*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—a 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—maybe 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—hardly 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*—a 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.
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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—not 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.
