On the rooftop of the Walmart Supercenter in Brooklyn, the wind was harsh and the air reeked of rot. Liam lay against the rooftop railing, the legendary sniper rifle Barrett M82A1 set up beside him, but he wasn't touching it. Instead, he was looking down at something on his phone.
"Hi," came a sweet but slightly hesitant voice from behind him.
Liam loosened his grip on his handgun, lowering it quietly. He had heard footsteps earlier, but couldn't tell who it was until now—the voice belonged to Christine.
"Hi," Liam said, straightening up and slipping his phone into his pocket. He turned and immediately frowned.
Christine had changed. She wore pink low-rise shorts that barely covered her hips, held up by a white belt. Her long, pale legs were almost fully exposed. She had slipped on light-colored flats, and on top, a white short-sleeved t-shirt, but she had knotted the hem to reveal her smooth stomach, where Liam could even see a small tattoo on her side. Her hair was no longer loose waves but tied into playful twin ponytails, and her makeup was carefully done.
Christine walked toward him with her hands in her pockets, shy and awkward in a way that made Liam squint slightly in disapproval.
"Why are you dressed like that?" Liam shoved his phone deeper into his pocket, frowning more.
"Don't I look good?" Christine stopped, glanced down at herself, then looked up with a sweet, expectant smile, nervously brushing one of her ponytails back over her shoulder.
"You're sixteen," Liam said, his voice firm, "go change."
He wasn't blind, he understood her little ploy. But Liam was eleven years older than her, practically old enough to be her uncle. He wasn't someone who indulged in lust easily, especially not toward a high school girl. In his eyes, Christine was just a kid, and he couldn't bring himself to see her any other way.
Christine's smile froze. She lowered her head, hurt flashing across her face, and turned around, walking back toward the stairwell. She thought men liked girls who dressed maturely, sexier. Clearly, with Liam, that wasn't even the issue. To him, she wasn't a woman yet, just a little girl. And in truth, Christine wasn't as young inside as Liam seemed to think.
Click clack click clack!
Before Christine even reached the stairwell, the sharp sound of heels echoed up the stairs. Manila strutted onto the rooftop, her hips swinging, wearing a high-slit evening dress and stilettos. A black pistol was strapped to her exposed thigh, and two hunting knives were tucked at her waist. Her flaming red lipstick and wild look fully embodied both sexiness and danger.
"Hey, Christine," she said lightly.
"Hey," Christine answered, her voice low.
Manila brushed past her and walked out into the open rooftop, stopping about ten meters away from Liam. She spun around dramatically, striking a pose. "Well?" she grinned.
"Cool," Liam said with a smile.
Manila sauntered up to him, eyes sparkling, brushing her body lightly against his. She raised a hand, fingers trailing over Liam's cheek. She smiled, biting her lip just slightly. "Just cool?"
"Very beautiful," Liam said. He leaned in, their noses brushing, then tilted his head, closing the gap between them.
They kissed deeply, their bodies pressed close.
Christine, standing at the stairwell, watched silently, heart twisting painfully. She looked down at herself again, then turned and fled down the stairs, heels clattering against the concrete.
"That little girl likes you," Manila whispered against Liam's lips, pulling back just slightly but still resting against him. She flicked a glance toward the stairwell, her smile mischievous.
"I know," Liam said lightly, not denying it.
"Don't you want to…?" Manila teased, running a finger lightly over Liam's chest.
"Want what?" Liam smirked, catching her hand. "Don't mess around. She's just a kid."
He pulled Manila into a hug and kissed her again. After a moment, he pulled away and said, "Go change. You're dressed like this, if zombies come, you'll never outrun them."
"Okay, okay," Manila laughed, stepping back. She wandered over to the massive Barrett sniper rifle, ran her fingers along its body, and glanced at Liam. "You playing with this?"
"Yeah," Liam nodded, pulling out his phone again. "Took me forever to assemble it. Supposedly the recoil is brutal. I'm checking how to use it properly."
He wasn't joking. He had never fired a Barrett before, but he knew one thing clearly: if your stance was wrong, the recoil could seriously injure you. He wasn't about to take any stupid risks.
"Google?" Manila asked absently, still peering through the rifle's massive scope.
"Of course. Oh, by the way, Manila," Liam looked up suddenly.
"Hmm?"
"Go grab a few more phones downstairs. Download full maps of the US from Google and cache them all. Also get extra batteries. The satellites won't last forever. We need to be ready."
Paper maps were fine, but they couldn't match the level of detail in Google Maps, let alone satellite imagery. Liam wasn't about to bet their lives on luck.
"Got it!" Manila smiled and tossed him an exaggerated OK sign, blowing a kiss before swaying off the rooftop with playful, exaggerated steps.
Liam spent a while studying the phone, memorizing every important tip he could find. Finally, he put the phone away and moved to the Barrett.
His stance was cautious but precise. Being a medical student, he understood the human body far better than most, and with the guide he'd read, his positioning was already close to perfect.
The Barrett M82A1. Almost 1.5 meters long. Weighing nearly thirteen kilos. Ten-round magazine. Muzzle velocity over 850 meters per second—more than twice the speed of sound. Effective range of up to 1,850 meters. Muzzle energy reaching a staggering 33,685 joules. For comparison, a Desert Eagle pistol, famous for its power, only managed around 3,750 joules. The Barrett wasn't just a sniper rifle. It was a damn cannon.
It wasn't designed for shooting people, though it could. It was meant for wrecking vehicles, disabling aircraft, shredding concrete defenses. Liam had a very specific goal in mind—blowing up cars.
Zombies didn't think. They didn't dodge. They operated purely on instinct. Their strength was in numbers and infection, not strategy. Which was why humans fell so fast when the world collapsed.
They were drawn to noise. Explosions would pull them like moths to a flame.
Liam loaded the M82A1 with M8 armor-piercing incendiary rounds, capable of punching through eight millimeters of steel from over a kilometer away. He lay flat, eye to the scope, adjusting the focus slowly, scanning the ruins of Brooklyn.
In the distance, nearly a kilometer out, he spotted a flipped car that hadn't exploded yet.
He steadied his breath, finger tightening on the trigger, his body locked rigid, sculpted stillness.
He fired.
The Barrett thundered like a cannon, the recoil slamming into Liam's shoulder, rattling through his bones.
The sound echoed down Second Avenue like a bomb going off.
And the car?
Still there. Untouched.
Liam's face twitched. He had no idea where the bullet had gone.
...
Meanwhile, on Elm Street, inside a shabby auto repair shop, gang leader Jondance and his men sat scattered on piles of old tires, guns clutched tightly in their hands. The lighting inside was dim, but they could still make out each other's tense faces. No one dared to switch on the lights or even step too close to the shutter door. Outside, the undead roamed.
Earlier, the roar of a muscle car had torn through the neighborhood, followed by the distant crack of gunfire. They hadn't dared investigate. Whoever it was out there—lucky survivor or doomed fool—it wasn't their business. In a world like this, staying put was survival 101.
Outside, the number of zombies had thinned out noticeably. The group could tell by the dying echoes of the monsters' howls. But none of them had any intention of leaving. The entire world outside was crawling with the infected. Here, at least, they had something like shelter.
Jondance was cleaning his gun when a sudden burst of movement caught his attention. Fast footsteps, punctuated by muffled gunshots—the sound of a silenced pistol, unmistakable to anyone familiar with weapons.
"Someone's coming," Jondance muttered. He snapped a hand signal at Arthur, one of his men.
Arthur, swallowing hard, crept to the window and peered through a narrow gap. His eyes widened.
"It's Robby!" he hissed, voice thick with disbelief.
"What?" Jondance's head snapped up. He scrambled over and pressed his own face to the window. "Holy shit—it is him!"
Excitement crackled in the air. Robby had been their best gunman, fearless and deadly. They had thought he was dead after the last brutal assault near the north intersection. Hearing gunfire afterward, they'd assumed it was some other survivors fighting for their lives. Now, here he was, alive.
Robby was moving fast through the open street, methodically clearing out the scattered zombies. Thanks to the silencer, he wasn't attracting much fresh trouble. The street, once choked with death, was practically clear now.
The shop's rusted roller door clattered up. Jondance stood there, waving frantically.
"Over here! Hurry!"
Robby dashed across the street and slipped inside. The door slammed shut behind him.
There hadn't even been a chance for any lingering zombies to catch up.
Inside, Jondance turned, face splitting into a wide grin. He clapped Robby on the shoulder, ready to welcome him back.
But Robby didn't give him the chance.
"My brother," he demanded urgently, voice cutting like a knife. "Where is he?"
Jondance's expression faltered. His mouth opened, then closed again.
"Robby… Dogg…" he began hesitantly.
"Where is he?" Robby barked.
Jondance jerked his chin toward a dim corner of the shop. "There."
Robby turned, heart hammering. A figure lay crumpled against the grimy wall.
No.
He moved closer, each step heavier than the last. As he neared, the full sight hit him—Dogg, his younger brother, sprawled lifeless on the floor. Blood smeared his clothes. A zombie bite was clear and vicious across his shoulder.
And worse, a clean bullet hole marked the center of his forehead.
"He was bitten," Jondance said, voice flat. "We had no choice."
Robby knelt beside his brother, trembling fingers brushing Dogg's cooling cheek. He lifted an eyelid.
Brown iris. White sclera. Normal.
Robby froze.
His brother hadn't turned yet.
He hadn't turned into one of them.
The rage exploded inside him, raw and blinding.
Jondance and his crew had killed Dogg while he was still human.
Still savable. Still alive.
Robby stood slowly, the air around him heating with silent fury, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.
His face, usually so calm, twisted now with pure, murderous rage.