"Hey! Anyone in there? Hey!"
Bang, bang, bang!
Outside Walmart, Mike was pounding on the glass doors and shouting inside. He was sure that if anyone was still alive in there, they must have heard them. The roar of the engine, the gunfire—it was impossible to miss.
The others had fought their way back and gathered around him. Zombies on the street were starting to swarm, and more were coming, drawn by the noise. If they could get inside quickly and make it up to the second floor, the undead would lose their scent and eventually drift away, leaving the building safe behind thick walls and heavy doors.
They could shoot the glass if they had to. It wasn't bulletproof—just reinforced, standard for a big-box store, not a military bunker. But if they shattered it now, the zombies would flood in after them. They'd lose any chance of securing supplies or finding a working vehicle.
In an apocalypse, bullets weren't for killing zombies, they were for survival. Zombies you could never kill enough of.
The street hadn't been too crowded with the undead at first, which gave them a slim window. But it wouldn't last. Their only real hope was for someone inside to hear them and open the damn door.
"Hey! Someone! Open the door!"
"Help us, please!"
They banged harder. Through the glass, they could see chains twisted tightly around the handles and four heavy locks snapped in place. Someone had gone to serious lengths to fortify the entrance, which meant people were definitely inside.
Zombies were thickening around them now. Liam knew they had seconds left to make a call. If nobody answered soon, they'd either have to sprint back to the car—already running on fumes—or find another way inside. But if someone had locked this door, chances were every other entrance was sealed too.
He hesitated. Then—running footsteps inside.
A figure burst from a corridor at the end of the entrance hall, maybe twenty meters away, a revolver in his hand. A young Black man about Liam's age, dressed in a Walmart employee uniform, blood spattered across his clothes, a baseball cap jammed low over his head, and a jangling ring of keys on his belt.
"Stop banging! Get out of here! Jesus Christ, you're bringing them all down on us!" the young man shouted, half stumbling, half sprinting toward them. Fear was etched across his face. He clearly wanted no part of letting them inside.
"Please! Open the door!" Manila pressed herself against the glass, spinning to fire another shot behind her. Her voice cracked, raw with urgency.
The young man hesitated—and then, cursing under his breath, he turned and bolted back the way he came.
"Hey!" Liam snapped.
He snatched the shotgun from Mike and pointed it squarely at the door. "Come back and open this door! Three seconds or I blow it down! Three… two—"
"I'm coming, I'm coming!"
The young man skidded back into view, tossing his revolver aside, fumbling frantically at his belt for the keys. "Don't shoot, I'm opening it!" he cried, stumbling toward the locks.
The zombie howls rose into a deafening chorus. Gunfire cracked constantly.
Walmart stood at the far right end of the street, beside a major intersection. Across the wide expanse of concrete, Liam could already see thousands of zombies converging, their numbers spreading in loose chaotic waves. And beyond that, even more were coming.
"Faster!" every instinct screamed.
The young man's hands were trembling so badly he dropped the keys multiple times, every second like a year stretching thin and cracking apart. Liam clenched his fists until his knuckles went white, fighting the urge to scream.
Four padlocks, one chain. Half a minute of terror.
When the last lock finally fell away, the doors creaked open. The group surged inside like a wave breaking.
"Goddamn it, you almost got us killed!" Jason snarled, letting go of Robby and jamming his gun against the young man's forehead.
Jason wasn't usually the type to snap—laidback, music-obsessed, the kind of guy who could dance through a minefield. But this wasn't a joke. His rage was cold and sharp.
The young man threw his hands up immediately, sweat streaming down his face. "I'm sorry, I… I didn't mean to—I'm sorry!"
Liam said nothing. He caught Manila's eye and nodded. Together they hurried Robby deeper into the building, with Kristin close behind.
Laura and Mike slammed the doors shut behind them, hastily looping the heavy chain around the handles again and snapping a single lock into place. They could already hear the pounding as the first zombies smashed into the glass, but the reinforced panels would hold—for a while, anyway.
"Jason! What the hell are you doing?" Laura smacked him hard on the back of the head as she rushed past. "Move! We don't have time for this!"
Jason muttered, "Yes, ma'am," his anger leaking away like a punctured tire. He gave the young man one last venomous glare, picked up the revolver from the floor, and sprinted after Laura.
...
Robby floated in a nightmare.
He saw the world consumed by the dead, saw his brother torn apart right in front of him, saw his own limbs ripped and devoured piece by piece.
He jolted awake with a gasp, his entire body aching.
Blinking against the fluorescent lights, he focused on the first thing he saw—a massive rack loaded entirely with instant noodles. Dozens of brands, endless rows.
Memory hit him like a punch. He lifted his arm to check the scrapes. Someone had cleaned and bandaged them. Some of the deeper cuts were taped with plasters.
Groaning, Robby staggered upright, clutching his sore back. He glanced around. A Walmart. A huge one. He spotted the logo stamped on a pillar nearby. Relief flooded through him.
Someone else caught his eye—a young Black man lounging lazily on a checkout counter, popping handfuls of chocolate-covered peanuts into his mouth. Empty snack bags littered the floor around him.
Jason caught Robby's movement and grinned, swinging down from the counter with the effortless grace of a street dancer. An AK-47 was slung casually over his back.
He strolled over and stuck out his hand. "Hey! I'm Jason."
Robby hesitated but shook it stiffly, not bothering with his name. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but Jason beat him to it, turning and yelling across the store.
"Liam! He's awake!"
...
Liam was halfway across the store, practically dragged by Manila and Christian, who were busy loading carts like kids on Christmas morning.
Liam had spent half the day trailing behind them, stuffing his face with free samples, his expression a mask of long-suffering patience.
Walmart was vast, endless rows of goods still mostly untouched. No guns in this one—Brooklyn's zoning laws probably.
Hearing Jason's shout, Liam almost sagged in relief. Finally, a distraction.
...
"Hey, Doc!"
Robby spotted Liam coming with the two women and waved him down.
"Thanks for saving me."
"Don't mention it. Hold still," Liam said, stepping in and peeling back Robby's eyelid with two fingers.
Red veins, yes—but no red mist in the iris. No sign of infection, only exhaustion.
Liam checked him over quickly.
Robby had been caught in the blast. Small scrapes and cuts. Risk of exposure to zombie fluids—but no symptoms yet. Infection typically claimed victims within ten minutes to six hours. Robby had made it this far. Good sign.
"Looks good," Liam muttered. He pulled two handguns from his belt and handed them over. "You're going to need these."
Robby took the weapons, his hands moving on instinct, checking the chambers, holstering them at his waist. His mind was still foggy. He had no idea what had happened, just that Liam had pulled him out.
"Doc—"
"Meet the others first. I'll explain everything in a minute," Liam said, clapping him on the shoulder.Chapter 20 – Breaking In
"Hey! Anyone in there? Hey!"
Bang, bang, bang!
Outside Walmart, Mike was pounding on the glass doors and shouting inside. He was sure that if anyone was still alive in there, they must have heard them. The roar of the engine, the gunfire—it was impossible to miss.
The others had fought their way back and gathered around him. Zombies on the street were starting to swarm, and more were coming, drawn by the noise. If they could get inside quickly and make it up to the second floor, the undead would lose their scent and eventually drift away, leaving the building safe behind thick walls and heavy doors.
They could shoot the glass if they had to. It wasn't bulletproof—just reinforced, standard for a big-box store, not a military bunker. But if they shattered it now, the zombies would flood in after them. They'd lose any chance of securing supplies or finding a working vehicle.
In an apocalypse, bullets weren't for killing zombies, they were for survival. Zombies you could never kill enough of.
The street hadn't been too crowded with the undead at first, which gave them a slim window. But it wouldn't last. Their only real hope was for someone inside to hear them and open the damn door.
"Hey! Someone! Open the door!"
"Help us, please!"
They banged harder. Through the glass, they could see chains twisted tightly around the handles and four heavy locks snapped in place. Someone had gone to serious lengths to fortify the entrance, which meant people were definitely inside.
Zombies were thickening around them now. Liam knew they had seconds left to make a call. If nobody answered soon, they'd either have to sprint back to the car—already running on fumes—or find another way inside. But if someone had locked this door, chances were every other entrance was sealed too.
He hesitated. Then—running footsteps inside.
A figure burst from a corridor at the end of the entrance hall, maybe twenty meters away, a revolver in his hand. A young Black man about Liam's age, dressed in a Walmart employee uniform, blood spattered across his clothes, a baseball cap jammed low over his head, and a jangling ring of keys on his belt.
"Stop banging! Get out of here! Jesus Christ, you're bringing them all down on us!" the young man shouted, half stumbling, half sprinting toward them. Fear was etched across his face. He clearly wanted no part of letting them inside.
"Please! Open the door!" Manila pressed herself against the glass, spinning to fire another shot behind her. Her voice cracked, raw with urgency.
The young man hesitated—and then, cursing under his breath, he turned and bolted back the way he came.
"Hey!" Liam snapped.
He snatched the shotgun from Mike and pointed it squarely at the door. "Come back and open this door! Three seconds or I blow it down! Three… two—"
"I'm coming, I'm coming!"
The young man skidded back into view, tossing his revolver aside, fumbling frantically at his belt for the keys. "Don't shoot, I'm opening it!" he cried, stumbling toward the locks.
The zombie howls rose into a deafening chorus. Gunfire cracked constantly.
Walmart stood at the far right end of the street, beside a major intersection. Across the wide expanse of concrete, Liam could already see thousands of zombies converging, their numbers spreading in loose chaotic waves. And beyond that, even more were coming.
"Faster!" every instinct screamed.
The young man's hands were trembling so badly he dropped the keys multiple times, every second like a year stretching thin and cracking apart. Liam clenched his fists until his knuckles went white, fighting the urge to scream.
Four padlocks, one chain. Half a minute of terror.
When the last lock finally fell away, the doors creaked open. The group surged inside like a wave breaking.
"Goddamn it, you almost got us killed!" Jason snarled, letting go of Robby and jamming his gun against the young man's forehead.
Jason wasn't usually the type to snap—laidback, music-obsessed, the kind of guy who could dance through a minefield. But this wasn't a joke. His rage was cold and sharp.
The young man threw his hands up immediately, sweat streaming down his face. "I'm sorry, I… I didn't mean to—I'm sorry!"
Liam said nothing. He caught Manila's eye and nodded. Together they hurried Robby deeper into the building, with Kristin close behind.
Laura and Mike slammed the doors shut behind them, hastily looping the heavy chain around the handles again and snapping a single lock into place. They could already hear the pounding as the first zombies smashed into the glass, but the reinforced panels would hold—for a while, anyway.
"Jason! What the hell are you doing?" Laura smacked him hard on the back of the head as she rushed past. "Move! We don't have time for this!"
Jason muttered, "Yes, ma'am," his anger leaking away like a punctured tire. He gave the young man one last venomous glare, picked up the revolver from the floor, and sprinted after Laura.
...
Robby floated in a nightmare.
He saw the world consumed by the dead, saw his brother torn apart right in front of him, saw his own limbs ripped and devoured piece by piece.
He jolted awake with a gasp, his entire body aching.
Blinking against the fluorescent lights, he focused on the first thing he saw—a massive rack loaded entirely with instant noodles. Dozens of brands, endless rows.
Memory hit him like a punch. He lifted his arm to check the scrapes. Someone had cleaned and bandaged them. Some of the deeper cuts were taped with plasters.
Groaning, Robby staggered upright, clutching his sore back. He glanced around. A Walmart. A huge one. He spotted the logo stamped on a pillar nearby. Relief flooded through him.
Someone else caught his eye—a young Black man lounging lazily on a checkout counter, popping handfuls of chocolate-covered peanuts into his mouth. Empty snack bags littered the floor around him.
Jason caught Robby's movement and grinned, swinging down from the counter with the effortless grace of a street dancer. An AK-47 was slung casually over his back.
He strolled over and stuck out his hand. "Hey! I'm Jason."
Robby hesitated but shook it stiffly, not bothering with his name. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but Jason beat him to it, turning and yelling across the store.
"Liam! He's awake!"
...
Liam was halfway across the store, practically dragged by Manila and Christian, who were busy loading carts like kids on Christmas morning.
Liam had spent half the day trailing behind them, stuffing his face with free samples, his expression a mask of long-suffering patience.
Walmart was vast, endless rows of goods still mostly untouched. No guns in this one—Brooklyn's zoning laws probably.
Hearing Jason's shout, Liam almost sagged in relief. Finally, a distraction.
⸻
"Hey, Doc!"
Robby spotted Liam coming with the two women and waved him down.
"Thanks for saving me."
"Don't mention it. Hold still," Liam said, stepping in and peeling back Robby's eyelid with two fingers.
Red veins, yes—but no red mist in the iris. No sign of infection, only exhaustion.
Liam checked him over quickly.
Robby had been caught in the blast. Small scrapes and cuts. Risk of exposure to zombie fluids—but no symptoms yet. Infection typically claimed victims within ten minutes to six hours. Robby had made it this far. Good sign.
"Looks good," Liam muttered. He pulled two handguns from his belt and handed them over. "You're going to need these."
Robby took the weapons, his hands moving on instinct, checking the chambers, holstering them at his waist. His mind was still foggy. He had no idea what had happened, just that Liam had pulled him out.
"Doc—"
"Meet the others first. I'll explain everything in a minute," Liam said, clapping him on the shoulder.