Brooklyn, New York – 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.

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  “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—more 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—brown 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.