent stirred, feeling something tickle his chin. He looked down to find Christina nestled in his arms, fast asleep. On his other side, Manuela sprawled awkwardly, half on the floor, half on their makeshift bed. "Hey, Christina, wake up," Vincent gently shook her. Christina jolted awake, her body tense, then relaxed. "Hi," she said, looking up at him. Vincent smiled and tilted his head. "Sorry," Christina quickly sat up, moving away. "It''s fine," Vincent said, pulling a scalpel from beneath the clothes. He stood, clapping his hands. "Everyone, time to get up. We''ve got a long day ahead." One by one, the group roused themselves. Vincent was already at the coffee table, rummaging through a bag of food. "Let''s eat. We leave in half an hour." In the corner, Manuela eyed Christina, who was also just waking up. "Why are you sleeping here?" "I was scared," Christina offered weakly. "Really?" Manuela muttered, standing and brushing her hair, her eyes lingering on Christina. "What''s wrong?" Christina asked, standing as well. "Nothing," Manuela smiled, giving Christina one last glance before heading to the sofa. May 22, 2025, 7:00 AM. "Ready?" Vincent zipped up his leather jacket and turned to the group. Seeing their nervous nods, he yanked open the clothing store''s back door. "Quick, everyone, move!" he shouted. Old Mike, the driver, was the first out, scrambling to start the van parked in the alley. Despite his age, he was spry, his slight beer belly barely slowing him down as he clambered through the window. The alley was eerily empty, thanks to Vincent''s earlier diversion. But the noise of their escape would soon draw the undead. The group moved swiftly, piling into the van as the first zombies began to close in. Within a minute, everyone was inside. Zombies surrounded the van, pounding on its sides. Some even tried to climb onto the roof. "Go!" Vincent slammed the van''s sliding door shut. Old Mike hit the gas, reversing into the alley and plowing through a couple of zombies before spinning the wheel and speeding off. The van roared down the street, blasting death metal from its speakers. Old Mike, a former rock enthusiast, seemed energized by the music, bobbing his head as he drove. Laura, sitting beside him, frowned at the noise but said nothing. The music wasn''t for enjoyment¡ªit was a distraction, a way to lure the zombies away. They raced through the streets, heading for Walnut Avenue, where the gun shop was located. The once-bustling commercial street was now a graveyard of abandoned cars, blood, and dismembered limbs. Zombies roamed, their blackened teeth and blood-red eyes a stark contrast to their tattered, bloodstained clothes. As the van turned onto Walnut Avenue, the sheer number of zombies became apparent. Thousands of them filled the street, drawn by the van''s noise and music. "Damn, that''s a lot," Vincent muttered, leaning forward between the front seats. The van slowed, zombies closing in from all sides. The sound of their pounding fists echoed through the vehicle. "Wait, just a little longer," Vincent urged, his eyes fixed on the approaching horde. A crack appeared in the side window near Manuela, who screamed and clutched her knife, pressing closer to Christina. The zombies were almost upon them, the van shaking under their assault. "Now!" Vincent slapped Old Mike''s seat. The van lurched backward, then spun in a tight circle, flinging zombies in all directions. With a roar of the engine, it shot forward, leaving the horde behind. They sped down Walnut Avenue, the music still blaring. The plan was working¡ªthe zombies were following, drawn away from their target. As the van reached a quieter street, Vincent and Jason hopped out, armed with a scalpel and an axe, respectively. They quickly dispatched the few zombies nearby before jumping back into the van. The horde was now fully committed to the chase, leaving Walnut Avenue nearly deserted. The gun shop was within reach. "Let''s move!" Vincent ordered as the van sped off, leaving the zombies far behind. The dangerous game had begun, and they were playing for their lives. Chapter 17: Robbie the Gunslinger Vincent''s plan was simple yet daring: lure the zombies away from Walnut Avenue, lead them in a loop, and then double back to enter the gun shop from the east. As the Ford van sped through the streets, Vincent glanced out the window at the receding horde. "Kill the music," he instructed Old Mike. The van veered left onto another street, then left again onto Fourth Avenue, connecting to Walnut Avenue''s eastern intersection. By now, the massive zombie horde had dispersed along Maylay Street, some drawn back toward Walnut Avenue by the van''s noise. The van screeched to a halt outside the gun shop. "Move, move!" Vincent barked. The group piled out, slamming the doors shut. Jason, axe in hand, made quick work of the shop''s roll-up door lock. They lifted the door just enough to slip inside, then yanked it shut behind them, breathing a collective sigh of relief as zombies pounded against the metal barrier. Inside, motion-activated lights flickered on, revealing a gun enthusiast''s paradise. The shop, though modest by national standards, spanned over 300 square meters. Rows of shelves and glass cases displayed everything from compact revolvers to heavy machine guns, with a special section for rare antique firearms. "Stick to lightweight, high-capacity weapons with fast rates of fire. And don''t forget silencers for the handguns," Vincent whispered. The group fanned out, carefully selecting their arsenal. They couldn''t afford to be weighed down, so every choice mattered. Meanwhile, two blocks away on Elm Street, a familiar group was in dire straits. Vincent would have recognized them ¨C the "Sea Sharks" gang, led by black boss Jordan, whom Vincent had operated on in a basement bar six weeks prior. Among them was Robbie, the gang''s top marksman, recently out of his bandages, his brother Doug, and two low-ranking members, Arthur and Anthony. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Their escape had hit a snag. Elm Street, a narrow, aging residential road, was clogged with abandoned vehicles, forcing them to continue on foot. Zombies closed in from all sides. "Move it!" Jordan shouted, firing his twin pistols as he ran. The others followed, with Doug bringing up the rear. "Ah! Damn it, get off!" Doug''s scream pierced the air, followed by a rapid series of gunshots. Robbie spun around to see his brother clutching a bleeding shoulder, emptying his clip into an already dead zombie. "Doug, what the hell are you doing? Let''s go!" Robbie yelled, sprinting back. As he ran, his pistols barked seven times ¨C seven headshots, the farthest target nearly 40 meters away. Even under pressure, Robbie''s accuracy was terrifying. "I''m done for, Robbie! I''m bitten!" Doug wailed, still firing at the corpse. Robbie dragged him away, but not before Doug emptied another clip into the dead zombie. "It''s dead already! Go! I''ll cover you!" Robbie shouted, his pistols blazing. Zombies fell left and right, but more kept coming. The gunfire was drawing every undead creature in the neighborhood. On the other side of the street, Jordan and the others had broken into a small auto repair shop. "Robbie! Hurry up!" Jordan yelled, firing at the approaching horde. Inside the shop, Arthur panicked. "There''s too many! If we don''t shut the door now¨C" "Damn it!" Jordan cursed. With a final glance at the oncoming wave, he yanked the roll-up door shut. "Hey! What are you doing? Robbie''s still out there!" Doug''s muffled protest came from inside as the door slammed. Robbie heard the metallic clatter of the door closing. He turned, disbelief etched on his face as he realized what had happened. The others had vanished, leaving him alone on the street ¨C the sole target for hundreds of ravenous zombies. His pistols clicked empty. Robbie stood his ground, surrounded by the shambling horde, his fate hanging in the balance. Chapter 18: The Encounter What is despair? Despair is being alone, surrounded by a horde of zombies, running out of ammunition, and teetering on the brink of death. It''s the kind of situation that leaves no room for hope because death feels inevitable. Robbie, a gangland sharpshooter with nerves of steel, was no stranger to high-pressure situations. Like Vincent, he possessed a steely resolve, a survival instinct honed in the crucible of the apocalypse. Even as panic threatened to take hold, he remained outwardly calm, his focus razor-sharp. *Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!...* Robbie''s weapon of choice was the Beretta 92F, a pistol that had replaced the M1911A1 as the standard sidearm for the U.S. military in 1987. Its widespread adoption had made it a common sight in civilian hands as well. Robbie''s reloads were lightning-fast. Each M9 magazine held 15 rounds, and in just three minutes, he had emptied seven of them. Now, with only two magazines left¡ªboth nearly spent¡ªhe had already taken down over a hundred zombies. But the horde seemed endless. The street was filling up with undead. Though slower than humans, their relentless advance from all directions was closing in. Robbie''s strategy was to shoot a path through the zombies, creating a temporary gap to escape through. But each time he broke free, the horde would regroup, forcing him to repeat the process. If only he had enough firepower, he might have been able to break through before the zombies fully converged. But now, his options were dwindling. "*Huff... huff...*" Robbie panted, his breath ragged. The street wasn''t long¡ªonly about half a kilometer¡ªbut his zigzagging path, dodging and weaving, was exhausting. The zombies were relentless. His left M9 ran dry first. Without hesitation, Robbie hurled the empty pistol at an oncoming zombie, just as Vincent had done before. Carrying a useless gun was a liability, and trying to use it as a melee weapon against zombies was suicidal. A true gunslinger avoids hand-to-hand combat at all costs¡ªunless necessary. "You filthy bastards!" Robbie cursed, firing off the last rounds from his remaining pistol. His eyes darted to a parked car outside a small caf¨¦¡ªa pristine General Motors sedan, untouched by the chaos. Its owner was likely either dead or turned. Robbie knew how to hotwire a car, but the zombies wouldn''t give him the time. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. "Damn it!" he muttered, hesitating. He was down to his last bullet¡ªa gunslinger''s instinct told him exactly how many rounds he had left. "Go to hell, all of you!" Robbie shouted, charging forward. Instead of firing, he shoved a zombie aside and leaped into the air, twisting mid-jump to face the car. Bang! His final bullet struck the car''s gas tank. The explosion was deafening, shattering windows and sending shrapnel flying in all directions. Robbie hit the ground, covering his head as the blast wave rolled over him. The nearest zombies were obliterated, their bodies set ablaze by the fireball. Shards of metal tore through the horde, dropping dozens in an instant. Robbie''s ears rang, his vision blurred. The world seemed to sway as he struggled to his feet, the zombies'' growls muffled and distant. Meanwhile, a battered Ford van barreled down the street, its windshield wipers struggling to keep up with the splatter of zombie gore. Inside, six survivors sat surrounded by an arsenal: pistols, assault rifles, and a couple of shotguns. They had also stocked up on ammunition¡ªsmall black bags filled with bullets of various calibers. While the weight of the guns was a concern, bullets were relatively light. A thousand rounds of 9mm ammunition weighed only about 15 kilograms¡ªa manageable load for short periods. Vincent, seated in the middle row, fiddled with a Colt 2000 pistol. Over the roar of the engine and the zombies'' cries, he thought he heard something. "Gunfire. Up ahead," he said, his voice tense. "Lots of it," Jason agreed, setting down his AK-47 to listen. "Must be on Elm Street. We''re heading that way. Should we detour?" Old Mike asked from the driver''s seat. "We''re low on fuel." "Go straight through," Vincent ordered, swapping his Colt for an M16. He preferred smaller calibers for zombies¡ªa 5.56mm round was just as effective as a 12.7mm when it came to headshots, and far less wasteful. Still, he had grabbed a Barrett M82A1 sniper rifle from the shop, along with over a hundred rounds of ammunition. It wasn''t for show¡ªhe had a specific purpose in mind. As the van approached the northern intersection of Elm Street, Vincent frowned. "The gunfire''s drawing more zombies," he muttered. Just as they were about to cross, he spotted something. "Stop! Stop the car!" he shouted, pounding on the back of Old Mike''s seat. "I know that guy!" Through the chaos, Vincent had seen Robbie. But the roar of the horde drowned out the sound of the approaching van, and Robbie hadn''t noticed them yet. "Everyone down! Cover your ears!" Vincent yelled, his voice urgent. BOOM! The car outside the caf¨¦ exploded, the shockwave rippling through the street. Chapter 19: The Rush to Walmart In the post-apocalyptic world, the cardinal rule of survival is clear: never be a naive do-gooder. Vincent, a man of calculated calm, harbors a fierce will to survive. This drive pushes him to extremes, often casting him in a cold, unfeeling light. Perhaps he isn''t inherently heartless, but the harsh realities force him to adopt a steely demeanor. However, Vincent is no longer a lone wolf; he needs allies to navigate this treacherous landscape. Cooperation is key, and Vincent has subtly assumed a leadership role. To maintain this position, he must temper his coldness, as excessive detachment breeds mistrust. People would fear that Vincent might sacrifice them for his survival. While Vincent knows he wouldn''t, the perception alone is dangerous. Thus, Vincent must strike a balance¡ªremaining composed but not cold-hearted. He must make decisions, weigh pros and cons, and avoid outright rejection. He had established three rules with his group, the foremost being: never be a naive do-gooder! What if they encounter other survivors in distress? If the zombies are few, lend a hand; if they are many, flee. Even if the person dies, it''s not their fault¡ªthe zombies are the true evil. Under normal circumstances, if the person on Oak Street weren''t Robbie, Vincent''s group wouldn''t have stopped. Oak Street teems with zombies, and Vincent''s large group is a conspicuous target. Risking their safety to save a stranger isn''t worth it, even if there were ten of them. The life of a familiar face outweighs a hundred strangers. Vincent knows Robbie. They''ve crossed paths multiple times, and recently, Vincent even saved him. Vincent is familiar with Robbie''s exceptional marksmanship, a skill that makes him a valuable ally in a world devoid of government or military protection, where zombies and danger lurk everywhere. Adding a sharpshooter to their ranks significantly boosts their safety. After a violent car explosion, Robbie lies on the ground, his back slightly scraped but not fatally wounded. The blast leaves him with severe tinnitus and dizziness. His vision blurs, and exhaustion overwhelms him. Just before passing out, he hears the screech of tires and the distinct sounds of gunfire¡ªAK-47s and M16s. "Quick, he''s out cold." "Grab him and let''s move, no time to waste!" These are the last words Robbie hears before losing consciousness. Robbie doesn''t know how long he''s been out. He feels as though he''s on a small boat in a stormy sea, the vessel rocking violently. The car''s jolting motion rouses Robbie briefly. He sees Vincent, his vision still doubled, but Vincent''s distinctive features are unmistakable. Robbie realizes he''s in a car, surrounded by strangers. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. "Doc..." Thud! Robbie barely utters the word before the car jolts again, slamming his head against the seat. The impact, minor under normal circumstances, is too much for his weakened state, and he blacks out once more. "Jason, hold him down. I don''t want him dying on us," Vincent frowns, glancing over Robbie at Jason. "Got it," Jason replies with a casual nod. "Mike, how much farther?" Vincent shoots Jason a stern look before tapping the driver''s seat. "Two blocks!" Mike answers, glancing at Robbie in the rearview mirror. The others in the car also eye Robbie curiously, wondering why Vincent risked their safety and ammunition to save a man who might already have been dead. The car speeds through unfamiliar streets. Vincent isn''t well-acquainted with Brooklyn; he works in Manhattan and rarely ventures out at night unless for emergencies. His knowledge of Brooklyn is limited to the red-light districts controlled by gangs. Their destination is the only Walmart in Brooklyn, located on Second Avenue in the west. Walmart, the world''s largest retailer, has struggled to establish a presence in New York City, but this particular store opened in January, spanning four floors and nearly 30,000 square meters, including an underground parking lot. Vincent''s plan involves heading to Walmart after securing weapons for three reasons. First, Walmart is a massive repository of supplies. With production halted post-apocalypse, pre-made goods are essential for survival, and supermarkets are the best source. Second, Vincent believes Walmart is relatively safe. The store opens at 8 AM, and the outbreak occurred around 7 AM, meaning there were no customers inside. However, night guards and early staff would have been present, so some zombies are likely inside. But Walmart''s reinforced glass windows are hard to break, offering temporary safety once inside. Third, the underground parking lot is crucial. Functional vehicles are lifelines, and their current Ford is too cramped and unreliable for long-term use. As the Ford speeds down the street, Walmart''s massive sign comes into view. The area is surprisingly clear of zombies, contrary to Vincent''s expectation that others might have already sought refuge there, drawing zombies. But he overlooks that only two days have passed since the outbreak, and most survivors are still hiding at home. Few have the courage or means to venture out like Vincent''s group. Approaching Walmart, the road widens, and the zombie density thins. The car moves more smoothly. "Get ready!" Vincent shoulders five rifles and several bags of pistols and ammunition, totaling over 30 kilograms. His physical condition allows him to carry this load temporarily. The others follow suit, arming themselves while Mike drives. Screech! Thirty meters from the glass doors, the Ford halts abruptly due to the store''s steps and shopping cart barriers. Vincent''s group leaps out. Mike, armed with a shotgun, blasts a zombie''s head and grabs two bags of ammunition before sprinting toward the store. Vincent and Jason drag the unconscious Robbie out, pistols in hand, with Mannila and Christine close behind. Laura, the better shot, covers the rear. They fight their way toward the store. The scattered zombies pose little threat, and the group reaches the doors without major incident. "Damn it, the doors are locked from the inside!" Mike shouts. Logically, the store should have been preparing to open at 7 AM, with staff inside. The locked doors suggest survivors within. Chapter 20: Entering the Fortress "Hey! Anyone in there? Hey!" Bang! Bang! Bang! Outside the Walmart, Old Mike pounded on the glass doors, shouting into the void. He was certain that if anyone was inside, they''d have heard the car and gunfire. The others fought their way back to Mike, the street now swarming with zombies drawn by the noise. If they could get inside and up to the second floor quickly, the zombies would lose interest, their frenzy subsiding, sparing the glass from a relentless assault. They could, of course, shoot their way in¡ªthe tempered glass, though sturdy, wasn''t bulletproof. But that would be folly; shattered glass would invite the horde inside, rendering the supermarket unsafe. No, they needed a smarter approach. The street''s initial zombie population was manageable, but time was running out. They needed inside, now. "Hey! Anyone there? Open up!" "Please, help us! Open the door!" They banged on the glass, peering inside to see the door handles chained and padlocked¡ªa clear sign of human activity within. The growing zombie numbers demanded swift action. If no one answered, they''d have to leave, but their Ford was nearly out of fuel. Alternatively, they could search for another entrance, though it was likely secured as well. As Vincent hesitated, footsteps echoed from within. A young black man, clad in a blood-spattered Walmart uniform and a cap, emerged from a side corridor, a revolver in hand. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. "Stop banging! You''re drawing them here! Go away!" he yelled, visibly shaken. "Open the door, please!" Mannila pleaded, her body pressed against the glass. The man hesitated, then turned and fled back down the corridor. "Hey!" Vincent grabbed Mike''s shotgun, aiming it at the glass. "Open up, or I''ll blow the door! Three... two..." "Coming, coming!" The man scrambled back, discarding his revolver and fumbling with a key ring. "Don''t shoot! I''m coming!" The zombies'' growls grew louder, their numbers swelling. The group watched anxiously as the man struggled with the locks, each second feeling like an eternity. Finally, the door creaked open, and they surged inside. "You almost got us killed!" Jason, usually laid-back but now furious, shoved his gun into the man''s face. The man raised his hands, stammering apologies as Vincent and Mannila carried the unconscious Robbie deeper into the store. Laura and Mike secured the door behind them, the reinforced glass holding¡ªfor now. Jason, still seething, reluctantly lowered his gun at Laura''s urging. He picked up the discarded revolver, shooting the man a final glare before following the others. Robbie awoke with a start, disoriented, his body aching. He found himself in a vast supermarket, the Walmart logo confirming his location. Nearby, Jason lounged on a checkout counter, munching on chocolate. "Hi, I''m Jason," he greeted Robbie with unexpected cheer, offering a hand. Robbie, still dazed, shook it weakly. Before he could speak, Jason called out, "Vincent, he''s awake!" Vincent, who had been reluctantly dragged on a shopping spree by Mannila and Christine, hurried over. "Hey, doc," Robbie managed, gratitude in his voice. "Don''t mention it. Stay still," Vincent replied, checking Robbie for signs of infection. Satisfied, he handed Robbie two pistols. "Take these." Robbie accepted them, still processing everything. "Doc..." "Meet everyone first. We''ll talk later," Vincent said, clapping Robbie on the shoulder. The group had found temporary refuge, but their survival was far from assured. Chapter 21: Robbies Impulse In the heart of Brooklyn, within the sprawling confines of the Walmart superstore, the group had found temporary refuge. Unlike typical supermarkets where groceries dominate the first floor, this Walmart had flipped the script¡ªbranded clothing, watches, and jewelry occupied the ground level, while the food section was strategically placed on the second floor. Eight escalators bridged the two levels, a testament to the store''s customer-centric design. From the entrance, only a portion of the first floor was visible, allowing Vincent''s group to move discreetly, avoiding the gaze of any lurking zombies. On the second floor, amidst a vast array of food items ranging from basic eggs to high-end nutritional supplements, the group had carved out a small clearing by rearranging some shelves. Old Mike sat on a chair, meticulously cleaning his barely-used shotgun, while Laura, his wife, toyed with an M9 pistol. Despite their age, they had no choice but to adapt, their survival hinging on their ability to handle weapons. Nearby, a pile of firearms and ammunition weighed over a hundred kilograms¡ªfar too much for anyone to carry alone. Leaning against a shelf, a despondent young black man in a bloodstained Walmart uniform sat in silence. Before Vincent''s group arrived, he had been the sole survivor in the store, the others either turned into zombies or killed by the infected security guard whose revolver he had taken¡ªnow in Jason''s possession. "Everyone''s here, perfect," Vincent announced as he led the group over. "Let me introduce Robbie," he said, gesturing to the newcomer. He then proceeded to introduce the others: "This is Mike, his wife Laura, Mannila here, Christine¡ªdon''t let her mature look fool you, she''s only sixteen¡ªand Jason, whom I''m sure you''ve already met." "Hi, Robbie!" "Hey!" After the introductions, Vincent turned to the young man. "And this guy... we just met him. He let us in. I don''t know his name." "Bovin," the man muttered, lifting his head briefly before slumping back into his despair. Vincent had noticed his hopelessness from the start¡ªhis refusal to change out of his bloodied clothes spoke volumes. Bovin''s initial reluctance to let them in wasn''t out of malice but sheer terror. His fear had paralyzed him, a stark contrast to Jason''s unshakable optimism. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. Vincent, ever the observer, believed Bovin wasn''t a bad person¡ªjust overwhelmed by fear. "Jason," Vincent called, pulling the young man aside for a quick conversation. Jason initially resisted but eventually nodded, clearing his throat as if preparing for a performance. Vincent then led Robbie away for a private talk, leaving the others behind. "What''s your plan?" Vincent asked bluntly, biting into an apple. "First, tell me what happened," Robbie replied, pointing to his bandaged wounds. "How did I end up here?" Vincent recounted the events succinctly, finishing with, "We''re planning to gather supplies, find a car in the parking lot, and head to the countryside. I''d like you to come with us. You know why I saved you. If you join us, we can stay here a few more days until your wounds heal." Robbie fell silent, then suddenly asked, "How long has it been since you rescued me?" "Just past noon, so about five hours," Vincent replied, checking his watch. "I need to leave," Robbie declared, pulling out his gun and heading for the exit. He stopped abruptly, turning back. "Can I have more ammo?" Vincent frowned. "What are you planning?" "My brother... he was bitten. I need to check on him. He can''t die," Robbie said urgently. Vincent hesitated, then gestured toward the pile of weapons. "Take what you need." Robbie rushed to the ammo stash, grabbing several magazines for his M9 pistol. He opted against a rifle, preferring the flexibility of a handgun for close-quarters combat. As Robbie dashed toward the exit, Vincent called after him, "Take the underground parking lot¡ªfewer zombies, and there are cars there!" The others watched in confusion as Robbie disappeared. Vincent explained, "He''s going back for his brother." Vincent chose not to involve the entire group. The risk outweighed the potential reward¡ªRobbie''s brother was likely already dead or turned. Sending everyone into a zombie-infested area for a slim chance of saving one person wasn''t worth it. Vincent felt a pang of disappointment; Robbie, a skilled marksman, had acted impulsively, jeopardizing his survival. Five minutes later, Vincent stood by a second-floor window, watching a car speed out of the underground parking lot. He felt a twinge of regret, wondering if he should have stopped Robbie. "Aren''t you going to help him?" Mannila asked, joining him by the window. Vincent stroked the stubble on his chin, silent. Chapter 22: A Desperate Gamble Brooklyn, New York ¨C Oak Street North Intersection. The roar of a sports car engine grew louder, cutting through the eerie silence of the abandoned streets. Thousands of zombies, drawn by the noise, began to converge, their guttural groans filling the air like a macabre symphony. The undead horde was alive with movement, a sea of decaying bodies surging toward the source of the sound. Moments later, a sleek yellow Chevrolet Camaro with black racing stripes tore through the intersection. The car, famously known as the "people''s sports car" in the States and immortalized as Bumblebee in the *Transformers* movies, was a blur of speed and power. Behind the wheel was Robbie, the gang''s sharpshooter, pushing the car to its limits. With a top speed of 250 kilometers per hour, the Camaro was his best shot at outrunning the nightmare closing in around him. *Bang! Bang! Bang!* After crossing the intersection, Robbie slammed on the brakes, sending the car into a controlled skid. The tires screeched as the Camaro spun sideways, coming to a halt in the middle of the road. Robbie popped open the sunroof, stood up, and fired several shots into the air. The unsuppressed gunshots echoed through the surrounding blocks, a deliberate act to draw even more zombies. He ducked back inside, closed the sunroof, and slammed the accelerator, rocketing the car eastward at breakneck speed. Using gunfire to lure zombies was a high-stakes gamble. The noise would attract them from all directions, creating a tightening noose around him. But Robbie had no choice. Time was running out, and every second counted. The Camaro, while fast, was ill-suited for the post-apocalyptic terrain. Its low clearance made it vulnerable to the debris and corpses littering the streets. A single misstep could send the car flipping, leaving him at the mercy of the horde. Robbie had chosen the Camaro over more practical vehicles like SUVs or sedans for one reason: speed. If there had been an Aston Martin in the parking lot, he would have taken it without hesitation. Every minute saved increased the slim chance of saving his brother, Dog. The Camaro raced down the street, zombies swarming behind it. The car''s speed was both a blessing and a curse. While it outpaced the zombies, the low chassis made every bump and corpse a potential disaster. The car shuddered violently, threatening to fall apart as Robbie white-knuckled the steering wheel. After barreling down another block, Robbie slammed the brakes again, executing a sharp drift to a stop in the middle of an intersection. He popped back out of the sunroof, dual-wielding pistols. His marksmanship was on full display as he picked off zombies with precise headshots. After emptying multiple magazines, he ducked back inside, reloading with practiced efficiency. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. The continuous gunfire drew zombies from nearby streets, including Elm Street, just a block away. The horde closed in, surrounding the Camaro. Their gnarled hands pounded on the car''s body, their blood-red eyes filled with frenzied hunger. The windshield cracked under the assault, moments from shattering. Robbie remained calm, his focus unwavering as he reloaded. He knew the gunfire had done its job, drawing most of the zombies from Elm Street. The car''s windows were now under siege, and the windshield finally gave way, a zombie crashing through and landing in the passenger seat. Robbie didn''t flinch. He fired a single shot, blowing the zombie''s head off, then glanced at his arm. His earlier wounds had scabbed over, and though splattered with zombie blood, he felt confident he wasn''t infected. Suddenly, the car jolted violently as it ran over several zombie corpses. The impact sent the Camaro airborne for a brief moment before it crashed back down, shattering all the windows. Robbie gritted his teeth, maintaining control as he accelerated. With one hand on the wheel, he used the other to fire at zombies ahead, ensuring they didn''t crash through the broken windshield. The situation was deteriorating faster than Robbie had anticipated. He cursed under his breath as he navigated the debris-strewn streets, dodging abandoned cars while scanning the buildings for landmarks. Soon, he swerved into a narrow alley, barely wide enough for the Camaro. Zombies continued their relentless pursuit. The alley was a gamble. If an abandoned vehicle blocked the path, Robbie would be forced to abandon the car. But he had no choice¡ªthis was the fastest route to Elm Street. The Camaro was already battered, its lights and mirrors shattered, its body dented and smeared with gore. Robbie''s expression hardened as he spotted a small delivery truck parked against the wall ahead. The gap beside it was just wide enough for the Camaro, but it would require precision driving. Any misstep could send the car careening into the truck, flipping it. In a daring move, Robbie accelerated and opened the driver''s side door. The Camaro scraped past the truck, the door tearing off with a loud crash. Robbie quickly gathered his weapons and ammunition, then, in a heart-stopping maneuver, leaped from the moving car. The Camaro was still speeding when Robbie jumped, tucking and rolling to absorb the impact. He came up with only minor scrapes, his training evident in his controlled landing. He holstered his pistols, slung the ammo bag over his shoulder, and sprinted toward a nearby wall. The alley was lined with the backs of old buildings, some with rear doors too far to reach in time. Robbie ran at the wall, using his momentum to launch himself upward. He grabbed the edge of a second-floor window, punched through the glass, and hauled himself inside. He landed hard on the cold floor of an empty room, gasping for breath. The sound of zombies outside grew louder, but Robbie knew the Camaro''s final act would buy him time. *Boom!* The car, now driverless, crashed into a corner of the alley, sparks flying as it scraped along the wall. It flipped, landing with a deafening crash before exploding in a fiery blast. Robbie lay still, listening. The explosion would drown out any noise he had made. For now, he was safe¡ªbut the real challenge lay ahead. Chapter 23: The Barrett M82A1 Brooklyn, New York ¨C Rooftop of Walmart Supercenter. The wind howled across the rooftop, carrying with it the stench of decay. Vincent leaned against the railing, the Barrett M82A1 sniper rifle resting on the edge. He wasn¡¯t handling it yet, though. Instead, he was scrolling through his phone, searching for something. ¡°Hi!¡± A sweet, slightly hesitant voice called out from behind him. Vincent¡¯s left hand, which had been gripping a pistol, relaxed. He¡¯d heard footsteps but couldn¡¯t place them until he heard the voice. It was Christine, the teenage girl. ¡°Hi,¡± Vincent replied, standing up straight and slipping his phone into his pocket. He turned to face her, his brow furrowing as he took in her appearance. Christine had changed her outfit. She now wore a pair of low-rise pink shorts that barely reached her thighs, paired with a white belt. Her legs were mostly exposed, and she¡¯d paired the look with light-colored flats. Her white T-shirt was tied at the waist, revealing her flat stomach and a tattoo on her side. Her hair, once loose and wavy, was now styled into twin ponytails. She¡¯d also applied makeup, giving her a more mature look. Christine walked toward him, her hands in her pockets, swaying awkwardly. ¡°Do I look bad?¡± she asked, stopping abruptly and looking down at herself before glancing back up at Vincent with hopeful eyes. She smiled sweetly, brushing one of her ponytails aside. ¡°You¡¯re sixteen. Why are you dressed like that? Go change,¡± Vincent said, his tone firm. He wasn¡¯t oblivious to her intentions, but he was eleven years her senior. To him, she was just a kid, and he had no interest in crossing that line. ¡°Oh, okay,¡± Christine muttered, her smile fading. She turned and walked back toward the stairwell, her shoulders slumped. She¡¯d hoped to impress him, but it was clear Vincent saw her as nothing more than a child. *Click-clack.* Just as Christine reached the stairs, the sound of high heels echoed from below. Mannila appeared, wearing a high-slit evening gown and stilettos. A black pistol was strapped to her exposed thigh, and two hunting knives hung from her belt. Her red lips and confident stride exuded both sensuality and danger. ¡°Hi, Christine,¡± Mannila greeted as she passed the girl. ¡°Hi,¡± Christine replied softly, her voice barely audible. Mannila stopped about ten meters from Vincent, striking a pose and twirling for him. ¡°Well? What do you think?¡± she asked with a smirk. ¡°Cool,¡± Vincent replied with a smile. Mannila sauntered over, her eyes gleaming with amusement. She leaned in close, her hand gently caressing Vincent¡¯s cheek. ¡°Just cool?¡± she whispered, her lips curling into a sly smile. ¡°Very beautiful,¡± Vincent admitted, his voice softening. He leaned in, their noses brushing before their lips met in a deep kiss. Christine stood frozen at the stairwell, watching the scene unfold. She glanced down at herself, her disappointment deepening. Without a word, she turned and hurried down the stairs. ¡°That kid¡¯s got a crush on you,¡± Mannila murmured as she pulled away, her body still pressed against Vincent¡¯s. She glanced toward the stairwell, her expression playful. ¡°I know,¡± Vincent replied with a shrug. ¡°And you¡¯re not tempted?¡± Mannila teased, tracing a finger down his chest. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°Tempted by what? She¡¯s a kid,¡± Vincent said, pulling her into another brief kiss. ¡°Go change. You can¡¯t run from zombies in that outfit.¡± ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll change in a bit,¡± Mannila said, stepping back. She walked over to the Barrett, running her hand along its sleek surface. ¡°So, you¡¯re playing with this?¡± she asked, crouching down and gripping the rifle with an awkward stance, peering through the scope. ¡°Yeah,¡± Vincent replied, pulling out his phone again. ¡°This thing¡¯s a beast. Took me forever to assemble it. I¡¯m looking up how to use it properly. The recoil¡¯s supposed to be brutal.¡± He¡¯d never handled a Barrett before, and he wasn¡¯t about to risk injuring himself by using it incorrectly. ¡°Google?¡± Mannila asked, still fiddling with the rifle. ¡°Yeah. Oh, and Mannila¡­¡± Vincent paused, looking up at her. ¡°What?¡± she asked, straightening up. ¡°Go downstairs and grab a few more phones. Download offline maps of the entire U.S. and stock up on batteries. Satellite signals might go down soon, and we need to be ready.¡± While the store had paper maps, they couldn¡¯t compare to the detail and satellite imagery of Google Maps. ¡°Got it,¡± Mannila said with a wink, blowing him a kiss before strutting back toward the stairs. Vincent spent a while longer on his phone, studying the instructions for the Barrett. Finally, he set the phone aside and approached the rifle. As a medical professional, he had a deep understanding of human anatomy, which helped him adopt the correct stance despite his lack of experience with firearms. The Barrett M82A1 was a beast of a weapon. With a total length of 1448 millimeters and weighing 12.9 kilograms, it was designed for power. It''s a ten-round magazine fired .50 BMG rounds with a muzzle velocity of 853 meters per second¡ªmore than twice the speed of sound. The rifle¡¯s effective range was 1850 meters, and its muzzle energy of 33,685 joules made it a formidable anti-materiel weapon. By comparison, the Desert Eagle, a powerful handgun, had a muzzle energy of just 3,750 joules. The Barrett wasn¡¯t just a sniper rifle; it was a tool for taking out vehicles, aircraft, and fortified positions. Vincent had chosen the Barrett for a specific purpose: to target cars. Zombies were mindless, driven by instinct rather than intelligence. Their strength lay in numbers and their infectious nature, which had contributed to humanity¡¯s rapid downfall. By using the Barrett to shoot cars or fuel trucks, Vincent could create explosions that would draw zombies away. The rifle¡¯s supersonic bullets meant the sound of the shot would arrive after the explosion, masking his position. Vincent loaded the rifle with M8 armor-piercing incendiary rounds, capable of penetrating 8 millimeters of steel at 1200 meters. He crouched behind the Barrett, peering through the scope. His target was a flipped car about a kilometer away, its body intact. Vincent took a deep breath, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. He held his position, steady as a statue, before finally squeezing the trigger. *Boom!* The rifle kicked back violently, the recoil slamming into Vincent¡¯s shoulder. The deafening shot echoed across the city, but the car in the distance remained untouched. Vincent sighed, rubbing his shoulder. He had no idea where the bullet had gone. --- Meanwhile, on Elm Street, inside a small auto repair shop, a group of survivors huddled in the dim light. Among them was Jondans, the gang leader, and his men. They¡¯d been lying low, too afraid to venture outside. The sound of a sports car and gunfire had passed by earlier, but they¡¯d stayed hidden, assuming it was just another desperate survivor. About half an hour later, the sound of muffled gunshots reached their ears. Jondans, who was inspecting his weapon, perked up. ¡°Someone¡¯s out there,¡± he muttered. ¡°Arthur, go check.¡± Arthur, one of his men, crept to the window and peered through a crack. ¡°It¡¯s Robbie!¡± he whispered, his voice filled with disbelief. ¡°Robbie?¡± Jondans rushed to the window, his face lighting up. ¡°It *is* him!¡± Robbie was his best marksman, and his return meant a better chance of survival. Outside, Robbie moved swiftly through the street, taking down zombies with silenced shots. The street was relatively clear, and the suppressor ensured he didn¡¯t attract more. The repair shop¡¯s shutter door rattled open, and Jondans waved frantically. ¡°Robbie! Over here!¡± Robbie sprinted inside, and the door slammed shut behind him. The few zombies nearby were already dead, and the others had lost interest. ¡°Where¡¯s my brother?¡± Robbie demanded, cutting Jondans off before he could speak. Jondans hesitated, his expression grim. ¡°Robbie¡­ Dog, he¡­¡± ¡°Where is he?¡± Robbie pressed, his voice sharp. Jondans gestured toward a dark corner of the shop. Robbie¡¯s heart sank as he approached the figure slumped against the wall. It was Dog, his younger brother. His shoulder bore the unmistakable mark of a zombie bite, and a single gunshot wound marred his forehead. ¡°He was bitten. We had no choice,¡± Jondans said quietly. Robbie knelt beside his brother, his hand trembling as he brushed Dog¡¯s cheek. He lifted Dog¡¯s eyelid¡ªbrown iris, white sclera. Dog hadn¡¯t turned. He¡¯d been killed before the infection could take hold. Robbie stood, his fists clenched, his eyes blazing with fury. ¡°Who did this?¡± he growled, his voice low and dangerous. Chapter 24: Christine and Mannila In the dimly lit auto repair shop, Robbie stood over Dog''s lifeless body, his voice low and hoarse. His back was turned to Jondans, the gang leader, hiding his expression. His hands rested on his hips, slowly drawing the two pistols he had holstered earlier. "Jondans, you killed Dog before he even turned?" Robbie''s voice was heavy with accusation. "Robbie... I... he was bitten..." Jondans stammered, realizing the gravity of the situation. He had indeed killed Dog before the infection could take hold. The moment the shutter door had closed, he had acted, unwilling to share the space with someone who was doomed to turn. He hadn¡¯t expected Robbie to return alive. Killing a bitten human and killing a zombie were two entirely different things. One was still a person; the other was already dead. And Dog wasn¡¯t just anyone¡ªhe was Robbie¡¯s younger brother, his only sibling. As Jondans tried to explain, he subtly signaled to his two henchmen, Arthur and Anthony. They understood, their eyes darting between Jondan''s and Robbie. Slowly, they raised their rifles, the barrels vaguely pointing in Robbie¡¯s direction. They knew what Robbie was capable of. Jondans had become the gang leader through money and connections, but Robbie had earned his place through sheer skill. His marksmanship and combat abilities were unmatched, even among New York¡¯s most notorious gangs. That¡¯s why rival factions had tried to eliminate him, leaving him severely injured and nearly dead. To them, Robbie was a threat. "Why didn¡¯t you give him a chance?" Robbie suddenly turned, his piercing gaze locking onto Jondans, who towered over him in both height and bulk. Both pistols were now fully drawn, and in the dim light, Robbie¡¯s eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Robbie... I..." Jondans took a step back, his hands raised in a feeble attempt to explain. "He might have had a chance! You could¡¯ve cut off his arm, or... or waited until he died before killing him. At least then he wouldn¡¯t have died in fear, knowing his people shot him. He wasn¡¯t a monster yet. Why couldn¡¯t you wait?" Robbie¡¯s voice cracked with emotion as he took a step forward. "Were you scared? So scared that you¡¯d betray the people closest to you just to save yourself?" Though Robbie¡¯s pistols were still pointed at the ground, his aggressive step forward was a clear warning. For a man of his skill, it was a prelude to violence. Arthur and Anthony, standing on either side, raised their rifles fully, aiming directly at Robbie¡¯s head. *Pfft!* Two shots rang out, but the sound was almost singular due to the suppressors on the pistols. Robbie stood with his arms extended, his gaze fixed on Jondans. His lips trembled, but no words came out. The weight of his grief was overwhelming. He had imagined Dog¡¯s death when he left the Walmart, but he never expected it to end like this. The repair shop fell into an eerie silence. Jondans stared at Robbie, his eyes wide with fear. *Thud! Thud!* Arthur and Anthony collapsed to the ground, their foreheads marked by single bullet holes. They were dead before they even realized what had happened. "Don¡¯t... don¡¯t do this, Robbie..." Jondans pleaded, sweat dripping down his forehead as he backed away. He had a gun on his hip, but he didn¡¯t dare reach for it. He knew Robbie too well. "Robbie, he was bitten, we couldn¡¯t¡ª" Meanwhile, back at the Walmart on Second Avenue, the atmosphere was starkly different. Jason was riding a stunt bike through the aisles, a music player clipped to his waist and Bluetooth headphones in his ears. He bobbed his head to the beat, carefree and oblivious. Christine, now dressed in a more casual outfit but still sporting her twin ponytails, sat in a secluded corner of the store, smoking a cigarette. Her expression was sullen, her mood down. Old Mike and Laura were inseparable, pushing a shopping cart through the aisles and stocking up on non-perishable, high-calorie foods. Bovin, the Walmart employee, remained slumped against a shelf, his demeanor unchanged despite Jason¡¯s earlier attempts to cheer him up. "Hey, hiding out here all alone? What¡¯s wrong, Christine?" Mannila approached, her single-strap backpack slung over her shoulder. She sat down beside Christine, tilting her head to study the girl. Christine glanced at Mannila but remained silent, her gaze dropping to the floor. Mannila reached out, gently brushing Christine¡¯s hair. "Come on, talk to me. You seem upset." Christine suddenly stood, ready to leave, but Mannila called after her, "Hey, Christine... do you like Vincent?" Christine froze, then slowly turned back and sat down. She stared at the shelves ahead, her voice barely above a whisper. "He doesn¡¯t like me." She glanced at Mannila out of the corner of her eye, gauging her reaction. After all, Mannila was the one currently with Vincent. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. "I envy girls your age," Mannila said with a smile, though her tone carried a deeper meaning. "So fearless in love. Did you have a boyfriend?" Christine shook her head, taking a drag from her cigarette before answering. "We broke up." "Are you still..." Mannila¡¯s expression turned playful as she gestured vaguely at Christine¡¯s body. "I am. I was going to... after graduation, but we split before that." Christine¡¯s tone was matter-of-fact. The open sexual education in the States made the conversation feel natural, especially between two women. "Ah," Mannila nodded, reaching for a pack of cookies leaning against the shelf. She opened it and popped one into her mouth before turning back to Christine. "Why do you think Vincent doesn¡¯t like you?" "He¡¯s not a typical American. He¡¯s got that Chinese mindset. He probably thinks I¡¯m too young. I¡¯m sixteen; he¡¯s twenty-seven. That¡¯s an eleven-year gap..." Christine trailed off. "Wrong," Mannila interrupted, wagging a finger. "Vincent¡¯s... different. Compared to most American men, he¡¯s..." She paused, tilting her head as if searching for the right words. "He¡¯s not tall¡ªif I wear heels, I¡¯m taller than him. He¡¯s not bulky, but he¡¯s handsome. The thing is, you can never tell what he¡¯s thinking. You know?" She patted Christine¡¯s shoulder. "When the outbreak first happened, he even considered leaving me behind. He thought I¡¯d just slow him down." "Really?" Christine looked at Mannila, surprised. "Absolutely," Mannila nodded. "Right before we met you guys, he told me he wouldn¡¯t help me escape. He saw me as a liability. But then... he saved me anyway. He¡¯s strange like that. He says one thing but does another." Mannila leaned back, licking cookie crumbs from her lips. "You know what I used to do? Before all this?" Christine shook her head. "Guess." "Office worker? Sales clerk? Model?" Christine threw out several guesses, but Mannila kept shaking her head. Finally, Christine gave up. "I don¡¯t know." "Streetwalker," Mannila said bluntly, her tone indifferent. Christine¡¯s eyes widened, but Mannila continued before she could respond. "Vincent and I lived in the same old apartment building. We were neighbors for two years, barely spoke. I had no idea what he did for a living¡ªjust assumed he was some office worker. When the outbreak happened, I ran out of my apartment half-naked. He saved me, then told me he wouldn¡¯t help me escape because he thought I was just a useless streetwalker." Mannila paused, chewing another cookie. "But when he ran out, I followed him. I got into trouble, and he saved me again. After that, we hid in a convenience store, and he tried to leave me behind again. But I stuck with him, and eventually, we ended up with you guys." She turned to Christine, her expression serious. "Vincent knows exactly who I am¡ªwhat I used to do. He knows I slept with countless men, did things I¡¯m not proud of. But now... he wouldn¡¯t abandon me. He might not love me, but he¡¯s accepted me. Why do you think that is?" Christine shook her head, unsure. "Because I was brave," Mannila said with a smile. "When I saved you, and after Vincent killed Andrew, something changed. He saw me as more than just a liability. I think that¡¯s what you need to show him¡ªthat you¡¯re more than just a pretty face. You¡¯re young, yes, but you¡¯re not a child. If Vincent saw that in you, he might see you differently." As Mannila finished speaking, Vincent¡¯s voice interrupted from the end of the aisle. "What are you two talking about?" He held a handful of medical supplies, his expression curious. Christine panicked, quickly shoving the half-smoked cigarette into Mannila¡¯s mouth and grabbing the cookies from her hand. She forced a smile, her heart racing. Vincent had caught her smoking, something he¡¯d explicitly told her not to do. "Girl talk," Mannila said smoothly, taking a drag from the cigarette. "We¡¯re discussing bras. Want to join?" "Carry on," Vincent said with a shrug, turning to leave. Once he was gone, Christine looked at Mannila, her expression a mix of gratitude and confusion. "Why did you tell me all that?" Mannila simply smiled, not answering. She reached into her backpack and pulled out a walkie-talkie, handing it to Christine. "Keep this on. We need to stay in touch." That had been her original purpose for finding Christine¡ªdistributing the walkie-talkies Vincent had requested. But the conversation had taken a different turn. Just as Mannila handed the walkie-talkie to Christine, the sound of a diesel engine roared outside. A small truck plowed through the zombie horde, heading straight for the Walmart. The noise was unmistakable, and everyone inside the store froze. "Someone¡¯s here!" Vincent shouted, rushing to the window with a pair of binoculars. He scanned the scene outside before turning to the group. "It¡¯s Robbie! We need to let him in!" Chapter 25: Rapid Rescue "Quick, everyone grab your guns!" Vincent shouted, sprinting toward the center of the second floor. While everyone already carried handguns, except for Old Mike, who had a shotgun, the rifles were all stored in the middle of the supermarket. "Jason, grab a megaphone! And don¡¯t forget the batteries¡ªhurry!" Vincent suddenly remembered, yelling at Jason, who was still riding his bike. The megaphones, being electronic devices, were located on the third floor. "Got it, boss!" Jason replied, never missing a chance to be cheeky. He saluted Vincent with two fingers to his forehead, then pedaled hard, lifting his bike over a low shelf as he sped toward the escalator. Jason wasn¡¯t just a street dancer¡ªit was just his favorite skill. In an instant, everyone sprang into action. Old Mike was the first to reach the pile of guns, grabbing several AK-47s and handing one to Laura. He hesitated for a moment before calling out, "Hey, kid, catch this! Come help!" He tossed a rifle to Bovin, who caught it, looking stunned. Old Mike grabbed a few magazines and a bag of bullets, nodding at Bovin. "Come on, follow me!" Bovin hesitated but eventually stood up, rifle in hand, and followed. Soon, everyone gathered by the north-facing windows on the second floor, rifles at the ready. "Is it worth it? For him, we might waste ammo and still fail. This doesn¡¯t seem like you," Mannila muttered to Vincent as she loaded her rifle. The situation outside was dire. Tens of thousands of zombies surrounded the Walmart, and their numbers would only grow if they started attacking. Robbie was driving a battered truck, weaving through the horde, clearly trying to reach the Walmart. It was a risky move, and rescuing him would be no small feat. As Mannila pointed out, it didn¡¯t seem like Vincent¡¯s usual calculated approach. They could easily lose more than they gained. Mannila was the only one who dared voice such concerns. The others, while silent, implicitly trusted Vincent¡¯s leadership. His decisiveness and strategic thinking had gotten them this far¡ªkilling Andrew without hesitation, securing weapons, and leading them to the Walmart for supplies. While most survivors cowered in their homes, Vincent had orchestrated their survival. No one questioned him, not because they couldn¡¯t, but because they trusted his judgment. "He¡¯s going to get us killed," Vincent said grimly, taking the megaphone from Jason, who quickly handed him the batteries. "Get us killed?" Mannila looked at Vincent, surprised. She hadn¡¯t seen how Robbie could be a threat, and neither had the others. But Vincent quickly explained. Vincent didn¡¯t respond to Mannila directly. The situation was too sudden, and he hadn¡¯t expected Robbie to return alive. He pushed open a second-floor window, aimed the megaphone outside, and shouted, "Robbie, this is Vincent! Don¡¯t go to the underground parking lot! We¡¯ll cover you at the main entrance. Do not go to the underground parking lot!" The underground parking lot was key. Vincent had been confident enough to practice shooting, even with a loud sniper rifle, because he had an escape route. The Walmart¡¯s underground parking lot led to a public garage, providing a clear path out. If Robbie entered the parking lot, he¡¯d bring the horde with him, ruining Vincent¡¯s carefully laid plans. Vincent didn¡¯t want to be trapped in the Walmart indefinitely. While it seemed safe with its ample supplies, Vincent knew better. The city was a death trap, and it was only a matter of time before disease spread. Plague was inevitable, and when it hit, no one in the city would survive. Vincent couldn¡¯t let anyone disrupt his plans, so he had to save Robbie. "Jason, Christine, go to the liquor section and grab as much Golden Grain alcohol as you can. Hurry!" Vincent barked. Golden Grain, one of the strongest alcohols in the world, was banned in many states for its 95% alcohol content. It wasn¡¯t for drinking¡ªit was for burning. Jason and Christine took off, Jason on his bike and Christine on foot. Meanwhile, the others opened their windows, and Mannila quickly distributed walkie-talkies. "Ladies and gentlemen, I¡¯ll fire first. Follow my lead, and don¡¯t hit Robbie¡¯s truck!" Vincent ordered, opening fire on the area between Robbie¡¯s truck and the main entrance. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. Jason and Christine returned, pushing a shopping cart filled with over thirty large bottles of Golden Grain. "Jason, start throwing the bottles as far as you can. Christine, reload the magazines¡ªfast!" Vincent commanded, glancing at the two, who were panting heavily. *Bang! Bang! Bang!* The second floor erupted with gunfire. Five semi-automatic rifles unleashed a barrage of bullets, mowing down zombies. Limbs flew, but many zombies got back up, their heads still intact. Robbie, driving the truck, heard Vincent¡¯s instructions and trusted him. Vincent had saved his life before, and that trust was enough. The diesel truck wasn¡¯t as fast as a sports car, but it had more power than a regular sedan. Robbie floored the gas, shifting gears intermittently to maximize speed. The truck plowed through the horde, but the sheer number of zombies slowed it down. The windows were under constant assault, though the truck¡¯s height kept most zombies from reaching them. Suddenly, the zombies went berserk. No amount of bullets could quell their hunger. Their guttural roars filled the air, sending chills down everyone¡¯s spines. Robbie gripped the wheel tightly, sweat dripping down his face. He was deep in the horde now, and the truck¡¯s speed had dropped significantly. Then, *smash!* Bottles of Golden Grain rained down from the second floor, shattering on impact. Jason, throwing the bottles with all his might, created multiple points of ignition. The high-proof alcohol ignited instantly, flames erupting in scattered patches across the horde. *Whoosh!* Fire engulfed the zombies, their roars turning to screams as the flames spread. The stench of burning flesh mixed with the already overwhelming odor of decay, making the air almost unbearable. Robbie¡¯s truck surged forward, the flames drawing the zombies¡¯ attention and giving him a much-needed break. The windshield cracked, but he managed to pick up speed, shaking off some of the horde. *Crash!* A massive zombie smashed through the passenger-side window, lunging at Robbie. The zombie¡¯s strength, a remnant of its former self, was terrifying. Robbie swerved, slamming the zombie into the windshield. It didn¡¯t grab him, but the close call left him drenched in sweat. He grabbed his pistol and fired, blowing the zombie¡¯s head off. The splatter covered his face, but he didn¡¯t have time to clean it. He focused on the road, the Walmart entrance now in sight. Up on the second floor, Vincent called out, "Jason, stop throwing! Grab the fire extinguisher and get ready to put out any flames. Everyone else, keep firing to draw them away. Mike, come with me to the first floor¡ªwe¡¯re meeting Robbie!" Vincent and Old Mike rushed downstairs, Vincent pulling out his keys as they reached the main entrance. He unlocked the doors, his hands steady despite the chaos outside. They burst out, guns blazing, covering Robbie¡¯s approach. Robbie¡¯s truck barreled toward the entrance, crashing through the barriers. The front of the truck was mangled, but it kept moving. Vincent realized what Robbie was planning and shouted, "Open the doors!" Old Mike hesitated, but Vincent didn¡¯t. He yanked one door open and pulled Old Mike inside, diving to the side just as Robbie¡¯s truck screeched to a halt. *Screech!* Robbie slammed the brakes, the truck skidding to a stop just inches from the glass doors. The momentum sent Robbie flying through the shattered windshield, crashing into the supermarket and rolling across the floor. Vincent didn¡¯t waste time. He slammed the doors shut and locked them, then grabbed Robbie, who was dazed and disoriented. Old Mike helped, and they dragged him deeper into the store. Once they were safe, Vincent shoved Robbie against a wall, his anger boiling over. "You almost got us killed, you know that?" he growled, his voice low but furious. "I... I¡¯m sorry," Robbie stammered, still reeling from the impact. "Let¡¯s move, Vincent," Old Mike said, placing a hand on Vincent¡¯s shoulder. "We can¡¯t stay here. The zombies will hear us." Vincent took a deep breath, releasing Robbie. "Let¡¯s go," he said, his voice calmer but still edged with frustration. They couldn¡¯t afford to linger¡ªnot with the horde just outside. Chapter 26: The Gunman and the Doctor In a supermarket like Walmart, indoor fire hydrants were easy to find. On the second floor, Jason quickly dragged over the hose connected to the fire hydrant, while Christine ran to turn on the valve. Jason and Bovin aimed the high-pressure water gun out the window, swiftly extinguishing the dozen or so fires outside. The powerful water stream also knocked back several zombies. Vincent and the others soon arrived on the second floor. Robbie collapsed to the ground, leaning against a shelf and shaking his head. Vincent rushed to the window to check that the fires were completely out, then patted Jason on the shoulder. Jason had been running around all day, doing whatever Vincent asked. "Good job, Jason," Vincent said. Jason, though lean, was strong and had more stamina than anyone else in the group. As a street dancer, he was in excellent shape, but even he was exhausted from the day''s work. "Thanks, Vincent..." Jason panted, dropping the water gun. He flashed a bright smile, his white teeth contrasting with his dark skin. Then, his expression turned serious. "Vincent, can I ask you something?" "What is it?" Vincent asked, catching his breath. He glanced at Robbie, who was sitting on the floor, then back at Jason. "Why did we put out the fires? Wouldn¡¯t it have been better to let the zombies burn?" Jason sounded genuinely confused. With thousands of zombies outside, the fires could have spread and taken out a large portion of the horde. "We could¡¯ve burned too," Vincent replied, giving Jason a look that said, *Are you serious?* "Walmart¡¯s exterior is mostly glass. If the fires burned long enough, the glass would crack, and the zombies would flood in. We¡¯d either be eaten or burned alive." Vincent paused, realizing that while Jason could be overly energetic and a bit slow on the uptake, he was reliable. Despite his doubts, Jason had followed orders without question. "Got it," Jason said, tapping his head. "Don¡¯t look at me like that. I get it now. I just... didn¡¯t think it through earlier." He shrugged, and Laura, watching her nephew, burst into laughter. "Auntie..." Jason rolled his eyes at her. "Okay, okay, I¡¯ll stop laughing," Laura said, still chuckling as she leaned on Old Mike¡¯s back. Her nephew could be so entertaining at times. "Let¡¯s clean up and move away from the windows," Old Mike said, closing one of the windows. He kicked aside the scattered shell casings, picked up a couple of guns and a bag of bullets, and motioned for Laura to follow him deeper into the store. Soon, the windows were closed, and everyone had left except for Vincent, who stood by the window, and Robbie, who was still sitting against the shelf. After a while, Robbie struggled to his feet and limped over to Vincent. "Doc..." "You weren¡¯t thinking clearly," Vincent said, turning to face Robbie, his expression calm. "Yeah... I... I lost my cool," Robbie stammered, trying to explain but ultimately just saying, "I¡¯m sorry." "Apology accepted," Vincent replied, studying Robbie. After a long moment, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth before disappearing. Robbie was impulsive, but he had the skills to back it up. More importantly, he knew when to admit his mistakes. Vincent felt a sense of relief¡ªhe hadn¡¯t wasted his effort saving him. "How are your injuries? Any bites or scratches from the zombies?" Vincent asked, eyeing Robbie¡¯s bloodied and battered state. It was hard to tell how badly he was hurt under all the grime. "No bites or scratches. Just a lot of scrapes... some might¡¯ve come into contact with zombie blood. I might turn soon, who knows? Also, I hurt my left leg when I fell. Not sure if it¡¯s broken," Robbie said, pulling off his jacket. His white tank top underneath was soaked in blood. His arms were covered in small cuts, none too serious, but they might have been exposed to zombie blood. Still, it wasn¡¯t a guarantee he¡¯d turn. Survivors had developed some immunity to the virus, allowing them to heal from minor infections. Without major wounds, it was hard to say if Robbie was infected. "Is that why you came back?" Vincent suddenly understood. He¡¯d been puzzled as to why Robbie would risk returning through the horde. With his skills, Robbie could¡¯ve easily made it out of the city alone. But now it made sense. "Yeah. You¡¯re a doctor. You¡¯ve saved me more than once. I figured you might do it again... hopefully. God hasn¡¯t taken me yet, so maybe this time won¡¯t be any different," Robbie said, clapping Vincent on the shoulder. "I trust you, Doc." Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! "Let¡¯s get those wounds treated." Vincent helped Robbie limp to the southwest corner of the third floor, where the medical supplies were stocked. Most of the items were for home use, with few hospital-grade supplies or prescription medications. Vincent carefully examined Robbie¡¯s injuries¡ªthirteen cuts and scrapes in total, the worst on his back. As for Robbie¡¯s leg, Vincent could only assess it externally. The joint was swollen, but without proper equipment, he couldn¡¯t determine if there was serious damage. "You¡¯ve got a lot of scrapes, so the risk of infection is high. But since you were wearing clothes, only a few wounds might¡¯ve been exposed to zombie blood. And they¡¯re just scratches, so don¡¯t worry too much. The main issue is your leg. You¡¯ll need at least a week to recover," Vincent said as he cleaned Robbie¡¯s wounds with disinfectant. Robbie stood naked against the wall, clearly uncomfortable. Vincent, however, was unfazed. He¡¯d seen more naked men than women in his line of work. Half an hour later, on the second floor, Robbie was tied to a chair in a cleared-out area behind some moved shelves. This was a precaution in case Robbie turned. He¡¯d insisted on being tied up, even though Vincent had suggested just having someone watch him. Night fell, plunging the once-bustling city of New York into darkness. Inside the Walmart, all the lights were off. Unlike a regular home, the supermarket¡¯s large windows would make it a beacon in the dark, attracting zombies. The only light came from small desk lamps, as Vincent had banned flashlights¡ªtheir beams could easily shine outside and draw unwanted attention. "Hey, man, why aren¡¯t you talking?" Jason circled Robbie on his bike, having pestered him for what felt like hours. Robbie, exasperated, closed his eyes. "Hey, what did you do before all this? I heard you¡¯re a great shot..." "Man, you¡¯re pretty banged up. Charging through a horde like that? That¡¯s badass!" "Hey, man..." Jason could be incredibly annoying when he was bored. Robbie stayed silent, feeling like a fly was buzzing around his ear. He regretted asking to be tied up¡ªnow he was stuck listening to Jason¡¯s endless chatter. "Jason, leave him alone. When I untie him, he¡¯s going to beat you up," Vincent¡¯s voice came through Jason¡¯s walkie-talkie. Jason turned to see Vincent and Mannila approaching. "Congratulations, Robbie. Time¡¯s up," Vincent said, checking his watch before untying Robbie. Robbie opened his eyes and smiled. "You¡¯re still here?" Mannila teased Jason, her finger on her lips as she smirked. Robbie, playing along, glared at Jason with a menacing look. "Uh... I¡¯ll just... go now. You guys talk..." Jason stammered, pedaling away awkwardly. Once untied, Robbie stood and stretched. Vincent handed him a crutch. "Jason means no harm. He¡¯s just... energetic," Vincent said with a shrug. "I get it." By 10 p.m., the group had moved mattresses from the third floor to the second floor, creating a makeshift sleeping area. They avoided the small employee break rooms, opting to stay together in case of danger. They also strung up bells and wind chimes around the area, creating an alarm system to alert them if zombies got too close. The night passed without incident. The next morning, the sun rose over the desolate city, its light doing little to dispel the gloom of the zombie-infested streets. Before everyone went about their day, Vincent called them together. "Today, I¡¯d like to officially introduce our new friend¡ªRobbie," Vincent said, gesturing to him. *Clap clap!* Jason clapped twice, then awkwardly stopped when no one joined in. "Introduce yourself. Be thorough. We¡¯ve all done it," Vincent said to Robbie, adding, "They know I¡¯m an underground doctor. You can be honest. No need to hide anything." Robbie nodded, scanning the group. He wasn¡¯t used to speaking so openly, but he cleared his throat and began. "I¡¯m Robbie. Twenty-eight years old. Born in rural New Jersey. Never went to college. Joined the military at eighteen. Served in combat, got injured, earned a Silver Star and a Purple Heart. When my unit withdrew in 2015, I came back to the States. I¡¯d killed twenty-three enemies by then. I was twenty-three when I left the military. I applied for discharge because I had PTSD. The pressure was too much, and I¡¯d have violent outbursts. To cope, I moved to New York in 2011 and joined a gang. I¡¯ve been a gang enforcer ever since. That¡¯s how I met Vincent." "That¡¯s it," Robbie finished, looking at the group. "He¡¯s the best shot I¡¯ve ever seen," Vincent added with a shrug. Chapter 27: The Final Preparations Morning. The rooftop of the Walmart Supercenter. Vincent was alone, still tinkering with the Barrett M82A1. Vincent had made up his mind. They would leave on June 1st, crossing the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, then head through Midtown and the Lincoln Tunnel to exit New York, eventually settling in a quiet rural area in New Jersey. That meant they had about a week left in the Walmart¡ªtime for Robbie to recover from his injuries and for Old Mike to finish modifying their vehicles. Old Mike had already started the work. He¡¯d downloaded blueprints online, studied them, and was now using the cars in the underground parking lot for the modifications. Age had its advantages¡ªOld Mike had experience. He knew how to weld, something Vincent couldn¡¯t do, and he¡¯d been a professional race car driver in his younger days. When it came to cars, no one in the group knew more than him. The Walmart was a treasure trove of supplies. Even if they didn¡¯t have everything they needed for the modifications, they could always find substitutes. *Bang!* A gunshot echoed in the distance. Vincent peered through the scope at the car over a kilometer away. It was still intact, but as he adjusted the scope, he saw where his bullet had landed¡ªabout fifty meters off target, shattering the window of a clothing store. The M8 armor-piercing incendiary round had ignited some of the clothes inside. Vincent sighed, rubbing his shoulder. The recoil was brutal. While most adults could handle it, firing a few rounds without proper training left his shoulder sore and swollen. The Barrett was an anti-materiel rifle, designed to take down light armored vehicles and helicopters. It wasn¡¯t easy to control. As Vincent stood up, he heard footsteps behind him. Turning, he saw Robbie hobbling up the stairs with a crutch. "Barrett?" Robbie asked, his eyes landing on the rifle. He¡¯d been drawn by the gunfire. "Want to give it a try?" Vincent offered with a wry smile. "I¡¯ve fired a few shots. Not great." He knew Robbie wasn¡¯t a sniper, so he hadn¡¯t thought to ask for his help before. "What¡¯s the target?" Robbie leaned on the railing, tossing his crutch aside. Vincent adjusted the scope and stepped aside. "The red car down there." Robbie took position, crouching slightly as he gripped the rifle. He paused, feeling the wind, then aimed and fired. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. In the distance, the red car burst into flames, followed by the delayed sound of the gunshot. *Boom!* The car exploded moments later. "Missed," Robbie muttered, standing up. He¡¯d aimed for the gas tank but hit the car instead. The incendiary round had ignited the vehicle, which eventually caused the explosion. "You hit it?" Vincent asked, raising his binoculars to see the flames. "Of course. It¡¯s a stationary target at one kilometer. Not hard for someone with training," Robbie said matter-of-factly. As a former soldier who¡¯d nearly made it into the special forces as a sniper, hitting a car-sized target at that range was child¡¯s play. Real snipers could hit moving targets the size of a human head at 1.5 kilometers, and the best could make shots at two kilometers. "If I couldn¡¯t hit that, I¡¯d be embarrassed to call myself a soldier," Robbie added. "Teach me," Vincent said, his excitement evident. "Sure," Robbie agreed. He had nothing but time on his hands. True snipers were rare, requiring rigorous training in mindset, physical endurance, and tactical thinking. They often operated alone, far from support, and had to master camouflage and survival skills. Vincent didn¡¯t need to become a full-fledged sniper¡ªhe just wanted to improve his accuracy. With his natural composure and sharp mind, he had the potential. For the rest of the day, Vincent practiced under Robbie¡¯s guidance, though not with the Barrett. Instead, he used an AK-47. A skilled shooter could adapt to different rifles, and while the Barrett¡¯s 12.7mm rounds were too precious to waste, the AK-47 was a suitable alternative for training. The next day, others joined them on the rooftop¡ªChristine, Mannila, and Jason. Over the past two days, they¡¯d gathered all the supplies they needed for the journey. Old Mike was still finalizing the vehicle modifications, and Laura, already a good shot, didn¡¯t need practice. Bovin had declined to join, remaining aloof. Vincent didn¡¯t push him; Bovin didn¡¯t seem to offer much value to the group. Under Robbie¡¯s instruction, the group practiced with both pistols and rifles. Proper shooting posture was crucial¡ªincorrect form could lead to injuries, especially with high-recoil weapons like the Desert Eagle. Vincent had some experience from shooting ranges, but the others were novices. They¡¯d been using whatever felt comfortable, which often led to sore shoulders and wrists. In the afternoon, the group descended to the underground parking lot. The massive space, covering over 20,000 square meters, had seven regular entrances and one for large vehicles, capable of holding over 2,000 cars. The lot had been cleared of zombies early on, using silenced pistols to avoid drawing attention. On their first day at the Walmart, Vincent and Old Mike had selected two vehicles for their escape: a Jeep Grand Cherokee and a truck. The truck, used for delivering goods to the Walmart, would be heavily modified. Steel mesh would reinforce the windows, and the truck¡¯s body would be weighted to prevent it from being overturned by zombies. Blades would be welded to the sides to cut through any zombies that got too close, and gun ports would be added to the cargo area for defense. The Jeep would serve as a backup, useful in case of emergencies like a flat tire or an accident. Over the next few days, the group split their time between morning shooting practice and afternoon vehicle modifications. Finally, June 1st arrived. Chapter 28: A Chilling Reality March 1, 2025. Eleven days had passed since the outbreak. Though it seemed like a short time, the world had already been irrevocably altered. In truth, the world had changed on the first day, but now, eleven days later, the transformation was complete. The planet was overrun with flesh-eating zombies, and the few remaining humans hid in whatever safe havens they could find. Some, too weak or too terrified to venture out, had already starved to death. It wasn¡¯t that food was scarce¡ªit was that fear had paralyzed them. New York City. Shattered storefronts, bloodstained streets littered with corpses, wrecked cars, toppled billboards, and dust-covered windows painted a grim picture of desolation. The once-vibrant metropolis was now a ghost town, teeming with an endless sea of wandering zombies. The city, now in the grip of summer, was sweltering. Flies buzzed around decaying bodies, and the stench of rot mingled with the guttural growls of the undead, creating an atmosphere of dread. Inside the Walmart on Second Avenue in Brooklyn, the group prepared to leave. But one member of their party had chosen to stay. "Are you sure you won¡¯t come?" Vincent asked Bovin one last time. Bovin sat on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, leaning against a shelf. He looked up at Vincent, his expression hollow. "No. I¡¯m staying here. It¡¯s safe. There¡¯s food... maybe I can..." His voice trailed off, his gaze dropping to the ground. He had made up his mind, and Vincent was stunned. He hadn¡¯t expected anyone to be so consumed by despair that they¡¯d refuse to leave. "Hey, man, come on. We¡¯re heading to the countryside. It¡¯s safe there. Staying here... anything could happen. You should come with us," Jason said, grabbing Bovin¡¯s arm and trying to pull him to his feet. Despite their initial conflict, Jason and Bovin had grown close over the past few days. Jason didn¡¯t want to leave him behind. Bovin shook off Jason¡¯s hand, his voice barely above a whisper. "I¡¯m not going." The group exchanged uneasy glances. The apocalypse had broken people in ways they couldn¡¯t fully understand. "Son..." Laura, ever compassionate, started to speak, but Old Mike gently pulled her back, shaking his head. There was no point in arguing. Bovin had made his choice. "Good luck," Vincent said finally, giving Bovin one last look before turning away. The others followed, though Laura hesitated, her lips parting as if to say something. In the end, she sighed and walked away. "Good luck," Bovin called softly, watching their retreating figures. He turned to the window, staring out at the desolate streets before lowering his head again. The sound of footsteps faded, leaving him alone in the vast, silent supermarket. The shelves were stocked with food, but the emptiness was overwhelming. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. The group entered the freight elevator, descending to the underground parking garage. Vincent unlocked the door, and they stepped into the dimly lit space. "Quick, Robbie, with me. Everyone else, get in the truck!" Vincent said in a low voice, repeating the plan he¡¯d laid out earlier. "Be careful," Mannila said, grabbing Vincent¡¯s arm and kissing him. Old Mike and Laura climbed into the truck¡¯s cab, while Jason, Christine, and Mannila settled into the modified cargo container. The truck, a German-made diesel with 210 horsepower, had been outfitted with welded blades along its sides and small gun ports for defense. Inside, foldable beds lined the walls, and shelves were stocked with food and supplies. The vehicles were fueled and ready. Robbie, in the Jeep Grand Cherokee, gave a thumbs-up through the window. Old Mike, in the truck, did the same. The engines roared to life, and the convoy set off. The Jeep led the way, its agility making it ideal for scouting the road ahead. The truck followed, its bulkier frame less suited for quick maneuvers. As they emerged from the parking garage, a few zombies shambled toward them, but the vehicles plowed through without hesitation. The streets were eerily quiet, save for the occasional groan of the undead. The group had agreed to avoid gunfire unless absolutely necessary. Ammo was precious, and attracting more zombies would only make their journey harder. Inside the truck¡¯s cargo container, the mood was tense. The small gun ports let in slivers of light, casting the space in a dim glow. Christine and Mannila sat strapped into their seats, while Jason fiddled with the walkie-talkie, adjusting the frequency. "Help us! Someone, please help us!" A woman¡¯s desperate voice crackled through the walkie-talkie. Jason froze, his playful demeanor vanishing. This wasn¡¯t the first time they¡¯d picked up distress calls from other survivors. Brooklyn still housed tens of thousands of people, all desperate for salvation. But what could they do? They were barely surviving themselves. Jason adjusted the frequency, silencing the voice. He sat back, his expression somber. The apocalypse had hardened them all. It wasn¡¯t that they didn¡¯t care¡ªit was that survival had become a zero-sum game. *Bang! Bang! Bang!* Gunfire erupted outside, the familiar staccato of an AK-47. Jason jumped to his feet, grabbing the handrail welded to the truck¡¯s interior. He peered through one of the gun ports, but the angle was too narrow to see anything. "What¡¯s going on out there?" Jason asked into the walkie-talkie. Back at the Walmart, Bovin stood at a second-floor window, an AK-47 in his hands. He smashed the glass and began firing into the horde below, screaming and crying as he emptied the magazine. Vincent hadn¡¯t left him much ammo¡ªhe hadn¡¯t expected Bovin to need it. "You bastards, just die!" Bovin roared, hurling the empty gun at the zombies below. Then, with a final, desperate cry, he leaped from the window, swinging the gun like a club as he fell. The zombies swarmed him, and his screams were quickly silenced. Vincent, in the Jeep, caught a glimpse of the scene in the rearview mirror. He couldn¡¯t see clearly, but he knew what had happened. Bovin was gone. "Did anyone hear that? What¡¯s going on?" Jason¡¯s voice crackled over the walkie-talkie again. A long pause followed before Vincent¡¯s voice came through, slow and heavy. "It¡¯s Bovin. He used up all his ammo and... jumped. He¡¯s gone." The convoy fell silent. The weight of Bovin¡¯s death hung over them like a dark cloud. For some, death was an escape¡ªa release from the unbearable pressure of survival. But for those still fighting to live, it was a chilling reminder of how fragile their existence was. Bovin¡¯s despair had consumed him. He hadn¡¯t stayed behind to survive; he¡¯d stayed to die. In a world without hope, many would make the same choice. For the living, the thought was enough to send a shiver down their spines. Chapter 29: The Eerie Streets of Manhattan The Brooklyn Bridge, a marvel of human engineering and a landmark in the history of bridge construction, stretched 1,834 meters across the East River, connecting Brooklyn to Manhattan. Completed in 1883, it was the longest suspension bridge of its time and was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1964. As the two vehicles drove onto the bridge, the sight of the river and the Manhattan skyline lifted the group¡¯s spirits slightly. Though they had just left the zombie-infested streets of Brooklyn and were heading into the even more densely populated Manhattan, they felt a small sense of progress. Every step toward their destination eased the weight on their shoulders. The outbreak had occurred around 7 a.m., a time when most people were just waking up and few were on the roads. The Brooklyn Bridge, though only 26 meters at its widest, wasn¡¯t clogged with abandoned cars. The group crossed the bridge quickly, entering Manhattan. Manhattan, the world¡¯s financial and commercial hub, was home to Wall Street, the Empire State Building, the United Nations Headquarters, Broadway, and Fifth Avenue. The island, just 59.5 square kilometers, housed over 1.6 million people, making it one of the most densely populated places on Earth. Its skyline, a forest of skyscrapers, was both awe-inspiring and daunting. Vincent was more familiar with Manhattan than Brooklyn. He had worked here for two years, climbing from a junior manager to an executive assistant. He knew the island like the back of his hand. As they entered Manhattan¡¯s Lower East Side, Vincent frowned. The streets were eerily empty, with only a few scattered zombies. He picked up the walkie-talkie. "Stay alert. Something¡¯s not right." He instinctively reached for his gun. The lack of zombies was unsettling. They hadn¡¯t disappeared¡ªsomething had drawn them away. Vincent¡¯s mind raced. If the streets were empty, it meant the zombies were concentrated elsewhere, possibly in massive hordes. The thought of turning a corner and facing an endless sea of undead sent a chill down his spine. The Jeep could handle a quick escape, but the truck? It was too bulky, too slow to maneuver through Manhattan¡¯s narrow streets. "Mike, stop the truck," Vincent said into the walkie-talkie, then turned to Robbie. "Pull over." "Why?" Robbie asked, slowing down and coming to a stop. Vincent gestured toward a small gun shop on the side of the road. It was an opportunity too good to pass up. With the streets nearly empty, they could stock up on ammunition without much risk. The two vehicles parked on the quiet street. Zombies were scarce, but Vincent wasn¡¯t taking any chances. "Jason, open the back of the truck. You¡¯re coming with me and Robbie into the gun shop. Laura, keep watch. Everyone else, stay in the vehicles. And don¡¯t forget your silencers." This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. As Vincent stepped out of the Jeep, a lone zombie shambled toward him, about 30 meters away. Without hesitation, Vincent raised his pistol and fired, dropping the zombie with a single shot to the head. His aim had improved significantly, thanks to Robbie¡¯s training. The three men entered the gun shop, a small, chaotic space no larger than 30 square meters. Bullets and guns were scattered everywhere, and two zombie corpses lay on the floor. Clearly, someone had been here before, taking what they could. "Grab ammo. We¡¯ve got three minutes," Vincent said, checking his watch. The eerie emptiness of Manhattan was getting to him. The absence of zombies was more unnerving than their presence. They focused on collecting 7.62mm, 5.56mm, and 9mm ammunition¡ªthe calibers for their AK-47s, M16s, and handguns. Vincent also grabbed some 12.7mm rounds for the Barrett. Every second counted. "Move, move!" Vincent urged, carrying two small canvas bags of bullets toward the Jeep. Mannila and Christine quickly loaded the boxes into the truck. Two minutes in, Vincent called it. "That¡¯s enough. Let¡¯s go!" As they stepped outside, the sound of a kicked soda can echoed down the street, followed by a low, guttural growl that quickly grew into a chorus of snarls. "Zombies! A lot of them!" Old Mike¡¯s voice crackled over the walkie-talkie, trembling with fear. Vincent froze. From the direction they had come, a massive horde of zombies poured into the street, drawn by the noise. The ground trembled under their weight as they surged forward, their grotesque forms filling the road. "Get in the trucks! Now!" Laura shouted, yanking open the passenger door of the truck. Vincent sprinted to the Jeep, tossing the bags of ammo into the backseat. Robbie and Jason bolted from the gun shop, empty-handed, and dove into their respective vehicles. The engines were still running. As Vincent slammed the Jeep¡¯s door shut, the leading zombies were less than 80 meters away. The horde stretched as far as the eye could see, a wall of rotting flesh and gnashing teeth. "Go straight! Plow through and turn left!" Vincent barked, grabbing the walkie-talkie. "Mike, follow us!" It was a risky move, but Vincent had no choice. Turning around would trap the truck, and they couldn¡¯t afford to lose it. The Jeep surged forward, crashing into the horde. Blood and viscera splattered the windshield as zombies were flung aside. The truck followed closely, its bulk shielding it from the worst of the impact. Ten seconds later, the Jeep broke through, skidding into a left turn onto an empty street. The truck followed, its tires screeching as it rounded the corner. The narrow street was eerily quiet, with no zombies in sight. Vincent breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived. *Bang!* A loud pop echoed through the street. The truck slowed, and Vincent¡¯s heart sank. He knew what had happened before Old Mike¡¯s voice came over the walkie-talkie. "We¡¯ve got a flat tire." Vincent slammed his fist against the Jeep¡¯s window in frustration. The truck came to a stop, and Vincent stepped out, rifle in hand, ready for whatever came next. Chapter 30: The Depths of Human Nature The old, narrow street felt out of place in the heart of Manhattan. Bloodstains and decaying body parts littered the ground, and a few abandoned cars were haphazardly parked, one even half-buried in the storefront of a small shop. The group had managed to shake off the massive horde of zombies, which was now at least half a kilometer away. Despite the absence of zombies on this street, Vincent had everyone exit the vehicles. The truck¡¯s flat tire needed to be fixed before they could move on. If a horde showed up before the repair was done, they¡¯d have no choice but to cram into the Jeep and abandon the truck. Supplies were important, but lives came first. And in Manhattan, where the eerie emptiness suggested the zombies were concentrated elsewhere, encountering a horde could mean certain death. "Christine, Mannila, Laura, Jason¡ªkeep watch. Use your pistols," Vincent ordered as Jason rolled the spare tire over. The truck¡¯s right rear tire had blown out for reasons unknown. Old Mike didn¡¯t waste time investigating. He jacked up the truck, letting the rear right side lift slightly off the ground, and began loosening the lug nuts with a wrench. Robbie assisted, both men experienced enough to handle the task efficiently. If someone like Jason had tried to help, it might have turned into a chaotic mess. The air reeked of decay, but the group had grown accustomed to the stench. It was unpleasant, but no one was physically affected by it. Vincent took the opportunity to tidy up the bullets that had spilled from the bags in the Jeep during the rough ride. Soon, the damaged tire was removed, and Jason rolled it aside. Then, suddenly¡ª *Clang!* The sound of a rolling shutter door opening echoed down the street. About fifteen meters away, diagonally across from the vehicles, the door of a small shop began to rise. The sign above indicated it was a convenience store. In an instant, everyone snapped to attention, turning toward the shop with guns raised. The shutter door stopped halfway up, and a tattooed black arm emerged, holding a rifle horizontally. A young black man stepped out, signaling that he meant no harm. Behind him, seven more men filed out¡ªsome old, some young, all armed but not aiming their weapons at Vincent¡¯s group. Clearly, Vincent and his team had stumbled upon another group of survivors. Vincent and his people slowly lowered their guns. Vincent left the Jeep¡¯s door open and walked toward the newcomers. "Is this your truck?" asked a tall, lean white man who pushed his way to the front of the group. His eyes darted around, scanning for zombies¡ªa habit born of survival. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. "Yeah, it¡¯s ours," Vincent replied, nodding. He glanced at the others¡ªthree black men and five white men, all visibly on edge. Two of them wandered to the back of the truck, peering inside. Their expressions shifted noticeably, and they exchanged hushed words. "Name¡¯s Brock," the tall man said, extending his hand. "Vincent," Vincent replied, shaking it briefly. He shot Robbie and Old Mike a look, signaling them to hurry up. "You their leader?" Brock asked casually, walking around the truck and inspecting its modified exterior. Vincent felt a flicker of unease but couldn¡¯t pinpoint why. "You could say that," he replied, his eyes scanning the group for anything suspicious. Nearby, Jason was chatting with a black man around his age, his usual easygoing smile plastered on his face. Two others were exchanging greetings with Christine and Mannila. "Wow," Brock muttered under his breath as he peered into the truck¡¯s cargo area. He turned back to Vincent. "Where are you headed?" "Out of the city. To the countryside," Vincent answered, rubbing the stubble on his chin. "What¡¯s going on here? Where are all the zombies?" "They¡¯re all clustered together somewhere else... I don¡¯t know why," Brock said with a shrug, his eyes darting around again. As the tire replacement neared completion, he scratched the back of his head and looked at Vincent. "Mind if we tag along?" "What?" Vincent¡¯s brow furrowed. "I mean, take us with you," Brock clarified. "Why? You¡¯ve got weapons and food. You can leave on your own," Vincent replied, his tone cautious. "You¡¯ve got this," Brock said, gesturing to the truck. "It¡¯s impressive. You modified it yourselves, right? We¡¯d be safer together." "How many of you are there?" Vincent asked, weighing his options. If it were just one or two people, he might have agreed. But a larger group? That was a risk he couldn¡¯t take. "About fifteen or sixteen, including us," Brock said, pointing to the building they¡¯d emerged from. "Too many. We can¡¯t take you," Vincent said firmly. The truck¡¯s cargo area was already packed, and he had no idea who these people were. Were they trustworthy? Violent? He couldn¡¯t risk it. "Come on, man. Don¡¯t be like that," Brock said, growing agitated. "We¡¯ve got women and kids. We can¡¯t stay here. You can¡¯t just leave us to die." He pointed to a window on the seventh floor of the building. "Look up there. Women. You can¡¯t turn your back on us." Vincent followed his gaze. Sure enough, two women stood by the window, waving. Inside the building, on the seventh floor, the scene was far from what Vincent could see from the street. The room was littered with food wrappers, used condoms, and other trash. Two beds occupied the space, one of which held a naked woman in her forties. She was bound, gagged, and covered in bruises, her body trembling as a burly man loomed over her. Two other women stood by the window, their faces hollow and eyes red from crying. They wore oversized men¡¯s shirts and nothing else. Behind them, two men stood with guns pressed to their backs, one of them casually groping the younger woman. Outside, Vincent squinted against the sunlight, catching a glimpse of the women in the window. Suddenly, a powerful force slammed into Vincent¡¯s shoulder. Before he could react, he was knocked to the ground. His gun was wrestled away, and the cold barrel of a pistol pressed against his temple. The attacker was Brock, who had been standing behind him. At the same moment, the other seven men sprang into action. The black man who had been chatting with Jason now had a gun pointed at him. Jason, quick on the draw, aimed his own weapon in return. The sound of guns being raised echoed through the street. Christine was the most vulnerable. A man who had been standing too close to her now held a knife to her throat. Old Mike and Robbie, still crouched by the truck, were caught off guard. By the time they realized what was happening, three guns were trained on them. "Don¡¯t move. Your leader¡¯s in my hands," Brock said, dragging Vincent to his feet and using him as a human shield. He pressed the gun to Vincent¡¯s temple and scanned the scene. The situation was dire. Brock¡¯s group had the upper hand. Vincent and Christine were hostages, while Mannila, Laura, and Jason stood with guns raised, slowly backing toward Old Mike and Robbie. "Wow, you guys are tough to crack," Brock said with a smirk, though his expression hardened as he added, "Put the guns down." Chapter 31: The Choice Vincent finally realized what was amiss. He had sensed it when these people first appeared, but couldn''t quite put his finger on it. However, when things took a turn for the worse, it all clicked. The issue lay in their demeanor. These individuals were a motley crew: an ordinary-looking black youth, a neatly groomed man resembling a corporate elite, a middle-aged man with a protruding belly, an elderly gentleman, and a tattooed man. They weren''t a unified group before the apocalypse. The end times had forced them together, but that was the extent of their unity. They were an unlikely assembly, brought together by necessity rather than choice. Their differing personalities and lack of familiarity made it improbable that they had conspired to harm others. This was something even Vincent couldn''t orchestrate. If he were to rally his group to harm innocent people, to kidnap or even kill, Laura would undoubtedly object. Her dissent would likely sway Old Mike and Jason as well. Robbie, of course, would follow Vincent''s lead, and Manuela would certainly support him. Christine, however, would likely waver. Thus, Vincent''s initial impression of these people was that they were harmless. Yet, he couldn''t shake the feeling that something was off, specifically, their emotions. There was an eerie undercurrent of suppression in their demeanor. In other words, they lacked the excitement one would expect upon encountering other survivors. Except for Brooke, the others exhibited varying degrees of this emotional flatness. If one person lacked excitement, it could be attributed to personality. But if an entire group was uniformly subdued, it hinted at a potential conspiracy. What were they suppressing? Vincent sensed it but hadn''t fully grasped it, primarily because he hadn''t considered the possibility of a threat. "Put down your guns!" Brooke repeated, noticing the group''s silence. He pressed the gun harder against Vincent''s head, forcing Vincent to jerk his head to the side. "No, uh!" Christine, who was being held hostage, cried out, only to be muffled by the man behind her. She could feel two lethal threats: a knife at her neck and a gun pressed against her lower back. The man holding her used her as a human shield, and his earlier "gentleness" during their initial interaction is now absent. Manuela and the other two who still held their guns exchanged glances, hesitating. The situation was at a standstill. Although Vincent''s group was clearly at a disadvantage, any move could result in immediate harm to Christine and Vincent, who were almost certain to die. If a firefight broke out, the opposing side''s numerical advantage would likely lead to the deaths of most of Vincent''s group, with Robbie being the only one with a chance of survival. However, if they surrendered their weapons, they would be at the mercy of their captors, potentially facing a fate worse than death. Old Mike and Robbie had already stood up, their hands raised in front of them. Their guns were holstered at their lower backs, making any attempt to draw them highly conspicuous. There was still a glimmer of hope for Vincent''s group: Robbie. His marksmanship was exceptional. At such close range, he could hit a target''s vital spot without even aiming. Unfortunately, he didn''t have a gun in his hand, and there were two hostages. If there were only one, Robbie could take out the captor with a single shot to the temple. But with two, it would be far more complicated. Even if Robbie could draw his gun quickly, the first shot would alert everyone, meaning he could only save one person. "What do you want?" Robbie asked, his eyes scanning the group. "I told you to put down your guns. Didn''t you hear me?" Brooke''s voice rose, his tone mocking. "Uh!" Christine struggled, her head tilting back against the man''s chest, tears streaming from her eyes as she made muffled sounds. The group''s attention immediately shifted to her. The man holding her had already made a small, shallow cut on her neck with his knife. Vincent caught a glimpse of it. This was a warning. "No!" Manuela cried out, her gaze darting to Vincent. The others also looked at Vincent. Robbie gave Vincent a subtle blink¡ªnot the natural rhythm of a normal blink, but a deliberate signal. When would such a signal be necessary? Of course, when action was imminent, to coordinate timing. If they were to surrender, the signal would be meaningless. Robbie was preparing to act! In that moment, Vincent''s mind raced, weighing the pros and cons of the situation. Ultimately, he gave Robbie a slight shake of his head. If Robbie acted, it would mean sacrificing at least one person. Vincent knew this. Would it be himself or Christine? Without a doubt, Robbie would choose to save Vincent over Christine. Not only had Vincent saved Robbie''s life three times, but in terms of capability, Christine was no match for Vincent. If only one could be saved, Robbie would undoubtedly choose Vincent. Thus, his first shot would be aimed at Brooke, likely resulting in Christine''s death. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. Losing one person while still not fully escaping danger was a bad trade. However, this wasn''t the only reason Vincent advised against action. First, the group''s intent seemed to be to capture, not to murder. If they wanted to kill, they could have done so from the safety of the building, firing down at Vincent''s unsuspecting group. With a couple of good marksmen, at least half of Vincent''s group, if not all, could have been killed. After all, they had been on guard against zombies, not human attackers. The second reason was the zombies. Vincent had narrowly escaped a massive horde before the tire blew out. The horde was no more than half a kilometer away. If a firefight broke out, the gunfire would undoubtedly attract the horde. Vincent''s group had pistols with silencers, but Brooke''s group had an assortment of weapons: pistols, shotguns, and semi-automatic rifles. If the horde were drawn in, the consequences would be catastrophic. Vincent surmised that Brooke''s group was likely unaware of the nearby horde. The buildings on this street weren''t tall, and even from the top floor, the view would be obstructed by skyscrapers on other streets. But Vincent knew, and he had to consider this. These were the factors Vincent could think of at the moment. Weighing the pros and cons, surrendering seemed the better option. It was unlikely that Brooke''s group would kill them indiscriminately. "Oh? They still listen to you even when you''re held hostage. I wonder what they''ll do if you die?" Brooke''s voice, laced with mockery, sounded in Vincent''s ear. He noticed that the others were looking to Vincent for a decision. This intrigued Brooke. In a post-apocalyptic world, there were no formal hierarchies. When faced with life-and-death situations, most people would prioritize their own survival. What Brooke didn''t realize was Vincent''s logical thinking and comprehensive consideration of situations, qualities that even Old Mike and Robbie admired. In moments of indecision, the group trusted Vincent to make the right call. They knew he wasn''t one to make rash decisions. Robbie saw Vincent''s slight shake of the head and his expression shifted slightly, then hardened. He, too, was weighing his options. With his skills, he could take out several of the enemy and escape. He wasn''t bound by any loyalty; if he could escape, he might choose not to surrender. But soon, he slowly raised his hands and clasped them behind his head. He had chosen Vincent over his escape. "Everyone, put down your guns," Vincent said, his tone resigned. The world was a treacherous place, and one misstep could lead to irreversible consequences. Vincent hadn''t expected his first major setback in the apocalypse to come at the hands of fellow humans. It was bitterly ironic. Robbie, with his hands behind his head, turned his back to Brooke''s group. Manuela and the others exchanged glances once more, then slowly lowered their arms and dropped their guns. They followed Robbie''s example, turning their backs and clasping their hands behind their heads. Brooke gave Vincent a curious look, then signaled to the others. "Tie them up!" Some of the men moved forward, first confiscating the group''s weapons, then binding each person''s hands behind their back with rope. The half-open shutter of a small shop was fully raised, and Vincent''s group was shoved inside. The shop''s windows were covered by shutters, and only when the main shutter was fully opened did sunlight flood in. The shop was modest, about fifty to sixty square meters, with a messy floor littered with food wrappers and scattered merchandise. Several shelves had been pushed to the sides, their contents mostly gone, likely collected by Brooke''s group. Once inside, Vincent realized they weren''t the first to be captured. In the far right corner of the shop, two people were bound hand and foot, sitting against the wall with their mouths taped shut. One was a biracial girl with dark skin and braided, flaxen hair. Her large eyes suggested she was around Christine''s age. The other was an impressively built, semi-gray-haired white man in his late fifties or early sixties, older than Old Mike. His muscular frame, nearly 1.9 meters tall, was imposing, with tattooed arms as thick as Vincent''s thighs. From their appearances, Vincent guessed they were related¡ªlikely father and daughter or grandfather and granddaughter. "How did Brooke capture him?" Vincent wondered, then immediately dismissed the question. Of course, it was with a gun. No amount of muscle could stop a bullet. Vincent''s group was pushed against the wall, their mouths left untaped. There was no need; they wouldn''t scream for help, as there were no police or rescuers to come. Doing so would only attract zombies, a death sentence. Brooke''s men began inspecting the two vehicles. Two of them worked on the nearly repaired tire. The shutter remained open, allowing Vincent''s group a partial view outside. Brooke stood inside the shop, scanning the bound group with a smile. Suddenly, he raised his gun, sweeping it past each person''s forehead. Everyone instinctively flinched back, including Vincent. Being too calm might provoke Brooke, leading to a fatal outcome. Vincent didn''t know Brooke well and had no intention of standing out. In a world without laws or morals, killing wasn''t a difficult decision. "Haha!" Brooke suddenly lowered his gun and laughed. He had only meant to scare them, finding it amusing. As Brooke toyed with Vincent''s group, the bound man and girl in the corner remained silent. The girl''s head hung low, her expression hidden, while the muscular man had been staring at Brooke since he entered, his gaze sharp. After laughing, Brooke noticed the man''s stare and approached him. He crouched down and ripped the tape from the man''s mouth. "How does it feel? Comfortable?" Brooke asked, his tone mocking. The man stared at Brooke, his gaze unwavering. After a few seconds, he suddenly spat in Brooke''s face, cursing, "Scum!" Surprisingly, Brooke wasn''t angered. He stood up to avoid another spit and wiped his face with his sleeve, still smiling. "Dear uncle, don''t be so angry. Angry people don''t live long." This man was Brooke''s uncle! Vincent and the others exchanged glances. "Damn you, you''ll die a horrible death. Don''t you dare call yourself a Flom after you''re gone. We don''t want the shame," the old man spat, his words venomous. It was unclear what Brooke had done to provoke such hatred. Brooke remained unperturbed, shrugging with a smirk. He then turned to Vincent''s group. "Do you like your new friends? They''ll keep you company until the zombies come to eat you all. Oh, my poor cousin..." Brooke looked at the biracial girl, his tone feigning pity. "So young, yet she''ll die alongside her stubborn father." The relationships were clear now. The old man was Brooke''s uncle, the girl his daughter¡ªlikely his youngest¡ªand Brooke was the girl''s cousin. For some reason, both had been tied up by Brooke. At that moment, a young black man ran into the shop. "Boss, the cars don''t have keys. Neither of them!" The vehicles had been turned off upon stopping, as per Vincent''s instructions, to avoid attracting zombies with the engine noise, especially from the truck, which was particularly loud. Chapter 32: A Shoulder to Lean On "Where are the keys?" Brooke''s eyes swept over Vincent and the others. "Are you going to tell us, or do we have to search you?" As he spoke, Brooke''s gaze deliberately lingered on Manuela and Christine, making it clear that his intentions were far from innocent. Two of Brooke''s men, standing elsewhere in the store, chuckled ominously at his words, including the short, stocky man in his fifties. "There are no keys. We stole the cars. You can check for yourself," Vincent quickly interjected. "Is that so?" Brooke turned to ask. "The steering column... near the ignition... It''s been tampered with. Wires are exposed," a young man nodded, speaking haltingly but enough. Brooke frowned slightly. No keys meant trouble. Even if his men could hotwire the vehicles, if the cars stalled on the road, restarting them would be a hassle. He glanced back at Vincent''s group, seemingly about to ask who had stolen the cars, but ultimately decided against it. Instead, he turned to his men and said, "I''ll go take a look. Keep an eye on them." "Call the others down from upstairs. Once the cars are running, we leave as soon as possible," Brooke ordered the black youth before hurrying out to the street with him. The store''s door remained open, and Vincent''s group could hear Brooke''s commands. Soon, a man ran into the store, crossed the room, and headed up the stairs to the second floor. Only two of Brooke''s men remained inside the store, while five others, including Brooke, were outside. One had gone upstairs. Vincent''s eyes slowly scanned the small store, lingering on the two men guarding them. One was an older man with a thick beard and a stocky build. The other was around thirty, with neatly combed hair held in place by gel. He looked respectable, but his eyes betrayed him¡ªthey kept darting toward Manuela, who sat against the wall with her hands tied behind her back. Her shirt was slightly loose, revealing a hint of cleavage. The man''s gaze kept returning to Manuela''s exposed skin, though he occasionally glanced toward the door, as if torn between his desires and the fear of Brooke''s disapproval. Now wasn''t the time for distractions. Vincent''s group sat in a line against the wall. Manuela was on the far end, followed by Robbie, Old Mike, Jason, Laura, Christine, and Vincent. At the very end, near the corner, were the muscular older man and his daughter, about three meters away from Vincent. Manuela''s face was pale. She understood what the man''s leering gaze meant and felt a wave of despair. Before the apocalypse, she had been a streetwalker, but being forced was entirely different from choosing. She glanced at Vincent, feeling no resentment toward him, even though he had been the one to order everyone to surrender. Given the choice between humiliation and fighting for survival, she would have chosen the latter. Yet, she had followed Vincent''s lead. Old Mike and Laura wore expressions of deep concern, while Jason sighed, his usual optimism gone. Christine, sitting to Vincent''s right, cried silently, her makeup smeared, looking utterly pitiful. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. Outside, the truck sputtered to life but quickly died again. Brooke''s hotwiring skills were lacking. He didn''t ask any of Vincent''s group for help, likely out of caution. Starting the car required sitting in the driver''s seat and using both hands and feet. If someone were skilled enough, they could quickly start the engine and speed away. If Brooke had asked, Robbie, a decorated soldier with a Silver Star, would have done just that¡ªand likely taken Brooke down in the process. But Brooke didn''t give him the chance. "It''s going to be okay. Don''t cry... things will get better," Vincent suddenly whispered to Christine, who turned to look at him, biting her lower lip as tears streamed down her face. The two guards heard Vincent''s words but didn''t react. What they didn''t notice was the faint *click* sound that accompanied Vincent''s whisper. It was the sound of a snap button being undone. Vincent''s leather jacket had metal snap buttons at the cuffs, which had been fastened until now. As he spoke, his left hand pressed against the cuff while his right hand undid the snap. From his sleeve, the sharp tip of a scalpel slid out, followed by its silver handle. Vincent had made it a habit to carry a scalpel in his sleeve ever since he killed Andrew. The blade, sharp enough to cut through human flesh with ease, was now in his hand. He held it carefully, using it to slowly saw through the rope binding his wrists. All the while, he maintained eye contact with Christine, as if comforting her, while his movements behind his back were deliberate and slow to avoid detection. Soon, the rope snapped. Their hands had been tied by looping the rope around their necks, then around their arms, and finally binding their wrists together. The knot was at the wrists, so cutting the rope there would free their hands. But Vincent didn''t move, keeping his hands behind his back as he sat. He looked at Christine with a resigned expression and whispered, "If you need to cry, go ahead. You can lean on my shoulder." His tone carried a hint of despair. Christine looked at him, then suddenly buried her face in his chest, sobbing quietly. "Hey, hey! What are you doing?" The thirty-something man who had been eyeing Manuela shouted, raising his gun as he approached Vincent and Christine. "She''s just a kid. What do you want from her?" Vincent said, shrinking back slightly but holding his ground. "A kid?" The man crouched beside them, reaching out to touch Christine''s hair. "Not for long," he chuckled, then tried to touch her face. He was now close enough for Vincent to overpower him and take his gun, but Vincent held back. Christine pressed her face deeper into Vincent''s chest, avoiding the man''s hand. The man, annoyed, reached further, determined to touch her. "Merry, leave her alone. Focus on the task. The boss won''t be happy if you mess around. You''ll have your fun later," the stocky older man by the door warned, gripping his shotgun. "Shut it, old man. I don''t need your advice," Merry snapped, but stood up anyway. He glanced at Christine, then at Manuela, before walking away with a smirk, as if plotting something. It was clear that these men feared Brooke, referring to him as "the boss." As Merry walked away, Christine felt something cold and metallic tap against her bound hands. Her sobs paused for a moment. "It''s a knife... sharp... be careful," Vincent whispered into her hair, his voice barely audible. Christine continued to cry, but more quietly now. Behind her back, Vincent tapped the scalpel''s handle against her hand until she grasped it. Since she was still leaning against Vincent, their bodies close together, the exchange went unnoticed. Outside, the truck sputtered and died again, followed by Brooke''s muffled curses. "Sit up," Vincent whispered. Christine, now holding the scalpel, adjusted her grip. She had seen Vincent''s scalpel before and remembered how it worked. Her sobs gradually subsided, as if she were calming down. She shifted, sitting up straight. "Cough!" Vincent suddenly let out a loud cough, adjusting his posture as if Christine''s weight had been uncomfortable. The cough drew the guards'' attention, but from the front, nothing seemed amiss. However, the others in the group noticed. As Vincent coughed, Christine had just sat up, leaving a gap between her back and the wall. When the others turned to look, they caught a glimpse of the scalpel in her hand. Christine leaned back against the wall, and the others averted their eyes, pretending nothing had happened. Chapter 33: What is Acting? On the old, blood-stained street, two vehicles painted in dark red stood under the dim light. Several men were busy around them. The truck, with its menacing appearance, now had its tires properly mounted. Two men were organizing the interior of the truck, where guns and ammunition were scattered haphazardly. Others were keeping watch on the street, eating as they worked. Brooke, frustrated after two failed attempts to start the truck, cursed under his breath. "Damn it, where the hell is Durand? Go hurry him up!" Brooke shouted, sticking his head out of the truck''s cab and glancing up at the seventh floor of the building next to them. He turned to the young black man in the passenger seat, his voice laced with irritation. Durand was the name of someone still upstairs. "I''m on it," the young man replied, jumping out of the truck with his gun in hand and rushing into the small store, heading upstairs. Inside the store, Christine''s tear-filled eyes betrayed her nervousness, though her crying masked it somewhat. Only someone paying close attention would notice the tension in her face. She leaned slightly against the wall, her lower back not quite touching it, as she slowly worked on cutting the ropes binding her hands with the scalpel. The scalpel''s unique design made it easy for Vincent to handle, but Christine struggled. With her wrists tied, her movements were awkward and strained, causing her shoulders to tremble slightly. The others in the group grew tense. Christine''s movements, though subtle, were noticeable enough to risk drawing attention. The stocky, older man, Nankov, stood by the rolled-up shutter door, leaning against the wall with a shotgun in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His nose was red, and his narrow eyes squinted as he scanned the faces of the group¡ªsome filled with sorrow, others with despair. Suddenly, Nankov straightened up, his cigarette paused mid-drag. His eyes narrowed further as they settled on Christine. He dropped the cigarette and took a step forward, his boots crunching over the scattered food wrappers on the floor. The sound echoed loudly in the otherwise quiet store. Everyone''s hearts raced. It seemed Christine had been discovered. "Hey, little girl, what are you doing?" Nankov raised his gun as he approached Christine, his voice sharp. He had noticed her fidgeting and was now closing in. Vincent''s hands, still bound behind his back, pressed against the floor as he prepared to act if necessary. His eyes followed Nankov''s every move. "What''s going on?" Merry, the man who had been eyeing Manuela, turned his attention to Nankov, asking the question. Nankov ignored him, his focus entirely on Christine, who now had a gun pointed at her head. Christine slowly looked up, her face crumpled with fear, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I''m crying... I''m scared..." she stammered, her voice trembling. As she spoke, her sobs grew louder, her shoulders shaking in sync with her cries. It was a convincing act¡ªher trembling could easily be mistaken for the natural quivering of someone overwhelmed with fear. Even as Nankov stood close, her performance was flawless. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. But the group''s tension didn''t ease. Nankov didn''t immediately back off. He stared at Christine, seemingly unsure whether to believe her. Would he pull her up to check if she was hiding something? No one knew. If he were highly cautious, he might. If not, he might simply return to his post. Vincent was ready to act if needed. "Picking on a little girl now, huh? You bunch of scum!" A deep, angry voice suddenly cut through the tension. It was the muscular older man, Brooke''s uncle, sitting bound in the corner. Everyone turned their heads toward him. The older man, his hands and feet tied, glared at Nankov with a mix of anger and authority. "Come here, I need to talk to you," he said, his tone serious and commanding. Nankov, now distracted, walked over to the older man, his expression sour. "What is it?" he asked. "Look over there!" the older man said, tilting his head toward Christine. For a moment, Vincent nearly jumped to his feet. Nankov was now standing at an angle where he might see Christine''s hands working behind her back. But before Nankov could react, the older man, despite being tightly bound, used his core strength to kick out with both legs, striking Nankov in the left shin. "Ah!" Nankov cried out, hopping on one leg as he clutched his injured shin. He stumbled back, falling to the ground, his shotgun still in hand but shaking with rage. "You old bastard, I''ll kill you!" he shouted, though his finger hesitated on the trigger. The older man was Brooke''s uncle, and even Brooke hadn''t dared to kill him despite their disagreements. Nankov knew crossing that line would mean his death. "Go ahead, shoot me! Do it!" the older man taunted, his chin raised in defiance. "What''s going on?" Another man rushed in from the street, gun raised, scanning the room. Merry, standing nearby, chuckled and quietly explained the situation. The man shook his head with a smirk and walked back outside. Nankov, now the butt of the joke, cursed as he struggled to his feet, limping back to his post by the door. The older man''s distraction had worked¡ªNankov seemed to have forgotten about Christine. Meanwhile, Christine, still quietly sobbing, turned to Laura and asked, "Can I lean on your shoulder for a while?" Nankov, still rubbing his leg and muttering curses, paid no attention. To him, Christine was just a scared little girl, the only one in the group who had been crying the entire time. Christine leaned against Laura''s shoulder, her eyes red and swollen, staring blankly at the floor as her body continued to tremble with quiet sobs. Laura sighed, turning to Christine with a sad expression. "It''s going to be okay, child," she whispered. Christine nodded, biting her lip, but the tears kept flowing. Outside, the truck sputtered once more, but again, it failed to start. Brooke''s lack of skill with hotwiring was becoming painfully obvious. "Child, do you want to lean on me too?" Laura suddenly turned to Jason, her eyes glistening with tears, as if Christine''s emotions had affected her deeply. "Auntie," Jason murmured, leaning into Laura''s shoulder, his arm brushing against hers in a gesture of closeness. It was a touching scene¡ªan older woman comforting two young people, as if they were facing their final moments together. After a while, Jason and Christine both sat up, Christine seeming calmer while Jason grew more somber. He turned to Old Mike, his expression serious. "Uncle, I need to apologize. If I don''t do it now, it might be too late. I haven''t treated you well, and I''m sorry." "Child..." Old Mike hesitated, then sighed. "I''ve made mistakes too. You don''t need to apologize." Jason insisted, his voice firm. "No, Uncle, you have to accept my apology. I can''t die with this on my conscience." Old Mike finally nodded, a small smile breaking through. "I accept," he said, nudging Jason''s shoulder gently. Suddenly, a woman''s scream pierced the air, startling both Merry and Nankov. They turned to see Manuela, her eyes wide with fear, pointing at the ground near her. "There''s a bug!" she cried, scrambling toward Robbie, who in turn shifted closer to Old Mike. It looked like Manuela was genuinely terrified, her fear causing a chain reaction as everyone shuffled to make space. Manuela''s acting was... convincing. Chapter 34: The Terrifying Gunshots "Shut the hell up, or I''ll kill you!" Merry snarled, his earlier charm completely gone. Then, with a twisted grin, he added, "Save your energy. You''ll need it later." Manuela fell silent, her wide eyes darting nervously toward the spot where she had claimed to see a bug. The atmosphere in the store grew increasingly tense as time dragged on. The crying had stopped, the despair had faded, and the group''s eyes began to communicate silently. Yet, Merry and Nankov seemed oblivious, still holding their guns as Vincent and the others sat with their hands bound behind their backs, leaning against the wall. Manuela, the last to get her hands on the scalpel, moved with extreme caution. Her position on the far end of the group left her exposed, with no one to her right to shield her actions. Merry''s leering gaze rarely left her, and it was no surprise¡ªManuela was young, beautiful, and undeniably alluring, qualities that made her stand out even in this dire situation. Unless someone had a twisted preference for younger girls, like Christine, Manuela was the one drawing attention. "Ahem." Manuela let out a soft cough, as if clearing her throat. The others understood¡ªshe had cut through the ropes binding her wrists. Now, all they needed was the right moment to strike. Nankov stood by the door, while Merry leaned against a shelf near the store entrance, both about five to six meters away. Even with their hands free, the group couldn''t act recklessly. The two men were armed, and the distance made it nearly impossible to take them down simultaneously. Upstairs, the young black man Brooke had sent to hurry the others along entered a room on the seventh floor. The scene inside was chaotic and depraved. Three women and four men were entangled in various states of undress, their moans and cries filling the air. Two men were sharing one woman, while another man, a burly white guy with a buzz cut, was aggressively dominating a woman in her forties, her mouth still taped shut. The room reeked of sweat and other bodily fluids. "Hey, guys, the boss is pissed. He wants you downstairs now. We''re leaving!" the black man called out from the doorway, waving his hand to get their attention. "Tell that damn Brooke to go to hell! Why should we always listen to him?" the buzz-cut man, named Marler, snapped. He slapped the woman beneath him hard, the sound echoing through the room. She let out a muffled cry of pain. The other men in the room laughed, their actions growing even more forceful. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. "Come on, Marler, if you don''t get down there, he''ll come up here and kill you," the black man warned. He knew the tension between Marler and Brooke. Marler had always resented Brooke''s leadership, though he never dared to challenge him openly. Brooke might not be as physically imposing, but he was ruthless and an excellent shot. Most of the group respected him, and Marler''s defiance was usually limited to grumbling behind his back. "Alright, alright, I''m coming," Marler grumbled, finally stopping his assault. He untied the woman''s hands from the bedpost and lifted her, pressing her against the wall as he continued his brutal act. The wall shook with each thrust. The woman, who had resisted fiercely until now, suddenly went limp, as if resigned to her fate. No one noticed that, just a few feet away, on a nightstand by the bed, lay two handguns¡ªMarler''s weapons. From the doorway, the black man couldn''t see the guns. His eyes were too busy scanning the room, his arousal growing as he watched the scene unfold. In his right hand, he held a shotgun. Back in the store on the first floor, Vincent and the others exchanged subtle glances. Vincent had already formulated a plan in his mind, but he couldn''t voice it. He could only hope the others would pick up on his cues and act accordingly. The key was to lure both Merry and Nankov closer, but doing so without raising suspicion was a delicate task. Suddenly, a loud gunshot rang out from upstairs, followed by several more, including the distinctive blast of a shotgun. Everyone in the store froze. Vincent cursed inwardly, his face betraying his urgency. He knew the gunfire would attract the massive horde of zombies nearby. The horde was only about half a kilometer away, and with the winding streets, it would take them no more than three minutes to reach the store. Three minutes. That was all they had. In those three minutes, Vincent and the group had to overpower their captors, rescue the older man and his daughter who had helped them, and get the vehicles running to escape. It was a daunting task, especially since they still hadn''t figured out how to lure Merry and Nankov closer without raising suspicion. Vincent glanced at Robbie, who met his gaze with a look of shared understanding. They both knew the stakes. "What the hell is going on?" Brooke shouted from outside, jumping out of the truck and storming into the store with one of his men. He glanced at Vincent''s group, barking, "Keep an eye on them!" before rushing upstairs, his face dark with anger. Now, most of Brooke''s men were either upstairs or on their way up, leaving only four downstairs¡ªtwo guarding the street and two inside the store watching Vincent''s group. "Hey! I need to use the bathroom. Can someone take me?" Jason suddenly spoke up, struggling to his feet with his hands still behind his back. He swayed slightly, as if desperate. "Don''t move! Piss your pants if you have to. Move again, and I''ll shoot you," Nankov growled, adjusting his aim toward Jason. He was still nursing his injured leg and in no mood for requests. "Okay, okay... I won''t move," Jason said, slowly sitting back down. Time was running out. The gunfire upstairs continued, and Vincent''s anxiety grew. He fought the urge to leap up and attack, knowing it would be suicidal. But with only half their time left, he had to think fast. What could they do? Chapter 35: You Bastard! Inside the store, Vincent and Robbie were both restraining their urge to act. They were waiting for the first sound of a zombie''s growl, no matter how faint. Once they heard it, they would spring into action, even if it meant casualties among their own. The growl would signal that the zombies had entered the street, and if they didn¡¯t act immediately, the horde would overwhelm them like a tidal wave. "Hey!" Suddenly, Manuela''s gaze locked onto Marie. Her expression, once filled with fear, had turned blank and then slowly twisted into a smile. Marie had been watching Manuela, clearly intrigued. He noticed her calling him and grinned. "What''s up, babe? You need to use the restroom, too?" "Do you like me?" A flicker of sadness crossed Manuela''s face before she forced a smile. Marie smirked, almost dismissively, but after a pause, he replied, "Yeah, babe, I like you!" His tone was playful, and his eyes drifted down to her chest. "Don¡¯t believe him. He just wants to get in your pants... haha..." Nankov, leaning against the door, tossed his cigarette aside, revealing yellowed teeth as he laughed. His short, stocky body thrust forward in a lewd gesture. It was clear that even before the apocalypse, he wasn¡¯t a decent guy, and now, without laws or morals, his true nature was on full display. The gunfire upstairs didn¡¯t seem to bother them. They trusted that Brook would handle it. "Shut up, old man. Show some respect in front of a lady," Marie snapped, turning to glare at Nankov. He had always disliked the old man. If someone else had made the joke, he might have laughed along, but coming from Nankov, it just pissed him off. "You don¡¯t have any respect for yourself!" Nankov muttered, not daring to argue back. Age had weakened him, and he knew better than to challenge a younger man. He leaned against the door, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, clearly a heavy smoker. Manuela glanced at both men, then focused back on Marie. She sat on the floor, her hands behind her back, shoulders shifting, her ample chest rising and falling, drawing attention. She smiled at Marie, her expression softening as if she had resolved something within herself. She blinked seductively, her voice dripping with allure. "If you like me... You should protect me. You¡¯ve been staring... want to touch? I promise I won¡¯t scream." Her eyes flicked down to her chest, inviting him. Marie chuckled, glancing toward the staircase where Brook had disappeared. Hearing no footsteps and seeing no sign of Brook, he assumed he had some time. He slowly walked toward Manuela. "Hey, Marie, don¡¯t do anything stupid. If the boss sees..." Nankov warned. "Old man, if you don¡¯t shut up, I¡¯ll blow your brains out!" Marie didn¡¯t even turn around, just pointed his gun vaguely in Nankov¡¯s direction before lowering it again, keeping it trained on Vincent and the others. "Fine... none of my business," Nankov grumbled, clearly afraid of Brook and not wanting to get involved. The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Marie crouched in front of Manuela, his right hand holding the gun while his left reached out, groping her chest. His fingers slipped under her shirt, exploring her cleavage without hesitation. Manuela bit her lower lip, letting out a soft moan, her eyes locked on Marie¡¯s, keeping his attention. Manuela was sitting close to Robbie, who had the perfect opportunity to disarm Marie while he was distracted. But Robbie didn¡¯t act. He noticed Nankov by the door, his attention fixed on Marie and Manuela, his shotgun ready. If Robbie made a move, Nankov would notice and fire. At such close range, the shotgun¡¯s spread would be deadly. Manuela was a smart woman, bold and decisive. Robbie trusted that she had more planned than just this. The zombies were less than a minute away. "Feels good?" Manuela asked softly. "Yeah," Marie replied, engrossed in groping her. "There¡¯s more." "What?" *Thud!* "Oh! You bastard..." A strange question, an instinctive answer, the sound of a blade piercing flesh, and a man¡¯s pained curse. Manuela had struck! She dared to strike! Her left hand, holding a scalpel, shot out from behind her back and plunged into Marie¡¯s right arm, the one holding the gun. The blade pierced through flesh and hit bone, blood spurting out. In one swift motion, Manuela released the scalpel, grabbed Marie under his arms, and with a powerful kick against the wall, pushed him toward Nankov. The sudden move left Nankov stunned. He didn¡¯t know where the scalpel had come from or why this woman was so fierce. He hesitated for just a moment before firing at Manuela. *Boom!* A cloud of blood erupted from Marie¡¯s back. Manuela had positioned his body as a shield, crouching behind him. Everything happened so fast. Marie, already stabbed, now took a shotgun blast to the back, the pellets tearing through his flesh. Nankov hadn¡¯t meant to shoot Marie, but in his panic, he fired. Who knew what this fierce woman would do if she got close? As Manuela made her move, Robbie acted. He snatched the gun from the ground, leaped to the side, and fired. *Bang!* Nankov¡¯s forehead sprouted a bloody hole. His eyes went blank as he collapsed against the rolling shutter door, the impact causing a loud clatter. The gun that killed him was the one Marie had dropped when Manuela stabbed him. Robbie, with his professional precision, had taken the shot. With Nankov dead, Vincent and the others sprang into action, shaking off their bindings. "You think you can touch me, you bastard?" Manuela let go of Marie, swung her fist, and punched him in the face, knocking him down. She stomped on his chest a couple of times, showing her fierce side. Marie lay on the ground, blood gushing from his mouth. He was dying, the shotgun wound to his back fatal. Robbie, after firing, rolled and stood up, aiming at Marie¡¯s head. But then he shifted his aim toward the door and fired without hesitation. *Bang!* One of Brook¡¯s men, who had been guarding outside, rushed toward the store, only to have his head blown open by Robbie¡¯s bullet. The man collapsed, dead before he hit the ground. Robbie turned his gun back to Marie, but Manuela stopped him. "Let me do it," she said through gritted teeth. Robbie gave her a nod, then glanced at the staircase before rushing to the door. He signaled for the others to move deeper into the store, then took a deep breath and charged outside to deal with the last of Brook¡¯s men. Meanwhile, Manuela walked over to Nankov¡¯s corpse, picked up the shotgun, and returned to Marie. Vincent had already retrieved the scalpel and was cutting the ropes binding the older man. "Cough... don¡¯t kill me, please..." Marie weakly pleaded, rolling on the ground. The close-range shotgun blast had left him barely alive. "Oh, you¡¯re the bastard!" Manuela raised the shotgun, aiming it at Marie¡¯s head. When Marie had been stabbed, he had yelled, "Oh! You bastard..." Manuela remembered those words and threw them back at him, twisted. *Boom!* The gunshot echoed, and Marie¡¯s head exploded like a watermelon, blood and brain matter splattering everywhere. Manuela smiled, a hint of satisfaction in her expression. In the distance, the growls of the approaching zombies grew louder. Chapter 36: Escape Robbie burst out of the store, immediately rolling to the ground and firing off several shots in quick succession. Bullets whizzed past where he had just been, sparking off the pavement. One of Robbie¡¯s shots hit the back door of the truck, while the other two grazed the side. The last of Brook¡¯s men, a white guy in his mid-twenties armed with an AK-47, had been alert. The moment Robbie emerged, the man fired a few rounds before ducking behind the truck for cover. Robbie¡¯s shots missed their mark. To the south, zombies were already spilling into the intersection. They weren¡¯t numerous yet, but their guttural growls and flailing arms signaled the advance of the horde. They were about 200 meters away¡ªlikely the vanguard of the massive zombie swarm. Zombies moved at varying speeds depending on their physical condition before death, so some were faster than others. As this small wave of zombies entered the street, more poured in behind them. The man hiding behind the truck was positioned at an angle that made it impossible for Robbie to get a clean shot. Every so often, the man would poke his gun out and fire, forcing Robbie to scramble for cover. The street offered little protection, and Robbie was running out of options. Within seconds, the man had moved to the left side of the truck, while Robbie was on the right. The truck¡¯s tires and body provided perfect cover for the man, and Robbie knew that trying to flank him would be suicidal. The man¡¯s bullets wouldn¡¯t miss. ¡°Damn it!¡± Robbie muttered, quickly ejecting the magazine from his pistol to check the ammo. It was empty, with only one bullet left in the chamber. The gun was a SIG P210, which only held seven rounds. Time was running out. The zombies were closing in, and Robbie couldn¡¯t afford to play a game of cat and mouse. Robbie made his move. He sprinted forward, twisting his body 180 degrees as he neared the truck¡¯s cargo bed. He dropped to the ground, sliding under the truck on his back. As soon as his upper body cleared the other side, he fired at the man crouching behind the tire. *Bang!* The bullet entered the back of the man¡¯s skull and exited through his forehead. A clean kill. ¡°Move, move! Zombies are coming! Get out now!¡± Robbie shouted, springing to his feet with a quick kip-up. Inside the store, Vincent had cut the ropes binding the older man and his daughter. With them freed, there were now eight people huddled in the back of the store, crouching to avoid stray bullets. Manuela had handed the shotgun to Vincent, who kept it trained on the staircase. At Robbie¡¯s shout, everyone scrambled to their feet and rushed outside. The zombies were getting closer. The southern intersection was now filled with them, and the leading edge was less than 150 meters from the truck. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it ¡°Everyone, get in the truck¡¯s cargo bed! Now!¡± Vincent yelled, running toward the SUV. Robbie was already inside, hot-wiring the vehicle. Without keys, it was a tricky task, but Robbie was skilled at ¡°borrowing¡± cars. Within five seconds, the SUV roared to life. Robbie revved the engine and glanced back at the truck through the rear window. Laura and Old Mike were in the truck¡¯s cab, with Mike fumbling to start the engine. He wasn¡¯t as quick as Robbie, likely due to nerves. The engine sputtered once but died again. The others quickly climbed into the truck¡¯s cargo bed, and Jason slammed the door shut. *Bang! Bang! Bang!* Suddenly, gunfire erupted. Bullets struck the SUV, punching holes in the body. Vincent and Robbie ducked instinctively, then looked toward the store. Brook had come downstairs, firing at them. His men followed, but Brook quickly stopped them, shouting in frustration, ¡°Damn it, it¡¯s zombies! How are there so many here?¡± Brook and his men retreated upstairs, abandoning their pursuit of Vincent¡¯s group as the zombie horde closed in. By now, the zombies from the south were less than 120 meters from the truck. To the right, another wave of zombies poured into the street, their growls merging into a terrifying chorus. ¡°God, they¡¯re coming from both sides!¡± Vincent exclaimed, looking at the advancing horde. The zombies in front were about 200 meters away, while those behind the truck were closing in fast. The truck still hadn¡¯t started. Old Mike was too panicked, and the engine kept stalling. ¡°Damn it!¡± Vincent slammed his hand against the car door in frustration. He realized that the gunfire had likely drawn multiple waves of zombies, trapping them on both ends of the street. He jumped out of the SUV and ran toward a nearby alley. Peering down it, he saw more zombies flooding in from both directions. The street was surrounded. In less than 30 seconds, the horde would engulf everything. Vincent knew that trying to drive through the zombies would be suicide. The vehicles would get stuck, and the people inside would be doomed. ¡°Get out of the truck! We¡¯re going upstairs! Now!¡± Vincent shouted, running back to the truck. He had no radio, so he had to yell to be heard. ¡°Jason, open the door! Everyone, get down! We¡¯re out of time!¡± ¡°Grab the guns and ammo! Don¡¯t forget the emergency bags!¡± Vincent added, remembering the backpacks they had prepared earlier. Each person had a small pack with essentials like food, water, and medicine¡ªjust enough to survive if they had to abandon the vehicles. With only 20 seconds left before the zombies reached the truck, everyone jumped down from the cargo bed. Jason carried a large duffel bag filled with guns and ammo, while the others shouldered their emergency packs. ¡°Quick, into the store!¡± Vincent yelled, leading the group back to the shop they had just left. It was the only building on the street with intact windows and an open door. They rushed inside, pulling the rolling shutter down behind them. Inside the dimly lit store, Vincent, Robbie, and the older man pushed a heavy shelf against the shutter to reinforce it. Meanwhile, Jason dumped the duffel bag on the floor, and everyone quickly armed themselves. *Bang! Bang! Thud!* The shutter shook violently as the zombies slammed against it. The sound of their growls and pounding fists filled the air, creating a cacophony of terror. The shelf wouldn¡¯t hold up for long. The sheer number of zombies meant their combined force would eventually break through. ¡°Move! Upstairs, now!¡± Vincent ordered, leading the group toward the staircase. As they ran, the shutter began to buckle. A zombie managed to squeeze halfway through, its arm flailing wildly as it tried to reach them. ¡°Go, go! To the roof!¡± They raced up the stairs, knowing the roof might be their last stand. The narrow staircase would slow the zombies down, but it was only a matter of time before the horde overwhelmed them. The building was seven stories tall, and by the time they reached the third floor, the shutter and shelf had given way. Zombies flooded into the store, their relentless pursuit echoing through the building. The group¡¯s only hope was to reach the roof and barricade themselves in. But with the zombies closing in, their chances were slim. The race against time¡ªand the undead¡ªhad begun. Chapter 37: The Rooftop The guttural growls of the undead echoed louder from below, a chilling reminder of the relentless danger. Vincent and his group gasped for air, their legs pumping furiously as they raced up the stairs. Laura and Old Mike, though aged, managed to keep pace, with Mike''s robust physique and Jason''s assistance ensuring Laura wasn''t left behind. Retaliation was out of the question¡ªonly a fool would consider it. The zombies were an endless tide, and their only hope was to outrun them. They burst onto the seventh floor, the path to the rooftop requiring a sprint down a thirty-meter hallway. As they ran, Vincent''s eyes caught a grim scene: an open room with four corpses, three women and one man, all bearing signs of brutal violence. The stench of blood was overwhelming. Vincent pieced together the earlier gunshots; this room was their origin. He hesitated only briefly before pressing on, the urgency of their situation overriding any morbid curiosity. A particularly massive zombie emerged onto the seventh floor, its grotesque form barreling toward them, followed by a horde of its kind. "Move, move, move!" Vincent shouted, his voice strained as they reached the rooftop access. He was the first through the open door, his eyes immediately locking onto a seven-meter ladder bridging their building to the next. A man was cautiously crossing it, nearly to the other side. Vincent recognized him¡ªone of Brook''s men. On the adjacent rooftop, Brook and his crew were fleeing north, another ladder connecting to a building beyond. It was clear Brook had planned his escape meticulously, the ladders pre-positioned for such emergencies. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. This could be their way out, too. As the rest of the group spilled onto the rooftop, the last man, Old Mike, carried his frail sixteen-year-old daughter with surprising strength. The rooftop door slammed shut behind them, but the respite was short-lived. The man on the ladder, now safely across, turned back with a sneer and kicked the ladder away, sending it tumbling into the void. "Bastards, go to hell!" he spat before running off. The rooftop door shuddered violently under the onslaught of the undead. Jason, Manny, and Old Mike braced against it, but their efforts were futile. The lock, though metal, was no match for the relentless pounding. Vincent''s mind raced. The rooftop was no sanctuary, and their escape route was gone. Laura gasped, her hands covering her mouth as she realized their predicament. The man on the other side, now a safe distance away, turned and flipped them off, a cruel grin plastered across his face. Robbie, usually composed, felt a surge of anger. "Give me the rifle," he demanded, swapping his pistol for an M16. He aimed, the wind on the rooftop tugging at his stance. The man, now a hundred and fifty meters away, panicked and broke into a run. A single shot rang out. The man crumpled to the ground, twitched, and lay still. "Bastard," Robbie muttered, his satisfaction hollow. He handed the rifle back and retrieved his pistol. Time was slipping away. The door continued to tremble, the lock barely holding. Old Mike found a sturdy wooden pole and wedged it against the door, providing some stability. The group scavenged for anything to reinforce the barrier¡ªbricks, pipes, chairs¡ªanything to buy them time. They retreated in silence, their only hope that the zombies would lose interest without movement or sound. But the question lingered: would the door hold long enough? Chapter 38: Injured Christine The relentless pounding of the undead against the rooftop door echoed like a grim drumbeat. The wind whipped across the rooftop, tangling hair and adding to the tension. The group moved in silence, guns at the ready, retreating slowly toward the northern edge of the roof. They had nowhere else to go. Peering over the edge, they saw the streets below teeming with a sea of undead, a dark, writhing mass that stretched as far as the eye could see. The rooftop, roughly five to six hundred square meters, was barren except for a few rusted railings and a small utility shed near the entrance. The group huddled together, their nerves frayed. Even Vincent, usually the calmest among them, felt the weight of their dire situation. The rooftop was a dead end, and if the zombies broke through, there would be no escape. "Everything''s going to be fine," Old Mike murmured, clutching his frail daughter tightly. But the deep lines of worry etched across his face betrayed his words. Would it be fine? After three minutes, the pounding on the door began to subside. By the fourth minute, the growls and thuds had nearly ceased. The group collectively exhaled, their tension easing slightly. Vincent sank to the ground, his eyes fixed on the door some thirty meters away. The rooftop, though smaller than the adjacent building''s, was still spacious enough for them to move quietly without drawing attention. As the group caught their breath, Jason, ever the optimist, broke the silence. "Hi, I''m Jason," he said with a grin, extending a hand to Old Mike and his daughter. His gaze lingered on the girl, a shy but strikingly beautiful young woman with large, expressive eyes. She hesitated, glancing at her father before shrinking back. Old Mike¡ªintroduced as John¡ªshook Jason''s hand firmly. "This is my daughter, Kelly," he said, his voice tinged with sadness. Since the outbreak, Kelly had become withdrawn, speaking only to him. The trauma of the apocalypse had left her fragile and fearful. Meanwhile, Manny and Christine stood by the edge of the roof, leaning against the intact railing. Manny peered down at the streets below, her face pale at the sight of the endless horde. All their preparations had been for nothing. The trucks and SUVs they had hoped to use were now surrounded by zombies. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Manny felt a tug on her sleeve and turned to see Christine, her eyes brimming with tears. "What''s wrong, Christine?" Manny asked softly, brushing a strand of hair from the younger girl''s face. Christine turned slightly, revealing the bloodstain on her jeans. Manny''s eyes widened. "Oh God, Christine, are you...?" She trailed off, glancing around to ensure no one else had noticed. "It''s not that," Christine whispered, her voice trembling. "I''m hurt. It''s bad." Manny''s expression shifted from concern to alarm. Christine was injured, and the wound had gone unnoticed in the chaos. She quickly guided Christine toward the utility shed, the only spot on the rooftop that offered any privacy. On the other side of the roof, Vincent and Robby were scouting for an escape route. The rooftop was a prison, surrounded by an ocean of undead. "Any ideas?" Robby asked, holstering his gun. "Not yet," Vincent admitted, running a hand through his hair. "We''ll have to wait. Maybe another group will pass through and draw the zombies away." It was a slim hope, but it was all they had. As they rejoined the group, Vincent noticed Manny and Christine were missing. "Where are they?" he asked, his voice low. Jason pointed toward the utility shed. Vincent assumed they were tending to personal needs and didn''t think much of it¡ªuntil Manny emerged, her hands covered in blood. Vincent''s heart sank. He hurried over, Robby close behind. "What happened? Where''s Christine?" he asked, his voice tight with worry. "She''s hurt," Manny said, her voice shaking. "I couldn''t stop the bleeding." Vincent followed Manny to the shed, where Christine sat with her jeans pulled down, revealing a deep gash on her upper thigh. The wound was serious, and Vincent immediately set to work, pulling medical supplies from their packs. "This is going to sting," he warned as he prepared a needle of anesthetic. Christine winced but remained still, her face flushed with embarrassment. Vincent, however, was all business. To him, this was about saving a life, not about modesty. As he cleaned the wound, he asked, "How did this happen?" "I was cutting the ropes... when that man came over... I panicked and slipped," Christine stammered, her voice thick with shame. Vincent nodded, understanding. In the chaos, Christine had accidentally stabbed herself while trying to free her hands. He worked quickly, stitching the wound with practiced hands. "You''ll be fine," he assured her. "Just take it easy for a while." As Vincent finished, Laura approached, concern etched on her face. "Is she okay?" she asked softly. "She''ll live," Vincent replied, his tone steady. "No sign of infection." The group, though still trapped, felt a glimmer of relief. Christine''s injury was serious, but she was alive. For now, that was enough. The rooftop remained their prison, but they were together, and that gave them a fighting chance. Chapter 39: The Weight of Responsibility Laura lingered for a moment, watching Vincent as he meticulously stitched Christine''s wound. It wasn¡¯t the sight of blood that made her turn away¡ªit was the pang of empathy she felt for the young girl. Christine reminded her of her nephew Jason, and the thought of seeing her in pain was too much to bear. Laura trusted Vincent implicitly; she knew he would handle the situation with care. There was no need for her to stay and watch. Once Laura left, only Manny remained by Christine¡¯s side. She didn¡¯t have to stay¡ªVincent was more than capable of handling the minor procedure on his own¡ªbut she wanted to be there for Christine. Having someone familiar nearby would help ease the girl¡¯s embarrassment. Time passed quietly. Vincent paused, gently pressing his fingers against Christine¡¯s skin. ¡°Can you feel this?¡± he asked. The anesthesia took effect at different rates for everyone, and Vincent wanted to be sure Christine was numb before proceeding. Christine, no longer crying, nodded faintly. Her face was flushed with a mix of relief and shyness. At sixteen, she had never been this exposed in front of a man, let alone one she secretly admired. She lay on her stomach, her arms folded beneath her head, her cheeks burning as Vincent worked. ¡°Good,¡± Vincent murmured. He unrolled a small cloth bundle, revealing an array of surgical tools. Selecting a curved needle, he sterilized it and threaded it with precision. The wound, about three centimeters long and deep, required four or five stitches. Vincent worked quickly, his hands steady. Once the stitches were in place, he dressed the wound with gauze and bandages. ¡°It¡¯s done,¡± Vincent said, helping Christine sit up slowly. ¡°You¡¯ll need to keep the stitches in for about a week. Try not to move too much.¡± He averted his gaze as Manny helped Christine remove her bloodstained jeans and clean up. Vincent¡¯s professionalism had shifted; the procedure was over, and he no longer needed to focus on the intimate details. Manny, ever the pragmatist, couldn¡¯t resist teasing. ¡°What¡¯s the matter, Vincent?¡± she quipped, noticing his awkward avoidance. ¡°You¡¯ve already seen everything. No need to play the shy guy now.¡± Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. Vincent shot her a reproachful look but said nothing. He turned to Christine, offering an apologetic smile. ¡°Let¡¯s get you back to the group,¡± he said, bending down to let her climb onto his back. Manny followed, carrying their bags. Night had fallen, the sky dotted with faint stars. The group gathered in the northwest corner of the rooftop, using the dim light of their phones to eat. Christine lay on her stomach, a makeshift cushion of clothes beneath her. The summer air was warm, and the occasional buzz of mosquitoes was the only reminder of the world outside their precarious sanctuary. Christine¡¯s anesthesia had worn off, but she could move carefully without aggravating the wound. The injury, though painful, had missed major muscles, sparing her from more severe complications. The night was quiet, the zombies below now eerily still. Vincent sat apart from the others, his gaze fixed on the distant glow of skyscrapers. Sleep eluded him. The weight of leadership pressed heavily on his shoulders. He had always been a pragmatist, focused on survival above all else. But now, surrounded by people who relied on him, he felt the burden of their lives resting squarely on his decisions. Vincent¡¯s mind raced. Every choice he had made¡ªleaving Walmart, venturing into Manhattan, even the decision to surrender their weapons¡ªhad led them to this moment. He had acted with the best intentions, driven by the belief that rural areas offered greater safety. But now, trapped on this rooftop, he couldn¡¯t help but wonder if he had been wrong. If they had stayed at Walmart, would they be sleeping in comfortable beds instead of huddling under the stars, swatting at mosquitoes? ¡°Did I make a mistake?¡± Vincent whispered to himself, his voice lost in the night. He didn¡¯t know. He had planned meticulously, considering every possible threat. But the world had changed too quickly, too unpredictably. New York was no longer a city¡ªit was a death trap. And yet, he couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that their current predicament was his fault. The responsibility weighed on him like an anchor. He was their leader, whether they called him that or not. The trust they placed in him was both a privilege and a burden. Every decision he made carried consequences, and now, with no clear way out, Vincent felt the crushing pressure of their survival resting on his shoulders. As the hours dragged on, Vincent¡¯s thoughts grew heavier. The world had collapsed, and there was no government, no military, no one coming to save them. They were on their own, and Vincent¡¯s choices had brought them here. The guilt gnawed at him, a relentless reminder of the stakes. By 4 a.m., exhaustion finally overtook him. Vincent¡¯s eyes fluttered shut, his mind still swirling with doubts and fears. He drifted into a restless sleep, the weight of responsibility clinging to him like a shadow. The night stretched on, silent and unyielding. The group slept, unaware of the storm brewing in their leader¡¯s mind. For Vincent, the dawn would bring no relief¡ªonly the relentless pressure of a world that demanded more than he could give. Chapter 40: Trapped When Vincent woke up, it was already noon. The growls of the zombies below had become a background noise he barely noticed, unless something out of the ordinary happened. As consciousness returned, he felt something soft against his face. Opening his eyes, he realized his head was resting on Manny¡¯s chest, her body providing an unintentional pillow. Her left breast was slightly flattened under the weight of his head. Vincent had tested Manny¡¯s chest before¡ªher curves were natural, not the result of silicone. The difference was obvious: natural breasts spread when lying down, while augmented ones stayed perky. Manny¡¯s were undeniably real and undeniably soft. ¡°What time is it?¡± Vincent asked, sitting up and glancing around. Everyone else was already awake, scattered across the rooftop, looking bored and restless. Manny chuckled, grabbing his wrist and lifting it to show him his watch. ¡°You¡¯ve got a watch, genius. Why ask me?¡± The watch read 11:30 a.m. Vincent frowned, rubbing his temples as a dull headache pulsed behind his eyes. ¡°Why didn¡¯t anyone wake me? Anything happen?¡± ¡°Nothing happened. That¡¯s why we let you sleep,¡± Manny replied, pulling a pack of crackers and a bottle of water from her bag and handing them to him. Vincent took the food and stood, stretching slightly. ¡°You okay? Headache?¡± Manny asked, noticing his discomfort. ¡°Yeah, just stayed up too late last night,¡± Vincent muttered, walking to the edge of the rooftop. He leaned on the railing, looking down at the sea of zombies below. The stench was foul, but it didn¡¯t kill his appetite. In a survival situation, eating was non-negotiable¡ªyou needed energy to keep going. ¡°Hey,¡± Christine¡¯s voice came softly from behind him. Vincent turned, offering her a warm smile. ¡°Hey. Want some?¡± he asked, holding out the crackers. ¡°No, thanks. I already ate,¡± Christine replied, her tone hesitant. The events of the previous day had been awkward, but after a night to process, she seemed more composed. She wasn¡¯t the type to dwell on embarrassment for too long. ¡°How are you feeling?¡± Vincent asked, studying her. ¡°Okay, I guess. It hurts a little when I move,¡± Christine admitted, brushing her hand lightly over her injured hip. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°That¡¯s normal. Just take it easy,¡± Vincent said, turning his attention back to the zombies below. Some of them had noticed him and were reaching up, their guttural growls filling the air. ¡°About yesterday¡­ I didn¡¯t get a chance to say¡­ thank you,¡± Christine stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. ¡°Don¡¯t mention it,¡± Vincent replied with a smile. Then, his expression turned serious. ¡°Have you changed the dressing on your wound?¡± ¡°What?¡± Christine blinked, caught off guard. Then, her cheeks flushed as she realized what he meant. ¡°Oh, no. I didn¡¯t¡­¡± Vincent sighed. Wounds needed regular dressing changes to prevent infection, especially in a world as filthy as this one. He called Manny over and quickly explained the steps for changing the bandages. It wasn¡¯t complicated, but it needed to be done. ¡°You¡¯re not doing it yourself?¡± Manny teased, raising an eyebrow. ¡°Cut it out,¡± Vincent said, swatting her playfully on the hip. ¡°Just get it done. This isn¡¯t something we can delay.¡± As Manny led Christine away, Vincent turned back to the railing, his mind already shifting to the next problem. He had inventoried their food supplies the day before¡ªthey had enough for three days, maybe four if they rationed carefully. Strong John, the retired general, had been refusing to eat much, feeling guilty about consuming resources he hadn¡¯t contributed to. His daughter, Kelly, was quiet and withdrawn, barely speaking to anyone. Vincent had learned more about John during their conversations. The man was a decorated veteran, recently retired, when the outbreak hit. He had lost one son in combat and another who had been serving overseas when the world fell apart. Kelly was his youngest, a high school student before everything went to hell. John¡¯s wife had turned into a zombie early on, and he had been forced to kill her to protect Kelly. The man carried a lot of pain, and his temper flared whenever his daughter was involved. ¡°Any plans yet?¡± John asked, joining Vincent at the railing. Vincent hesitated, taking a sip of water before answering. ¡°Yeah. I¡¯ve got something in mind.¡± John¡¯s eyes lit up. ¡°You do? What is it?¡± ¡°It¡¯s¡­ risky,¡± Vincent admitted, his voice low. ¡°We should only try it if we have no other choice.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the plan?¡± John pressed, his tone serious. Vincent shook his head. ¡°I can¡¯t say. Not yet. Some people might act on it too soon, and that could get us all killed.¡± John nodded, though his curiosity was piqued. He didn¡¯t press further, instead turning his attention back to the streets below. A moment later, Vincent heard John¡¯s voice rise in anger. ¡°I told you to stay away from my daughter! She¡¯s not well¡ªleave her alone!¡± Vincent didn¡¯t need to look to know what was happening. Jason, ever the optimist, had been trying to strike up conversations with Kelly. The girl, traumatized by the horrors she¡¯d witnessed, rarely spoke. Jason, however, was persistent, and his attempts to engage her had earned him John¡¯s wrath more than once. ¡°Sorry, I just¡­ I thought talking might help her,¡± Jason stammered, backing away. John¡¯s voice softened slightly, though his frustration was still evident. ¡°She¡¯s been through enough. Just¡­ give her space.¡± Jason slunk over to Vincent, picking up a piece of broken brick and tossing it over the edge. ¡°You like her, don¡¯t you?¡± Vincent asked, a small smile tugging at his lips. Jason grinned sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. ¡°Yeah¡­ I guess I do.¡± Vincent nodded, his gaze drifting back to the endless horde below. ¡°Then prove it. Show her¡ªand John¡ªthat you can protect her.¡± Two days later, the rooftop was tense. Their food had run out, and the group was growing increasingly restless. Without supplies, they were just waiting to die. Vincent stood at the railing, staring down at the zombies. He was still waiting¡ªwaiting for the right moment to take the risk he¡¯d been considering. It wasn¡¯t a plan so much as a desperate gamble, but it might be their only chance. Until then, all they could do was wait. Chapter 41: If You Die, We Die With You! Vincent and the group had been trapped on the rooftop for over three days. The experience could be summed up in a few words: boredom, tension, anxiety, and, now that their food had run out, sheer terror. There are many ways to die. The most peaceful, of course, is slipping away in your sleep with the help of pills¡ªno pain, no fear. On the other end of the spectrum, being eaten alive by zombies is arguably the most horrifying fate imaginable. But somewhere in between lies starvation¡ªa slow, agonizing death that countless people in this new world were already facing. And now, it seemed, Vincent and his group were next. Without food, the women would likely outlast the men. Biology played a role here¡ªwomen generally had more body fat, making them more resilient to starvation. Strong John, despite his name, would probably be the first to go. His muscular build, while impressive, meant he had less fat to sustain him. The last to die? Probably Manny. Of course, there was another way to survive¡ªone that required sacrifice. Cannibalism. Vincent was certain that somewhere in this broken world, there were already groups of people who had resorted to eating their own to stay alive. He didn¡¯t know if he could bring himself to do it. Humans were rational creatures, but when pushed to the brink of death, when starvation clawed at their sanity, would they choose to die¡ªor to eat? If he could face death, could he face the alternative? But Vincent doubted it would come to that. More likely, he¡¯d choose to end his own life before it did. The past few days had been uneventful. That was the nature of the apocalypse¡ªeither nothing happened, or everything happened at once. The zombies had become a constant, almost mundane presence. Without them, this wouldn¡¯t be the end of the world. Vincent had kept his plan to himself, only mentioning it to Strong John. He didn¡¯t want to raise false hopes. Hope could be dangerous¡ªit could lead to disappointment, and in their situation, disappointment could be deadly. By midday, the group had finished their last scraps of food. The mood was grim. Even Jason, who had spent the past few days trying to charm Kelly despite Strong John¡¯s protests, had fallen silent. The shadow of death loomed over them, and the air was thick with despair. Vincent stood at the edge of the rooftop, staring down at the sea of zombies below. He had hoped for a miracle, a passing car, a distant gunshot, anything to draw the horde away. But nothing had happened. The world outside was eerily quiet, and Vincent¡¯s hope was fading. If no miracle came, they would have to save themselves. *Clap! Clap!* Vincent suddenly turned and slapped his hands together, the sharp sound cutting through the silence. Everyone looked up, their eyes dull and lifeless¡ªeven Robby, who was slumped against the railing, looked like he was waiting for death. ¡°Get up. We¡¯re leaving,¡± Vincent said, his voice firm. He ran a hand over the stubble on his chin, his expression resolute. The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°Leaving?¡± The group murmured in disbelief, but they slowly rose to their feet. Robby was the first to move, springing up with a quickness that belied his earlier lethargy. He strode over to Vincent, his voice low. ¡°What¡¯s the plan?¡± ¡°Not me,¡± Vincent said, shaking his head. He grabbed Manny¡¯s emergency bag, slinging it over his shoulder. Inside were medical supplies, clothes, and ammunition¡ªno food, but enough to keep them going for a while. He pulled out his pistol, removing the silencer, and held it at the ready. The others followed suit, gathering their belongings and preparing their weapons. Jason, ever the optimist, flashed a grin, his white teeth gleaming. If the situation hadn¡¯t been so dire, he might have broken into a dance. ¡°How are we getting out?¡± Old Mike asked, his voice tinged with skepticism. Vincent¡¯s confidence was infectious, but the old man needed answers. ¡°Follow me,¡± Vincent said, leading the group to the northern edge of the rooftop where the ladder had once been. The railing was gone, and Vincent pointed to the building across the gap. ¡°How far do you think that is?¡± The group exchanged glances, unsure where he was going with this. ¡°About seven meters¡­¡± ¡°Maybe eight¡­¡± Robby and Manny offered their guesses. The ladder that had once bridged the gap had been about eight meters long, so the distance couldn¡¯t be much more than that. ¡°See those ladders on the other roof?¡± Vincent pointed to the metal ladders lying on the opposite rooftop. They were identical to the one that had been kicked away. It seemed Brook had stockpiled several for his escape route, leaving a few behind. The group nodded, their eyes following Vincent¡¯s gesture. Vincent paused, his gaze shifting to Jason. ¡°Jason,¡± he called. ¡°Yes, sir!¡± Jason responded with a mock salute, his usual cheerfulness returning. He didn¡¯t know the plan, but he trusted Vincent. If Vincent said they could leave, then they could leave. ¡°Jump across,¡± Vincent said, nodding toward the opposite rooftop. ¡°What?¡± Jason¡¯s smile vanished, replaced by a look of sheer panic. ¡°Jump across,¡± Vincent repeated, his tone unwavering. ¡°I know you can do it. You¡¯ve done parkour before. This is no different.¡± This was Vincent¡¯s plan¡ªa desperate gamble. Someone had to jump the gap to the other building, retrieve a ladder, and bridge the gap for the rest of the group. Jason, with his background in parkour and street dancing, was the best candidate. But it wasn¡¯t without risk. The world record for the long jump was just under nine meters, and Jason wasn¡¯t a professional athlete. The gap was close to eight meters, and the stakes were life and death. ¡°Are you sure?¡± Jason asked, his voice trembling. ¡°I¡¯m sure,¡± Vincent said, stepping back to give Jason space. ¡°You¡¯re our only chance.¡± Jason stared at Vincent, his expression hardening. After a long moment, he nodded and began stretching, preparing his body for the jump. He was scared, but he was willing to try. Laura, Jason¡¯s aunt, couldn¡¯t hold back her tears. She rushed to Vincent, grabbing his arm. ¡°You can¡¯t make him do this! There has to be another way!¡± Before Vincent could respond, Jason spoke up. ¡°It¡¯s okay, Aunt Laura. I¡¯ve got this.¡± But Laura wasn¡¯t convinced. She turned to Vincent, her voice breaking. ¡°You can¡¯t force him to do this! He¡¯ll die!¡± Vincent didn¡¯t answer. Instead, he raised his pistol and fired three shots into the air. The deafening blasts echoed across the rooftop, and the zombies below erupted into a frenzy. The door to the rooftop began to shake violently as the horde surged against it. ¡°What the hell are you doing?¡± Strong John shouted, raising his gun at Vincent. But before he could act, Robby, Manny, Chris, and Mike all turned their weapons on him. Vincent ignored the standoff, walking over to Jason and placing his hands on the younger man¡¯s shoulders. ¡°Jason,¡± he said, his voice steady, ¡°if you die, we die with you.¡± The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Jason took a deep breath, stepped back, and began his run toward the edge of the rooftop. Chapter 42: The Leap It was 3 p.m., and the tension on the rooftop was palpable. The group huddled in the northwest corner, their eyes darting between Jason, who stood poised at the center of the roof, and the shuddering metal door that separated them from the horde of zombies below. The door rattled violently under the relentless assault, the growls and snarls of the undead echoing through the building. The gunshots Vincent had fired earlier had stirred the entire block into a frenzy, drawing every zombie within earshot to their location. The stairwells were now packed with the ravenous creatures, their hunger more insatiable than ever. Jason stood about twenty meters from the northern edge of the roof, his body coiled like a spring. He stretched his legs and arms one last time, crouched low, one foot braced behind him. Thirty seconds had passed since Vincent¡¯s gunshots had sealed their fate. If Jason failed, there would be no second chances. Before he began his run, Jason glanced at the group. His face was expressionless, but his mind raced. If Vincent hadn¡¯t fired those shots, Jason¡¯s jump would have been a gamble for his own life and the slim hope of escape for the others. But now, with the zombies closing in, his failure would mean death for everyone. The pressure was immense, but it was also a motivator. Among the group were people he cared about¡ªhis aunt Laura, his friend Christine, the girl he¡¯d just begun to admire, Kelly, and the others who had become like family in this nightmare. He owed it to them to try. For himself, and all of them. Jason took a deep breath, his eyes locking onto the mark Vincent had made near the roof''s edge. It was a guide to ensure he didn¡¯t misjudge his jump. The group watched in silence, their breaths held, their hearts pounding. All eyes were on Jason. In this moment, he was their only hope. ¡°God, help me,¡± Jason whispered, closing his eyes for a brief moment. Then, with a burst of speed, he launched himself forward. His feet pounded against the rooftop as he sprinted toward the edge, his body leaning forward, every muscle straining. The twenty meters felt like an eternity, but in reality, it took him just over three seconds. One second¡­ Two seconds¡­ Three seconds¡­ The group¡¯s nerves were stretched to the breaking point. They watched, frozen, as Jason reached the edge of the roof. His leading foot hit the mark, half of it already hanging over the void. With a powerful push, he leaped. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. For a moment, it looked like he might make it. But then, reality set in. Jason¡¯s jump was strong, but his trajectory was too low. Instead of clearing the gap, he was going to slam into the side of the opposite building and plummet to his death. ¡°Oh God!¡± Laura cried out, her hands flying to her mouth. Others turned away, unable to watch. But then¡ª*thud*¡ªa sound of impact. A brief silence followed. ¡°Damn, that hurts¡­¡± Jason¡¯s voice groaned. ¡°Jason! Climb up! Now!¡± Vincent shouted, his voice cutting through the tension. Those who had closed their eyes opened them again, their faces lighting up with hope. Jason was alive, his hands gripping the edge of the opposite rooftop, his body dangling precariously over the abyss. Just as Vincent had predicted, Jason hadn¡¯t relied solely on his legs¡ªhe¡¯d used his arms to grab the edge, a move straight out of his parkour training. ¡°Thank God!¡± Laura sobbed, clutching Old Mike for support. Jason wasted no time. With a grunt, he pulled himself up, his muscles straining as he hoisted his body onto the rooftop. He rolled onto his back, breathing heavily, then sat up and flashed a triumphant grin at the group. ¡°Made it!¡± he called out, though his arms were already showing signs of strain. On the other side, the zombies were still battering the rooftop door, which was now visibly warping under the pressure. It wouldn¡¯t hold much longer. ¡°Quick, get the ladders!¡± Vincent barked, urgency in his voice. The group scrambled to the edge as Jason retrieved two metal ladders from the opposite rooftop. He positioned the first one, letting it fall across the gap at a 45-degree angle. Robby stepped forward, planting his foot on the ladder to keep it steady. Christine was the first to cross, crawling on all fours to distribute her weight. Manny followed close behind. The ladders could only support two people at a time, so they moved quickly. Once they were safely across, Jason set up the second ladder. Laura went next, but Kelly froze, her fear of heights paralyzing her. She clung to Strong John, refusing to let go. Seeing this, Vincent signaled to Jason, and the two men adjusted the ladders, placing them side by side to create a wider, more stable path. ¡°John, carry her across!¡± Vincent ordered. Strong John nodded, hoisting Kelly onto his back. He moved swiftly, his military training evident in his precise movements. Despite his age, he crossed the gap with ease, delivering Kelly safely to the other side. By now, the rooftop door had given way, and the first zombies were spilling onto the roof. They moved quickly, their decaying bodies driven by an unrelenting hunger. ¡°Mike, you¡¯re next!¡± Vincent said, gesturing for Robby to follow. The two men crossed the ladders together, their movements steady despite the chaos unfolding behind them. Vincent was the last to go. He moved calmly, his eyes scanning the rooftop as the zombies closed in. The fastest of them was just seconds away, but Vincent had timed it perfectly. As he stepped onto the ladder, the first zombies reached the edge, their outstretched arms grasping at empty air. By the time Vincent reached the other side, the zombies were piling up at the edge of the roof. The sheer weight of the horde pushed the front rows over the edge, sending them plummeting to the ground below. It was a macabre sight, zombies raining down like grotesque hail, their bodies breaking upon impact. Vincent stood at the edge of the opposite rooftop, watching the chaos unfold. Then, with a smirk, he raised his pistol and fired two shots into the air. ¡°Just giving them a little encouragement,¡± he said dryly, as the zombies below writhed and roared in response. Chapter 43: Not the Only Smart One Two gunshots echoed through the aging neighborhood, shattering the eerie silence. The zombies, already in a frenzy, surged toward the source of the noise. Vincent had fired the shots from the edge of the rooftop, the sound dispersing in all directions. While the undead were drawn to noise, they lacked the cognitive ability to navigate complex paths. Unless the route was straightforward¡ªlike a stairwell¡ªthey¡¯d simply swarm aimlessly. Thanks to the closed shutters and reinforced barriers on the ground floor¡ªsome sealed before the outbreak, others by Brook and his men¡ªthe horde couldn¡¯t easily breach the building. The gunfire had intensified the chaos. Zombies poured into the building Vincent and the group had just escaped, their guttural roars echoing through the streets. The rooftop was now a death trap, with zombies tumbling over the edge in a macabre cascade, piling up in the narrow alley below. The sheer weight of the horde created a grotesque mound of bodies, nearly half a story high. And as more zombies pressed forward, the living began climbing over the dead, inching closer to the rooftop. If Vincent kept this up, the alley would soon be filled to the brim, creating a gruesome ladder for the undead to reach the rooftop. Alternatively, the pile might grow high enough for the zombies to smash through a lower-floor window, triggering a chain reaction that would flood the building. But Vincent wasn¡¯t interested in playing zombie exterminator. The undead were endless, and the risks far outweighed the rewards. After firing the shots, Vincent and the group took a moment to watch the surreal spectacle of zombies plummeting to their second deaths. But there was no time to celebrate their narrow escape from starvation. Vincent quickly led the group north across the rooftops. This building was massive, stretching forty meters wide and nearly a hundred meters long. At the northern edge, they found another ladder, already in place. They added the two ladders they¡¯d brought, creating a stable bridge to the next rooftop. One by one, they crossed, leaving the chaos behind. After traversing several rooftops, they reached the northernmost building on the street. Below them was a crossroad, still teeming with zombies, though not as densely packed as the previous location. The group paused, catching their breath and scanning their surroundings. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. ¡°How did Brook and his men get out of here?¡± Robby wondered aloud, his eyes narrowing as he studied the area. ¡°Do you think they¡¯re still in this building?¡± Vincent shook his head. ¡°Would you set up an escape route like this? One that doesn¡¯t even get you off the street?¡± Robby conceded the point. Brook wasn¡¯t a fool. There had to be another way. Vincent leaned against the waist-high concrete barrier, gazing down at the streets below. ¡°Brook wasn¡¯t stupid. If we didn¡¯t do it this way, neither would he. There¡¯s got to be something else.¡± He turned to the group. ¡°Take a break. We¡¯re not in a rush. Jason, come here. Let me check your injuries.¡± Jason¡¯s arms were scraped and bruised from his daring leap, but the wounds weren¡¯t serious. Vincent cleaned and bandaged them, ensuring they were protected from infection. In this world, even a drop of zombie blood could be fatal. The rooftop was smaller than the previous ones, about two to three hundred square meters, but its solid concrete barriers offered better protection. The group rested, some sitting, others standing, as Vincent tended to Christine¡¯s wound in a secluded spot behind the rooftop access shed. When they emerged, Christine¡¯s cheeks were flushed, and Manny shot her a curious look before pulling her aside for a whispered conversation. Meanwhile, Robby had been scouting the perimeter. He called Vincent over to the eastern edge of the rooftop, where a narrow alley stretched below. ¡°Look there,¡± Robby said, pointing to a cluster of cars and zombies. ¡°See that manhole cover? It¡¯s partially hidden, but it¡¯s there.¡± Vincent squinted, following Robby¡¯s gaze. The alley was a dead end, blocked by a wall about twenty meters in. A few cars were piled near the entrance, their positions too deliberate to be accidental. ¡°Those cars were pushed there,¡± Robby explained. ¡°Probably by Brook and his men. They used them to block the zombies from wandering into the alley.¡± Vincent nodded, piecing it together. ¡°So, Brook¡¯s escape route was through the sewer. They lured the zombies in, then slipped into the manhole and sealed it behind them. The zombies inside now must¡¯ve been left behind when Brook¡¯s group made their escape.¡± Robby stared at Vincent, impressed. ¡°You figured all that out just from what I said?¡± Vincent smirked. ¡°Don¡¯t flatter me. You¡¯re the one who spotted the details. You¡¯ve got a sharp eye¡ªno wonder you made it out of the war alive.¡± Vincent knew he wasn¡¯t the only smart one in the group. Sometimes, his decisiveness overshadowed others¡¯ contributions, but he respected their skills. He clapped Robby on the shoulder before turning to address the group. ¡°Ladies and gentlemen,¡± Vincent called out, clapping his hands to get their attention. ¡°Let¡¯s figure out how to get out of here.¡±