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—or what was left of them—were 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—or 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—a 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.

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  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—about two fingers wide—and 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—there 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—a 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—”

  “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—three 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—he was looking for a survivor.