Liam stood by the window, staring at the chaos in the street below, at the wandering dead, his eyes slightly unfocused like he'd forgotten, for a moment, what he was supposed to do next. Manila sat on the floor at the other end of the bed, her back against it, whispering "God" over and over under her breath.
Oak Street was an old commercial strip. None of the buildings lining it were taller than seven stories. The ground floors were stores, and everything above that was cheap rentals. The people who lived here belonged to the very bottom rung of the city's ladder.
The street was wide, but wrecked cars blocked it in all directions, some still belching smoke. Blood and broken bodies littered the pavement. The air reeked of iron. A few of the infected wandered aimlessly, their eyes glowing red, but even if it didn't look like much, it was enough to know that if a living person set foot out there, the undead would come faster and in greater numbers than anyone would expect.
They weren't smart, but they were strong. Inhumanly strong. And they carried a deadly virus. Even the strongest man couldn't take on one and come out clean. The only advantage—if you could call it that—was that they didn't run. They could walk fast, but not sprint. When you met one, there were only two options: run, or kill. That was it.
Liam watched the street for a long moment, then blinked himself back into focus. He moved to the television stand and crouched, pulling open a drawer. After rummaging briefly, he found what he was looking for—a photo in a silver frame. It was a woman, bald, in a hospital gown, holding a bouquet. She was beautiful, hard to age—probably under thirty—but her skin was pale and her smile sweet. Liam quickly removed the photo from the frame, stared at it for a moment, then kissed it and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
He turned his phone to radio mode, lowered the volume, plugged it into the charger, and set it on top of the TV. Then he returned to the bed and pulled out the black case. Inside were two empty magazines and over half a box of brass 9mm Luger rounds. His M9 already had a full mag loaded, and the remaining bullets were enough to fill the other two.
Liam loaded them, one round at a time, methodically, precisely. Once full, he slipped the mags into his left jacket pocket. He pulled out a suppressor and set it on the nightstand. There were still some fresh surgical tools in the case. Liam crossed the room to a cabinet, grabbed a backpack, and dumped everything from the black box into it. When it was empty, he shoved the case aside.
"What are you doing?" Manila asked, threading her fingers through her hair and pulling it back. Her voice was unsteady.
"Getting ready. Uncle Sam's not coming, and I don't plan on being zombie food." Liam glanced at her, then walked to the closet. From the bottom shoe rack, he pulled out a pair of laced-up sneakers and brought them over, setting them beside her. "Put these on. Might not fit, but tighten the laces."
"Thank you."
She'd run out of the shower barefoot earlier. Now, without hesitation, she slipped them on.
Liam laced up his own shoes, picked up the suppressor, pulled the pistol from his waistband, screwed the suppressor onto the barrel, and moved to the window. He lifted the curtain just enough to crack the window open two fingers wide. Then he raised the gun and aimed.
He didn't say anything. Just focused.
Manila had been watching him since she finished dressing. She blinked slowly, uncertain. She stepped lightly to his side and leaned in to get a look outside. "What are you doing…?"
She'd watched the broadcast. She knew there were too many of them out there to fight. You couldn't shoot your way through. You'd run out of bullets long before they ran out of bodies. She didn't get why Liam was aiming now.
Liam still said nothing. His aim stayed locked on a single figure near the two wrecked cars in the middle of the street. A girl. Looked young, maybe nineteen. She wore the hat from the children's clothing store on the first floor. Liam remembered her vaguely. She used to work there. Now her clothes were soaked in blood, her teeth bared in a frozen snarl, eyes red as fire, nails black and clawlike. She looked like something ripped from a horror movie. From the fourth floor, she was about forty meters away. Liam held the gun steady, hands like stone.
The steadiness wasn't just instinct. It was training. The same control he used when holding a scalpel. A surgeon's hand had to be rock-solid. The M9 was over a kilo loaded, but his grip didn't waver.
Manila didn't speak. She just watched him.
Pfft.
The shot was barely more than a dull thud. The bullet punched a hole straight into the girl's left eye. Her body crumpled backward into the wreckage with a thud. Liam yanked the curtain closed, inhaled sharply, and held it in.
He'd been aiming for the side of her temple, but it had veered slightly. Still, a lucky enough shot.
"That's the first time I've ever shot something alive," he said quietly. "I had to know if I could do it."
Liam could kill with a scalpel if he needed to—of that he had no doubt. He wasn't afraid of blood, not after what he'd seen. But pulling a trigger was different. Just like a guy who could throw punches in a fight might still freeze when it came to stabbing someone. The intent behind it was heavier. The consequences greater. He had to know he wouldn't hesitate. And now, after that shot, he knew.
In a world like this, hesitation could get you killed.
"What's your plan?" Manila asked, leaning against the wall behind her. She studied him, her voice more curious now than afraid. Liam was starting to feel less like some distant, half-familiar neighbor, and more like something real. Someone sharp, someone focused. When the TV had announced the end of the government, countless people across the country probably lost their minds. Liam had only grown quieter—and started preparing to survive.
"How much food's left in the fridge?" Liam asked, tucking the pistol back into his waistband. He hadn't been keeping track. He usually kept enough breakfast and dinner supplies to last a few days. Manila had just been in there, so she'd know.
"Oh… I didn't really check… you can—"
"I'll look."
He opened the fridge. Inside were two or three loaves of bread, a few cartons of milk, half a pizza, and a half-full tub of cereal. Enough for two people to stretch into maybe three days if they rationed. Realistically, two.
"Not much. I can stay here maybe two days, max. After that, I'm leaving. Hopefully the street clears a little by then—gives me a better shot at getting out," Liam said, closing the fridge.
He didn't say a word about Manila in that plan.
She noticed.
Bringing along a prostitute with no combat experience wasn't exactly smart. She knew it. He knew it. He hadn't said it, but he didn't have to.
"You're leaving me?" she asked, unable to keep the disbelief out of her voice.
"We were never in this together." Liam looked at her, face unreadable, voice flat. It wasn't cruel. It was just true. He didn't owe her anything. He had his own reasons, his own destination. Taking someone who couldn't fight, who might panic, who would slow him down—that wasn't a choice he was going to make. She was eating his food, wearing his clothes, and getting a chance to prepare. That was already more than most.
Manila wanted to believe Liam wasn't the type to abandon a woman to die, but everything about him screamed calculation. He wasn't cold-hearted—just cold-minded. And maybe that was worse.
"Don't leave me. Please." She stepped forward, eyes locked on him, hands raised, pleading. "Please. Take me with you. Don't leave me alone…"
"What can you do?" Liam asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. His eyes drifted over her—her body, her face, the way her lips curved when she pouted. She was sexy, sure. Skilled in bed, probably. But give her a knife, and she'd likely scream before she swung. She'd be deadweight.
Manila noticed his gaze and misunderstood it. Her eyes flicked down to his lap. She'd seen that look before. Men were men, after all. Lust never really went away, even in a nightmare.
"I can do anything. Whatever you want. If that's what it takes…" she whispered, crawling onto the bed, eyes smoldering with practiced seduction. She moved like she knew what men wanted, pulling up the hem of her shirt to reveal warm, sun-kissed skin. She was good at this—very good.
"Can you kill?" Liam asked.
She froze. The hand lifting her shirt dropped back down.
"What?" she said.
"Can you kill what's out there? People who used to be human. Zombies," Liam said again, voice calm.