The night was colder than usual, and the air smelled of damp concrete, rust, and decay. The city had long been abandoned by the living, leaving only shadows and the restless dead to roam the streets. Max sat against the wall of his temporary shelter, exhaustion settling deep into his bones.
It had been days since he last had a full night's rest, and his body was beginning to feel the consequences. His limbs felt heavier than before, his reaction time slightly dulled, and an ever-present headache throbbed at the base of his skull. But despite his exhaustion, he couldn't afford to sleep deeply. The city at night was different than it was during the day.
The undead were more active now, drawn by the eerie silence that settled over the ruins when the sun disappeared. Without the distant echoes of car alarms or the occasional burst of gunfire in the distance, the slightest noise could travel far, and Max knew that a single mistake could mean death.
He gripped the handle of his knife tightly, his fingers stiff from the cold. He had barricaded himself inside the upper floor of an old office building, using broken furniture to block the stairwell leading up to him. It wasn't perfect, but it would slow anything that tried to get in.
His stomach growled, and he reached into his backpack, pulling out the last remaining piece of jerky he had scavenged earlier. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste, knowing he wouldn't find more food unless he went searching for it. That thought weighed on him—he needed to leave the safety of his shelter soon.
But before he could even consider his next move, a distant noise caught his attention.
A metallic clang.
Max immediately tensed, his grip on his knife tightening. He pushed himself up, moving toward the window with careful, measured steps. Peering through a gap in the broken blinds, he scanned the street below.
There—movement.
A figure darted between the wreckage of abandoned cars, stumbling as they ran. Unlike the undead, whose movements were sluggish and uncoordinated, this person was desperate, panicked. But they weren't alone.
Several walkers followed closely behind, their rotting bodies illuminated by the faint glow of the moon. There were six, maybe more. The person leading them was limping, their movements slower than they should have been.
Max's mind worked quickly.
Getting involved was risky. If he engaged, he'd be exposing himself, wasting energy, and potentially leading more undead back to his shelter. But if he did nothing, he'd have to sit there and listen as that person was ripped apart just outside.
His jaw tightened.
"Damn it."
Without another thought, he grabbed his gear and moved.
His exit was already planned—out the window, down the fire escape, and into the alley. He landed softly on the cracked pavement below, staying low as he moved toward the street. The walkers hadn't noticed him yet, all their attention fixed on their prey.
The person was on the ground now, struggling to get back up. The closest walker reached for them.
Max sprinted forward.
With a single, well-practiced motion, he plunged his knife into the back of the walker's skull, yanking it free just as the corpse crumpled. The others immediately turned toward him, their guttural moans filling the empty street.
"Get up!" he barked at the survivor.
They flinched but scrambled to their feet, staggering back as Max positioned himself between them and the remaining undead.
The first walker lunged, its rotten fingers grasping at the air. Max sidestepped, driving his knife upward into its jaw. The second came from the left—he ducked low, slashing at its legs before finishing it off with a quick stab to the temple.
There were still four left.
He backed up slightly, angling himself toward the survivor. "Can you run?"
"I—yeah," they gasped, clutching their side. "I think so."
"Then move!"
They didn't hesitate.
Max followed closely, keeping an eye on their surroundings. The last thing they needed was to get cornered. As they turned into a nearby alley, he spotted a rusted-out car with its driver-side door open.
"In there!"
The survivor dove inside, and Max quickly followed, pulling the door shut behind them. The walkers reached the alley moments later, their decayed faces pressing against the glass, hands clawing at the door.
For several long seconds, neither of them spoke.
Max listened to the rhythmic thudding of the undead against the car, counting their numbers. Too many to fight head-on without a plan.
The survivor let out a shaky breath, their body trembling from exhaustion. Now that Max could see them up close, he realized they were a young woman, her face streaked with dirt and dried blood.
"Are you bit?" he asked, his voice low.
She shook her head quickly. "No—just fell. Scraped my arm."
Max studied her for a moment before nodding. He turned his attention back to the undead outside. The walkers weren't leaving anytime soon.
Then, something caught his eye.
A glint of metal, partially buried under an old newspaper in the passenger seat. His pulse quickened as he reached for it, his fingers wrapping around the familiar shape of a handgun.
A **9mm pistol**.
It was old, but intact. A quick inspection confirmed it was loaded—**six bullets**.
Max exhaled slowly.
A gun was useful, but it came with consequences. The noise would attract more walkers, and with only six bullets, he had to be careful. But for now, it was an ace up his sleeve.
The survivor—Lena, as she introduced herself—shifted uncomfortably. "What now?"
Max glanced at her, noting the way she cradled her injured arm. She was in bad shape. If he left her out here, she wouldn't last the night.
He sighed. "We wait for them to lose interest. Then we move."
Lena nodded, though her expression was still uneasy. "Why did you help me?"
Max didn't answer right away.
Why had he?
He had told himself time and time again that people were dangerous, that trusting others would only get him killed. And yet, when he saw her on the ground, surrounded, something in him had refused to walk away.
"Doesn't matter," he muttered finally.
Lena didn't push the question further.
Hours passed. Eventually, the walkers outside grew bored and wandered off. When the coast was clear, Max led Lena back toward his shelter, making sure they weren't being followed.
Once inside, he reinforced the barricades and handed her a bottle of water from his pack. She took it gratefully, drinking in small, controlled sips.
Max sat against the wall, rubbing his temples. The exhaustion was unbearable now, his body screaming for rest. His muscles ached, his head felt heavy, and the lack of proper sleep was finally catching up to him.
"I'll keep watch," Lena offered hesitantly. "You saved me. Least I can do."
Max studied her for a moment before nodding. He didn't fully trust her, but for now, he didn't have much of a choice.
He closed his eyes, letting the weight of exhaustion pull him under.
For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to rest.
---
### **End of Chapter Nine**