Ezra stood in the middle of the mess. Bodies everywhere. Blood on the pavement. Smoke is still hanging in the air.
The ten zombies stood in a loose circle around him. Not moving. Not groaning. Just... there. Watching him.
His chest rose and fell fast. Hands shaking. The metal pipe was slick with blood, but he couldn't drop it.
And the screen in his head, still there.
[Unit Idle. Awaiting Orders.]
He looked at the closest one. The B-Class mage. "What the hell are you?"
No answer.
"Why are you listening to me?"
Still nothing.
They didn't talk. Didn't blink. Just stood like statues, waiting.
Ezra's jaw clenched. He backed up a step. Then another.
"Yeah. No. Not doing this."
He turned around and jogged back toward the gate. His car was still there, engine humming.
He climbed in, locked the doors, and gripped the wheel.
One last glance in the mirror, zombies, still standing.
He drove.
Slow at first, easing around wreckage. Then faster.
In the mirror, he saw them, finally moving. Running after him in full sprint. Creepy, silent, like a pack of wolves.
Ezra floored it.
"Hell no."
The car jumped forward, tires squealing. The dead got smaller in the mirror, but didn't stop.
Didn't slow.
They kept coming, faster than they had any right to.
But a car's a car.
Mile after mile, he left them behind. Dust and distance between them.
Still, he checked the rearview mirror.
Then gone.
—-----
The highway was empty. Nothing but broken pavement and scattered trash.
Ezra's hands gripped the wheel, knuckles pale. He glanced at the rearview again.
Still no sign of them.
He exhaled, shaky. "They're not chasing. Good."
But the quiet didn't help.
His brain wasn't quiet.
Images slammed into him..
That zombie lunging. Falling back. The pipe hitting the chest. The body is still going.
Then the screen.
[Initiating Control Link...]
[Command?]
His stomach twisted.
"No way. That was in my head. Has to be. I'm not some, whatever the hell that was."
But he remembered the way it obeyed. How it killed. How the others fell in line.
He turned the radio on. Static. Then off again.
He needed to go home.
His family.
He had to know if they were still alive.
---------
The drive dragged. Sun dropping low.
Gas gauge ticked down, needle hovering near red.
The world around him looked worse with every mile.
Burned-out cars. Smashed windows.
People walking like ghosts, not even looking at the car as he passed.
He found a wrecked SUV by the road. Hood popped, one door hanging open.
He stopped. Siphoned gas. Mouthful of fumes and rust.
Inside, he found two cans of chili and a crushed bottle of water.
—-----
Night came fast.
He pulled off the road at an old rest stop. Overgrown. Empty.
Parked under a dead streetlamp. Locked the doors.
The pipe sat next to him on the passenger seat.
He ate one can cold. Didn't taste it.
Then curled up in the driver's seat and tried to sleep…
—-----
Ezra jolted awake.
Cold sweat clung to his neck. The morning sun was cutting through the windshield, soft and golden, but it didn't calm him. His heart pounded like he'd been running. The dream still clung to him. That damn screen again.
He rubbed his face. "No. No way. That's not real. Just a nightmare."
He started the engine, needing to get moving. Something about staying still made his skin crawl. He pulled back onto the highway, still gripping the pipe like a security blanket.
And then he saw them.
Ten figures.
Standing on the shoulder of the road, right where the trees broke open.
Still. Silent. Waiting.
The same ten.
They didn't move when he drove past, but their heads turned. All at once. Following the car. Like they knew.
Ezra's gut twisted.
"They walked here?"
He pressed the gas pedal harder. The road opened up ahead, but the weight in his chest didn't lift. Not this time.
They weren't chasing him. They weren't hunting.
They were following.
And somehow, deep down, he knew…
They would keep following.
As long as he was alive.
—-----
He kept one hand on the wheel, the other gripping the pipe across the passenger seat like it could still save his life.
Morning sun spilled across the cracked asphalt.
He checked the rearview mirror for the tenth time.
Still no sign of them.
He didn't slow down. Didn't wait to see if they'd catch up.
He wasn't taking them home.
That wasn't happening.
He passed another military blockade, burned-out Humvees, scorched metal, shattered glass. No soldiers. No bodies. Just blood.
Ezra slowed. Eyes twitching to every tree. But nothing moved.
The farther he drove, the quieter the world got.
The more it felt like a grave.
He turned onto his old street. Familiar houses. Familiar trees. All wrong now.
Lawns wild. Windows dark. Silence so thick it pressed against the windows.
He rolled to a stop at the end of the block.
His house sat there like it had been waiting.
Ezra gripped the wheel tighter.
He leaned forward, eyes locked on the door.
"Please be alive," he whispered.
He opened the door.
And stepped out.
Ezra sat behind the wheel, staring at his house.
Nothing moved.
No sounds.
No lights.
Just that dead tricycle in the yard, staring back at him like some sick joke.
His gut twisted.
'Get in. Find them. Get out. That was the plan. Easy.'
He pulled the pipe from the passenger seat and stepped out.
The air was too still.
The smell, smoke, rot, something metallic, clung to everything.
He jogged across the yard, up the porch steps.
Tried the door.
Locked.
He knocked, hard. "Mom? Dad? It's Ezra! Open up!"
Nothing.
He pounded harder. "It's me! Please!"
Still nothing.
A cold feeling slid down his spine.
They're not here.
He backed up, pipe ready, heart hammering.
A noise behind him.
Fast. Wet. Wrong.
He spun around, too slow.
A zombie sprinted from the neighbor's yard, arms flailing like a drunk runner.
It wasn't graceful. It wasn't scary.
It was fast.
Ezra panicked.
He swung the pipe blindly.
Missed.
The zombie slammed into him and they both went down in a heap.
Ezra flailed like a cat thrown in a bathtub.
Somehow, somehow, the pipe connected.
CRACK.
The zombie's head jerked sideways, and it rolled off him.
Dead.
Or deader.
Ezra sat there panting, pipe trembling in his hands.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered.
Then…
[Primary Core Severed. Control Disable.]
[Level Up!]
[+10 Control Slots.]
[Command Range Expanded.]
[New Skill: Skeletal Reinforcement (Passive).
Automatically hardens the bones and joints of all controlled undead by 10%. Their bones are less likely to break, and they hit harder too.]
He blinked, still half-sprawled on the pavement.
"You're kidding me," he gasped. "That counts?"
A new noise.
Not one.
Not two.
Twelve.
More zombies tearing down the street toward him.
Ezra scrambled up, almost dropping the pipe.
"Nope nope nope…"
He backed up to the house, heart hammering.
And then…
That weird feeling again.
A tug in his chest.
He didn't think. Didn't plan.
He just shouted, "HELP ME!"
Like a kid yelling for backup.
From the treeline across the street, ten zombies bolted out.
His zombies.
[Command?]
He quickly pointed. "Kill them." his heart beat faster.
They didn't form neat lines. They didn't battle tactically.
It was pure chaos, limbs flailing, bodies slamming together like a bar brawl.
Ezra watched, pipe raised uselessly, as his new pets ripped the attacking zombies apart.
One zombie slipped and tackled a runner purely by accident.
Another tripped over a mailbox and crushed another infected under its body.
It was the ugliest, dumbest fight Ezra had ever seen.
And somehow, they won.
The screen blinked again:
[Battle Completed…]
[Processing Report...]
[Unit Status: 2 Casualties.]
[Initiating Control Completed…]
[New Lazarus Acquired: 5 B-Class Slayer]
[Available Control Slot: 13/20 Units]
[Mutation Option Unlocked.]
[Select Upgrade:
(1) Bruiser - Heavy Hitters
(2) Sprinter - Fast Attackers]
He lost two from his squad and five only were available to acquire.
Ezra wiped blood off his mouth and stared at the blinking options.
His brain felt like mush.
"Okay," he mumbled. "Bruiser. Whatever."
The system pulsed:
[Bruiser Path Selected.]
Across the street, some of his zombies jerked weirdly.
Muscles bulged. Bones cracked.
One even fell over, stood up again looking wrong, like a bad action figure.
Ezra just stared.
He hadn't earned this. He hadn't planned this.
He barely survived by smashing wildly with a pipe and screaming like a little kid.
But the system didn't care.
It only cared he was breathing.
He wiped sweat off his forehead.
Looked at his battered street.
And swallowed hard.
"I didn't ask for this," he said out loud.
"But... maybe I can use it."
He gripped the pipe tighter.
Stepped up to the door.
Raised the pipe.
And swung.
CRACK.
The door burst inward.
Inside?
Darkness.
The sound of something wet moving upstairs.
Ezra froze.
His hand tightened on the pipe.
He could leave.
Or he could climb those stairs.
And find out if anything, or anyone, was still alive.