In the rules of surviving the apocalypse, the most crucial one is: never be a soft-hearted fool. Liam was a composed man, driven by a fierce will to live. He would do whatever it took—even if it meant appearing cold-blooded. Perhaps he wasn't inherently that way, but he'd learned to force himself into it. Yet now, he wasn't alone. He needed others to escape with him, to cooperate. And since he had gradually taken the lead, he couldn't afford to seem too cold. That would erode trust. People would start to guard themselves against him, fearing he might sacrifice them to save himself. Liam knew he wouldn't do that, but appearances mattered.
So he could be calm, but not cold. He had to weigh decisions, consider pros and cons, not just shut things down. He'd made a pact with the group, and the most important rule was—don't be a soft-hearted fool.
If they heard another survivor calling for help, what then? If there were only a few zombies, they would help. If there were too many, they would run. Even if that person died, it wasn't their fault. All evil stemmed from the zombies.
Normally, if the person on Oak Street hadn't been Robby, Liam and the others wouldn't have stopped. There were too many zombies there, and with their group being large, they were an easy target. If they risked injury to save a stranger, it wasn't worth it. Even if it were ten strangers, none of them were worth risking the safety of someone they knew.
Humans are emotional creatures. A hundred strangers aren't worth one familiar face.
Liam knew Robby. They'd interacted more than once. The most recent time, Liam had saved him. He had a decent grasp of Robby's character. What stood out most was Robby's marksmanship—he was incredibly accurate. That was why Liam was willing to save him. In a world without government or military protection, overrun by zombies and fraught with danger, having someone with excellent shooting skills on your side made survival more likely.
After the car exploded violently, Robby lay on the ground, his back slightly scraped but not seriously injured. However, the loud noise left his ears ringing intensely, a constant buzzing that disoriented him. He tried to lift his head, but the world swayed and doubled before his eyes. He felt utterly drained. Faintly, he thought he heard the screech of a car braking sharply—a piercing sound.
Rat-a-tat-tat! Bang bang bang bang!
Robby wanted to lift his head to see past the zombie corpses, to look further ahead, but he was too weak. The exhaustion grew heavier. In the final seconds before he lost consciousness, he heard gunfire and instinctively recognized two distinct sounds: one from an AK-47, the other from an M16 assault rifle.
"Quick, he's passed out."
"Grab him, let's go. Don't get bogged down—move!"
Those were the last voices Robby heard before everything went black.
He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious. It felt like he was on a small boat in a stormy sea, the vessel pitching wildly. Perhaps the car ride was just that bumpy. Robby briefly regained consciousness during the journey. He saw Liam—though his vision was still doubled, Liam's face was unmistakable. He realized he wasn't on a boat but in a violently jostling car, surrounded by unfamiliar faces.
"Doctor…"
Thud!
As Robby uttered just one word, the car jolted again. Still disoriented, his body lurched despite the seatbelt. His head slammed against the seatback. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn't have been a big deal, but Robby couldn't take it anymore. He blacked out again.
"Jason, you'd better hold him steady. I don't want him dying in the car!" Liam frowned, turning his gaze past Robby to Jason.
"Got it, no worries." Jason gave Liam an OK sign with a smirk.
"Mike, how much farther?" Liam shot Jason a look that said, "You'd better mean it," then tapped the back of Old Mike's seat.
"Two blocks!" Mike, still driving, glanced at Robby in the backseat. He wasn't the only one; everyone else in the car was also watching Robby. They didn't know who he was or why Liam had risked danger and used up ammunition to rescue someone who might have already been dead.
The vehicle sped through streets unfamiliar to Liam. He didn't know Brooklyn well. He worked in Manhattan during the day and rarely went out at night unless he had surgery. The only parts of Brooklyn he was familiar with were the red-light districts controlled by gangs. He hadn't explored much else.
Their destination was the only Walmart in Brooklyn, located on Second Avenue in the western part of the borough. Before the apocalypse, Walmart was the world's largest retailer, valued at nearly $250 billion.
Yet for some reason, Walmart had always struggled to establish stores within New York City. It was as if New Yorkers just didn't buy into it. The Walmart they were headed to had only just opened in January this year. Four stories tall, covering nearly ten thousand square meters with a total retail area pushing thirty thousand, plus an underground parking lot—this was a giant warehouse disguised as a supermarket.
According to Liam's plan, once they got the guns, the next stop was this Walmart. He had three reasons. First, it was a massive stockpile of supplies. With the apocalypse halting all production and distribution, survival now depended on the resources made before the collapse. A place like this, full of food and essentials, was a goldmine. Second, Liam believed the store would be relatively safe. It officially opened at 8 a.m., but the outbreak began just past 7, which meant it hadn't opened yet. There would have been no shoppers, maybe just a few security guards or early staff prepping shelves. So yes, there would be zombies inside, but not too many. And despite the floor-to-ceiling glass panels across the entrance, Liam knew this kind of place used reinforced double-layered glass. Zombies wouldn't break through that easily. If they could just get in and shut the doors, they'd have some breathing room.
The third and most important reason was the underground parking garage. A working car was life. The Ford they were using was a rusted piece of junk. It barely fit them all, and with the supplies they needed to carry, it was at its limit. Liam needed a better vehicle. A place like Walmart would have dozens of cars left behind, and odds were good one of them still had keys or could be hotwired.
As the Ford turned onto the wide road leading to the Walmart, the giant logo loomed into view. There weren't as many zombies around as Liam had feared. He thought someone else might have gotten there first, lured the undead to the building, but he had forgotten something—this was only the third day since the collapse. Most survivors were still hiding in their homes. Few dared to venture out, and even fewer had the calm mind and mobility Liam did.
The road widened. The density of the zombies thinned. The terrain smoothed out. The car's bouncing eased slightly.
"Get ready," Liam said. He was already hauling five rifles onto his back, strapping on bags full of handguns and ammunition. Over thirty kilograms of gear. His frame could handle it—for now.
Everyone else followed his lead. Except Mike, who stayed focused on the wheel.
Screeech.
Thirty meters from the Walmart entrance, the Ford skidded to a stop. There were steps, metal rails to stop carts, a bunch of minor obstacles. Mike was out first. Shotgun in hand, shell already chambered, he raised the barrel and blasted a charging zombie straight through the head. It dropped in a heap. Without wasting a second, he yanked two heavy ammo bags from behind the seat, scanned the area, and sprinted for the entrance.
Liam and Jason carried the unconscious Robby out of the car, each with one arm. In their free hands, they held pistols. Manila and Kristin stayed tight beside them. Laura, with the best aim, brought up the rear. They shot as they moved, clearing a path.
The zombies here were scattered, sluggish. None could keep up. The rush toward the building went smoothly.
"Shit, it's locked from the inside!" Mike suddenly shouted from the front.
That shouldn't have been the case. Even at 7 a.m., employees would have been inside prepping for the 8 o'clock opening. The doors should've been open—or at least unlocked.
Which meant one thing. There were still people alive in that Walmart.