The world smelled of death.
Jack Ryder crouched behind the rusted skeleton of an old sedan, his knuckles white around the hilt of his machete. The wind whistled through the broken windows of an abandoned gas station, carrying the faint stench of rot and decay. The moans of the undead echoed in the distance, low and guttural, a sound that had become his constant companion in the two years since the world fell apart.
He shifted his weight, careful not to crunch the shattered glass beneath his boots. His eyes scanned the street—a post-apocalyptic graveyard littered with overturned vehicles, debris, and bloodstains long dried to black.
Movement.
Jack's breath hitched as a shadow darted between two buildings. He tightened his grip on the machete, his heart pounding like a war drum. He didn't believe in luck—luck had died with civilization—but he believed in instincts, and right now, his screamed trouble.
Suddenly, the shadow emerged. Not a zombie. A woman.
She was tall, her lean frame wrapped in a torn leather jacket and combat boots. Long, dark hair spilled over her shoulders, and in her hand, she carried a crowbar streaked with fresh blood.
"Don't move," Jack growled, stepping out from his cover, machete raised.
The woman froze, her piercing green eyes locking onto his. "Relax, cowboy," she said, her voice calm but edged with exhaustion. "I'm not here to rob you, and I'm definitely not one of them."
Jack's eyes darted to her neck, her arms, her legs—searching for bites or scratches. He'd been fooled before, and he wasn't about to let his guard down again.
"Prove it," he demanded.
She raised an eyebrow, then slowly rolled up the sleeve of her jacket. Jack's stomach turned. Her forearm was a patchwork of scars, including one that looked suspiciously like a bite.
"I was bitten," she admitted, her voice steady. "But I didn't turn."
Jack stared at her, his mind racing. "That's impossible."
"Is it?" she countered, her green eyes flashing with something he couldn't quite place—defiance, maybe, or fear. "Because I've been like this for six months, and I'm still breathing."
The moaning grew louder, closer. Jack glanced over his shoulder, his survival instincts warring with his curiosity.
"Listen," she said, stepping closer. "My name's Zara. You can either trust me and help me, or you can stand here arguing while we both get eaten alive. Your call."
For a moment, Jack hesitated. Then, cursing under his breath, he nodded toward the gas station. "Inside. Now."