But as the sound of the shot faded, the old man's ammo ran dry. Without hesitation, he swung the shotgun like a baseball bat, striking a zombie squarely in the face. "Think you can take me down? I'll make you regret every step!" he roared, his fierce determination pushing through the fear. With every swing, he cleared a path, fighting with the ferocity of a cornered beast.
Dane, rooted in a mix of shock and admiration, could only watch as the old man unleashed a whirlwind of fury. The scent of blood and gunpowder filled the air, overwhelming his senses. The sight of the old man's bravery ignited a spark within him, a flicker of hope amidst the horror.
The old man shoved Dane inside the shop with a grunt, then swung his shotgun, smashing it into a zombie's skull with a sickening crunch. The creature's head caved in, and the old man swiftly slammed down the roll-up gate of the shop. As it clattered shut, a zombie's hand was caught underneath, severed cleanly by the metal, the dismembered limb twitching on the floor. The old man stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, before taking a deep breath of relief. Meanwhile, Dane remained frozen in place, his mind still reeling from the nightmarish reality outside—people eating each other, chaos, death.
The old man, his boots thudding on the blood-streaked floor, walked over to Dane. His steps were slow and deliberate, as though he'd seen too much to rush anymore. He crouched down beside him, the smell of gunpowder and sweat heavy in the air. Pulling a worn hip flask from his coat, he unscrewed the cap and took a long, deep swig. With a weathered hand, he extended the flask toward Dane.
"Here," he said gruffly, his voice hoarse but calm. "Take it. It'll ease the pain. Don't think too much about what you've seen out there. It won't do you any good."
Dane looked up at the old man, his chest tightening with anger. His voice trembled as he shot back, "You killed so many people out there, and now you're sitting here, drinking like it's nothing. Celebrating their deaths?"
The old man paused mid-sip, a mocking grin spreading across his face. His eyes, hard and cold, gleamed with something dangerous. "Celebrating?" He took another swig, savoring it like it was the last bit of normalcy left in the world. "If you cared so much about them, why didn't you stop me? You stood there, letting it happen. People like you... you pretend to care. You act like you give a damn, but when the world goes to hell, you freeze. You want to know the truth, kid? They're not people anymore. They're monsters. And the sooner you get that through your head, the better."
He stood up slowly, stretching his limbs like a predator that had just finished a hunt. His old bones creaked, but his stance was strong. "Now, don't waste your time thinking about the dead. Start thinking about yourself, about survival. Grab whatever you can—we don't have long before more of those things show up."
Dane lowered his head, his mind swirling with confusion, guilt, and rage. His voice was barely a whisper when he asked, "Why did you save me? There were so many others you could've saved, but you chose me. What makes me any different?"
The old man, rummaging through the shelves for food, barely glanced up. He grabbed a dented can of beans, chuckling bitterly as he examined the label. "Look at this. Found us some food," he muttered to himself, then glanced over his shoulder at Dane. "Don't sit there wallowing. Get up and help me. We can't stay here long; this place isn't safe."
Dane didn't move. He just sat there, lost in the weight of it all. His silence was thick, heavy with unspoken words.
The old man straightened up, his face hardening as he realized Dane wasn't budging. He threw the can down with a loud clank, his eyes narrowing. "What's wrong with you, huh? Can't I handle it? You think I saved you because I'm some kind of hero? I saved you because you were in my way, and now I need someone to watch my back. This world, kid, it's not what it was yesterday. You either learn fast or die slow."
Dane's jaw clenched, his fists tightening. He felt the sting of the old man's words, but something deeper was gnawing at him—something he couldn't quite grasp. The world outside had turned into a living nightmare, and now he was being forced to face it, to act, even when his mind screamed for him to retreat.
The old man, clearly irritated by Dane's silence, finally walked up to him, crouching down so that their faces were inches apart. His breath smelled of whiskey and blood. His eyes, though aged and weary, burned with a raw intensity. "Listen, kid. I don't care what's going on in your head. We're in this mess together now, and if you want to stay alive, you're gonna have to pull yourself together. I've seen people like you—good people, scared people—die because they couldn't make the hard choices. Don't be one of them."
He stood up, turning his back on Dane. His voice dropped to a growl as he began shoving supplies into a bag. "I won't ask again. If you don't wanna talk, fine. But don't make me regret dragging your sorry ass out of that bloodbath."