The problem with saving people in the apocalypse is that they don't trust you for it.
I mean, I get it. There are no freebies anymore. No random acts of kindness, no Good Samaritans, no strangers pulling others from the depths of hell just for the sake of it.
If someone helps you, it's because they want something in return. Maybe food. Maybe weapons. Maybe a warm body to act as bait when the next wave of zombies comes knocking.
So, when Pretty Boy wavers on his feet, his balance flickering like a candle in the wind, and I rush to steady him—he recoils. His muscles tense, his fingers twitch toward his weapon, and for a moment, I think he might actually swing it at me.
I risked my undead ass for this?
"Easy, champ," I mutter, gripping his arm and bracing against his weight. "Unless you're aiming for an express trip to the floor, I suggest you cooperate."
