*Bang Bang*
Adam hit the door, screaming for Marcus to let him in.
"Hey, let me in! Come on, this isn't funny," Adam said, anger laced in every word.
"Five minutes—show us what you got," Marcus answered from inside the building.
All this noise drew two infected toward him. Adam turned to face them, gritting his teeth.
'Damn, what a douchebag. Well, here goes something.'
Adam crouched low, his left foot forward and his right foot back.
As the two infected got closer, they seemed to move in unison, their lifeless eyes fixed on their prey—Adam.
Driven by instinct more than sight, they staggered forward, dragging broken limbs and leaving smears along the cracked pavement. With each halting step, they crept closer, jaws slack and hungry, hoping for fresh prey.
Adam steeled himself for the impending fight. He reached for his karambit, but his hand closed on empty air. Panic set in; he'd left the knife inside.
His mind started racing.
'Oh, shit biscuits, this isn't good at all.'
Adam was worried, but he kept his cool—staying calm was exactly what he needed right now.
His eyes searched the alleyway for anything he could use, and he found it: a plank, broken in a way that left one end sharp.
The infected were already on him by this time. Gritting his teeth, Adam used his legs to push them back, buying himself a few seconds as he made a run for the plank.
It was wedged between some garbage, so he struggled to free it, and in that time, the zombies were nearly upon him again.
Adam prepared to strike, raising the plank above his head. He brought it down with such force that it pierced through and got stuck in one zombie's skull.
As he struggled to pull the plank free, he heard the guttural snarling of another infected creeping up from the corner of the alleyway.
Hearing it close behind, Adam yanked at the plank harder, but to no avail.
He turned to face the zombie as it lurched toward him. He blocked it with his arm, pressing a hand against its chest.
Thankfully, Adam was a large man, and he couldn't be easily knocked down. Using all his strength, he shoved the creature back, sending it sprawling to the ground.
He turned to face the other infected and took the initiative, making a charge.
But the alleyway was filled with bags of trash, plastic bottles, and cans—lots of cans. One step, and he lost his balance, tumbling over.
The zombie, following its instincts, fell right after him, but Adam reacted fast, grabbing it by the wrists.
Pinned to the ground, his back pressed into the cold, cracked asphalt, he struggled against the weight of the undead horror straddling him. The zombie's decaying face hovered inches from his own, its jaws snapping with every lunge, each gnash of rotting teeth a promise of pain. He could feel its fetid breath—sickly sweet and rancid—as it lunged down, his arms barely keeping the creature at bay, hands clamped tight around its bony wrists.
With his heart hammering, he turned his head just enough to catch sight of another figure stumbling toward him from behind. It moved with a twisted, shuffling gait, eyes empty yet focused, a relentless specter of death. Panic surged as he realized his time was running out; one slip, one falter, and he'd be surrounded—trapped with no way out.
Just as he felt his strength waning, a sudden blur of motion cut through the groans of the undead. The zombie behind him staggered, its head snapping back as it crumpled to the ground with a wet thud. In the split second he had to glance up, he saw someone standing over him—a young man, barely out of his teens, yet wielding a blade with a calm precision that spoke of grim experience.
The boy's face was sharp and angular, almost hollow, with high cheekbones and piercing dark eyes that held an unwavering focus. His skin was pale, hardened by nights without rest and months under sunless skies, and his jaw was set tight, lips pulled into a thin line. A few loose strands of short, raven-black hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat and wild from battle, each strand adding to his air of defiance.
He was tall and lean, his frame wiry rather than muscular, but there was a compact strength in his movements, like someone always ready to bolt or strike. He wore a rugged, dark jacket with frayed edges, the sleeves pushed up to reveal scarred forearms that hinted at past struggles. Beneath the jacket, a fitted, faded shirt clung to him, speckled with dirt and dried blood. His worn, dark jeans were tucked into a pair of old, well-used boots, each step sure and silent as he moved.
The katana in his hand gleamed dully, coated in the grime of battle but undeniably lethal. He stepped forward without hesitation, raising the blade and plunging it straight through the skull of the zombie that pinned Adam down. With a smooth twist, he freed the weapon, wiped the blood away, then extended a hand, meeting Adam's gaze with a calm, steady intensity that belied his youth.
Adam accepted the hand and pulled himself up.
"Thanks," he said, his tone tentative.
"No problem, but you gotta pay me back somehow."
The boy's voice cut through the silence—high-pitched and unexpectedly soft. It didn't match the hardened face before him, nor the grim efficiency with which he'd just taken down two zombies.
His voice was thin and almost boyish, like that of a sixteen-year-old barely out of adolescence. It was jarring, an odd contrast to the wiry, battle-worn figure standing over him with a bloodstained katana. The stranger's eyes held a calmness, even a hint of maturity beyond his years, but that voice threw Adam off, fragile in the tense silence that followed the fight.
"Yeah, don't worry—follow me," Adam said, still astonished by how young he seemed.
The boy pointed his katana toward the door that had previously kept Adam out.
The boy shot a grin, his voice breaking the quiet with an unmistakably Australian drawl.
"Is that it, mate?" he said, the words rolling off his tongue with a casual, almost lazy cadence, each vowel drawn out and softened, with the "r" all but vanished. The accent was light but distinct, giving his thin, boyish voice an unexpected charm, as though he were speaking from a sunny coast instead of a world overrun by the dead.
He gave a quick nod toward the fallen zombies, one eyebrow quirking up with an easy confidence that didn't quite match the brutal scene. "Didn't think they'd give you that much trouble," he added, smirking, his voice carrying that hint of irreverence that only an Aussie accent could lend.
"Yeah, well, I haven't been out much," Adam replied with a smile. "Come on, let's go in."
Just as they prepared to knock, the door flew open, revealing Marcus and Tabitha's worried expressions.
Adam was still fuming as he walked in, pulling the boy with him.
"Hey, where are you going?" Marcus asked, looking concerned.
"Oh, you wanna shove me out again?" Adam's anger was plain; he understood why Marcus had done it but resented not being told first.
In the room where they'd spent the night, Adam sat down, trying to collect himself.
He looked over at the boy. "What's your name?"
The stranger sheathed his blood-stained katana with a casual flick. "Name's Lachlan," he said, eyes glinting with an easy charm that didn't match the brutal scene around them.
Standing closer now, it became clear that Lachlan wasn't as young as he'd seemed. Fine lines marked the corners of his eyes, and faint stubble shadowed his jaw—signs of someone in his late twenties, maybe even older. His lean build spoke more to speed and experience than youthful recklessness, and those dark eyes held a depth, a knowing, that suggested he'd seen far more of this world than anyone would guess at first glance.
"Nice meeting you, Lachlan," Adam said with a sigh.
"Oi, so what happened with you and your mates here? They piss in your bikkies or somethin'?" Lachlan asked, sensing the unease.
"It's fine; all's good," Adam said with a forced smile.
"Righto, suit yaself, mate."
As Lachlan finished, both Marcus and Tabitha walked in.
Marcus immediately went for Lachlan, pinning him down while Tabitha glared at Adam.
"Are you gonna explain yourself?" Tabitha asked in a tone heavy with judgment.
Marcus frisked Lachlan, ensuring he had nothing on him.
"Y'know, ya didn't hafta do this, but I don't mind—as long as ya keep yer mitts off me katana," Lachlan said with an edge.
"Well now, I'm gonna hafta do it, ain't I, mate?" Marcus replied, mimicking Lachlan's accent, poorly.
As Marcus's hand touched the katana, Lachlan made his move.
With a grunt, he pushed up from the ground, shifting his weight and slipping out of Marcus's hold. In one fluid motion, he twisted, grasped the katana, and drew it in a single, smooth arc, knocking Marcus onto his back.
"Told ya not ta do it, didn't I? Now look what happened, ya bloody shithead," Lachlan muttered, a sick smile on his face.
"Put it down," Tabitha said flatly, her Colt Python aimed at Lachlan's face.
Lachlan raised his hands slightly in surrender, though his expression remained defiant. "Righto, just tell 'im not to pull that stunt again—I don't wanna hafta kill 'im. Ya seem like good folks," he said as he slowly sheathed his katana.
Tabitha relaxed slightly, holstering her gun. "Well, come on, guys. We still have a long way to go. I saw an RV out back with only about five infected around it; we can take 'em," she said, refocusing on their mission.
Marcus accepted the truce, standing up and gathering their things. Adam, still fuming but understanding the need to keep the peace, nodded in agreement.
"We've got a thousand miles ahead of us," Marcus said more cheerfully, trying to lift the tension.
Tabitha pointed north. "We'll head to Albany, then Bear Mountain State Park. That's where our people are," she said, casting a sharp glance at Lachlan, as if gauging his reaction.
Lachlan's mouth quirked up in a smirk. "What, ya think I'm gonna try anythin'? You've got a bloody gun, and I've got a katana, for cryin' out loud!" He gave a half-hearted shrug. "Oh, and name's Lachlan, by the way."
Adam, still simmering, looked at Marcus and Tabitha with a steady gaze. "Hey, you two—this isn't settled, but I'm gonna let it slide till we reach camp," he said, his voice calm but firm. Armed now with a Glock 19 and a sheathed MKII Ka-Bar knife, Adam looked ready to face whatever lay ahead.
"Alrighty then," Marcus said, a bit more pumped, "let's go chew up some asphalt."
As the group started moving toward the RV, Adam knew he'd have to rely on them, despite his anger. It was his best shot at staying alive and, maybe, piecing together the fragments of his memory.