- Guns are amazing… until they shout to the whole neighborhood, “Hey! Fresh meat here!”

  - Against people? Useful. Against the Hungry Munchers? Only if you hit the head.

  - Ammo is gold. Count heads. Count bullets. Make every shot mean something.

  ---

  I didn’t plan on joining a group.

  I liked being alone. Fewer mouths to feed, fewer opinions, fewer chances to die because someone else sneezed too loud. But people happen. Especially when they’re loud, covered in blood, and running straight at you from down the street.

  There were four of them. A mixed bunch—two guys, one girl, one tween with a backpack bigger than he was. They were hauling ass, eyes wide, mouths open, and behind them? The biggest damn horde I’d seen yet.

  Gunshots cracked through the air like fireworks. Fast, panicked. They were shooting wildly, missing more than they hit. One guy stopped to reload—real rookie mistake—and nearly got tackled. The girl pulled him free, swearing like a sailor.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  I should’ve turned and ran. That’s what Past Elliot would’ve done.

  But I saw the kid trip.

  He fell face-first onto the road, bag thudding beside him. The others didn’t notice. They just kept running.

  So, of course, I ran toward him.

  I didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. My legs moved before I gave them permission. I scooped the kid up, slung him over my shoulder like a sack of dirty laundry, and bolted down a side alley I knew from my pizza delivery days.

  We lost most of the horde ducking through a collapsed garage. They couldn’t squeeze through the wreckage, but we could. We didn’t stop until we were five blocks away, panting, sweating, covered in street dust and kid snot.

  Later that night, we camped out in a locked garden center—concrete walls, iron gate, plenty of potting soil to sleep on. The survivors introduced themselves. Alex, Erin, Marcus, and the kid was Benji. Nice folks. Shell-shocked. Still bleeding adrenaline.

  That’s when we talked guns.

  Marcus was the main shooter. Had a Glock he barely knew how to clean. Said he used to work security at the mall. Claimed he "knew what he was doing." Burned through nearly thirty rounds in five minutes and didn’t even graze half the infected chasing us.

  I told him the truth, as politely as I could: “You’re loud, you’re sloppy, and if you were any worse at aiming, I’d think you were doing it on purpose.”

  He didn’t take it well. But he listened.

  See, guns are double-edged. They make you feel safe. Powerful. But they’re loud, they need maintenance, and they don't do jack if you can't land a headshot. Zombies don’t flinch when they get winged in the shoulder. They just keep coming, jaws wide open.

  And ammo? That stuff’s like diamonds now. You count every bullet like it’s your last birthday wish.

  I’ve seen people with knives last longer than people with rifles.

  That night, I traded Marcus a can of peaches for a crowbar. We called it even.