On this aging Manhattan street that seemed out of place amidst its steel-and-glass skyline, bloodstains and the scraps of decomposing corpses were everywhere. Two or three abandoned cars sat at odd angles, one of them smashed halfway into a small storefront.
Liam and the others had lost the zombie horde some time ago, likely now at least half a kilometer behind. The street was quiet, no undead in sight—but that didn't make it safe. The truck's blown tire made it impossible to move. And if another massive swarm caught up before the fix was done, they'd have no choice but to cram into the Grand Cherokee and flee. No amount of supplies was worth more than a life.
And in Manhattan, where people once stacked up like bricks in towers, any horde would be colossal. The absence of zombies here didn't bring relief. It meant they were somewhere else—gathered, waiting.
"Christine, Manila, Laura, Jason—stay sharp. Pistols only," Liam said as Jason rolled over the spare.
The right rear tire had gone. Old Mike didn't waste time figuring out why. He got the jack under the axle, lifting the truck just enough, and began working the bolts. Robby was at his side, both men knowing their way around tools. They didn't need Jason fumbling into the mix.
The stench in the air was brutal, but they were used to it now. Even the sharp, sour reek of rot no longer made anyone gag.
Liam took the chance to reorganize the bullets that had spilled across the SUV's back seat. Then, just as the tire came off, it happened.
A sudden metal rattle cut through the silence—the screech of a rolling shutter door being pulled open. Everyone flinched.
It came from across the street, fifteen meters away. A shop's half-open steel door, the kind with a faded sign above it, creaked open. A tattooed black arm reached out first, holding a rifle in a loose grip, as if to say: I'm human.
A man stepped out—a young Black guy, careful to keep his weapon nonthreatening. Then came more, seven in total. All men, of varying ages, all armed. None pointed their guns.
Another group of survivors.
Liam and the others slowly lowered their weapons. He left the SUV door hanging open as he walked forward.
"That your ride?" asked a tall, skinny white guy who pushed past the others, sharp-eyed and scanning every shadow.
"It is," Liam replied, eyes drifting over the group—three Black men, five white, all alert. Two had already wandered to the truck's cargo bay. The moment they looked inside, their expressions shifted.
"Brooke," the tall man said, offering a hand.
"Liam," he returned, giving Robby and Mike a subtle nod to hurry up.
"You the one in charge?" Brooke asked casually, stepping closer to inspect the truck.
"More or less." Liam couldn't shake a strange feeling—something about these people didn't sit right. He just couldn't name it yet.
Jason, ever the chatterbox, was already swapping life stories with a guy his age. Two others were chatting up Christine and Manila.
"Whoa," Brooke muttered when he saw the supplies inside. "That's some serious kit. Where you headed?"
"Out of the city. Country," Liam said, scratching at his chin. "What's with the streets? No undead?"
"Elsewhere. They're all bunched up for some reason. Beats me," Brooke said with a shrug.
The tire was almost done. Brooke scratched his head, then turned back to Liam. "Mind if we tag along?"
"What?" Liam blinked.
"I mean, take us with you."
Liam hesitated. "Why? You've got gear, food—you could head out yourselves."
"You've got that," Brooke said, pointing at the truck. "We saw how you built it. It's solid. Safer together, no?"
"All of you?" Liam asked, already thinking no.
"Some more inside. About fifteen, sixteen total," Brooke said.
"No way. Too many," Liam shot back. The truck was modified and full. And he didn't know these people—who they were, what they might do. He couldn't risk it.
"Come on, man," Brooke said, stepping closer. "We've got women, kids. You can't just leave us here. Don't do this."
He gestured to a building across the street, up to the seventh floor. "Look. Women. You really gonna leave us to die?"
Liam squinted into the sun. Two women were waving from a window.
But he couldn't see the details.
Inside that building, on the seventh floor, the room was a hellhole. Empty wrappers, used condoms, tissues. One bed creaked under the weight of a heavy man and a naked, middle-aged woman, bruised and bleeding. Her wrists were tied to the frame, mouth taped shut. She wept as he hit her.
By the window stood two women—one in her twenties, one in her thirties—wearing men's shirts and nothing else. Their hair was matted, faces hollow, eyes swollen. Behind them stood two men, guns pressed to their backs. One of them groped the younger woman with a smirk.
Outside, Liam saw the two women and raised his hand to block the glare—then it hit him. A sharp force slammed into his back.
Before he could react, he was on the ground, his wrist twisted behind him, gun ripped away. Cold steel pressed against his temple.
It had to be Brooke. He was the only one close enough.
And at that exact second, everything went sideways.
The guy chatting with Jason raised his gun. Jason did the same. Manila, Christine, Laura—all raised theirs. But Christine wasn't quick enough. The man near her yanked her close, a knife to her throat.
Mike and Robby, crouched behind the truck, were caught off guard. They stood slowly, three guns pointed at them.
"Don't move," Brooke barked, dragging Liam up by the collar and locking an arm around his throat. "You want your boss to live, you'll listen."
Liam struggled, but the barrel against his skull froze him. Christine was hauled toward the group, knife still pressed tight to her skin.
Brooke and his crew began circling, their guns aimed and ready.
"Damn, you're a tough bunch," Brooke said with a grin, though his tone darkened. "But you should've helped us when you had the chance. Now, drop your weapons."