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—keep 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—

  *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—some 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—a habit born of survival.

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  "Yeah, it’s ours," Vincent replied, nodding. He glanced at the others—three 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."