Digging crystal cores out of over two thousand zombie skulls was no small job—even for a crew like Ethan, Chris, Henry, Sean, Big Mike, and Skinny Pete.
This was when the downside of being short-staffed really hit home.
The six of them were crouched over the corpses, methodically cracking open heads and prying out the shimmering cores, when a bus roared past on the nearby road. None of them paid it much mind—until it screeched to a halt, reversed, and rolled back toward them.
Doors hissed open. More than forty people spilled out, all armed with a mix of blades, bats, and guns, heading straight for them.
The guys exchanged a look. Ethan's brow twitched. This had the stink of trouble.
The newcomers reached the edge of the kill zone, eyes gleaming as they took in the mountain of dead zombies.
"Hey," called the man in front, maybe mid-thirties, with a cocky tilt to his chin. "You guys the ones who took these down?"
