It had been eleven days since the world ended. Eleven days—on paper, a short span—but more than enough time to change everything. The truth was, the world had changed the moment it began. And now, eleven days in, that change was total. The cities were flooded with flesh-eating corpses, and the living clung to whatever temporary shelter they could find, trying to survive. Some had already died of starvation—not because food was gone, but because they no longer had the courage to go out and face what the world had become.
New York.
Broken windows, streets smeared with blood and corpses, wrecked cars, collapsed billboards, dust-covered glass, and an endless tide of zombies dragging their feet through the silence. The city that once glittered with life was now bleak and crumbling.
Summer was beginning to creep in. Heat simmered in the air. Flies buzzed around rotting bodies. The stench of death blanketed the city, spreading with the shrieks of the undead.
Brooklyn. Second Avenue. Walmart Supercenter, second floor.
"You really staying?" Liam asked again, eyes on Bowen.
"I am. I'll stay. It's safe here. There's food… maybe I can…" Bowen sat on the ground, arms wrapped around his knees, leaning back against a shelf, head tilted to Liam. He still didn't want to leave. Liam hadn't expected that. He hadn't expected someone to be so paralyzed by fear and hopelessness that when everyone else decided to move on, Bowen chose to stay behind.
"Dude, hey—what's up with you? Come with us. We're heading to the countryside, where there's no zombies, where it's safe. You don't know what might happen if you stay here," Jason said, tugging Bowen's arm, trying to pull him to his feet. They'd started rough, but over the past few days, things had eased between them. Maybe it was a shared background, both being Black, or maybe just time. Jason clearly didn't want to leave him behind.
Bowen yanked his arm away and lowered his head. "I'm not going."
The others exchanged glances. Confusion, frustration, and finally a sort of tired acceptance. The world had twisted everyone in different ways.
"Kid—" Laura started, kindness in her voice, but Old Mike gently tugged on her arm and shook his head. No use. Bowen had made up his mind.
"Good luck," Liam said, giving him one last look before slinging his rifle over his back and turning away. The rest followed. Laura looked like she wanted to say something but settled for a sigh.
"Good luck," Bowen murmured behind them, watching their backs as they walked toward the freight elevator, then slowly turned toward the window again, head bowed. The sound of their footsteps faded. Soon he was alone.
The vast second floor of the Walmart, filled with food but absent of people, fell silent. The emptiness gnawed at the space, quiet and strangely mournful.
Downstairs, the freight elevator rumbled, carrying Liam's group to the sublevel. Once there, Liam unlocked the access to the underground parking lot.
"Let's go—Robby, you're with me. Everyone else, on the truck," Liam said, low and quick, already moving. He repeated instructions he'd already given, just to be sure.
"Be careful," Manila said, grabbing his arm, kissing him quickly.
Old Mike and Laura climbed into the truck's cab. Jason, Christine, and Manila entered the truck's cargo bed. The truck was a diesel, 210 horsepower, towing a six-meter-long, two-meter-wide, two-meter-high cargo box. Officially it could haul 5.6 tons. In practice, it could handle ten.
The cargo box looked brutal now, bristling with welded hunting knives, small firing ports every two meters along the sides, and a reinforced steel skylight. Inside had been refitted with two foldable bunks, each two meters long and half a meter wide, fixed to the walls and fitted with safety belts. The far end held shelves stacked with food.
They hadn't brought too much. Heat would ruin perishables, so they'd stuck to compact, high-calorie items: chocolate, candy, dried shrimp, nuts, ramen. Some rice and flour, a bit of water and alcohol. Bedding and clothing were light—easy to scavenge elsewhere. More important were the survival tools: mobile gear, knives, axes, medicine, rope.
Both vehicles had full tanks. The fuel came from siphoning other cars in the garage. If Robby hadn't been with them, starting vehicles without keys would've been a challenge—even though Old Mike could manage it, it would have taken time. But Robby? Boosting cars was second nature.
The Jeep Grand Cherokee led the way. Robby sat at the wheel, arm out the window, flashing an OK. Old Mike in the truck cab mirrored the gesture. Engines roared to life. They rolled out.
The Jeep took the lead, suited for navigating rough or blocked roads. It also served as a scout—if a street was jammed with wreckage or an ambush, Robby could signal the truck to back off. The Jeep could maneuver more easily than the heavy rig.
Two hundred meters away from the Walmart, a small square sat nearly empty, scattered with a few wandering zombies. One corner of the square held a garage ramp entrance. Soon, engine sounds thundered up from below, drawing the zombies like moths to flame.
Just before they could swarm the entrance, the Jeep blasted out of the garage, smashing through two of them. The truck followed.
The zombies nearby tried to give chase, howling, but the vehicles sped off. Liam's group didn't fire. Each bullet was precious, and these undead weren't blocking their escape. There would be five days of driving ahead—five days to reach their destination, including all expected delays. Unless absolutely necessary, they wouldn't waste a single round.
Inside the truck's cargo bay, dim sunlight filtered through the shooting ports, enough to see by. Christine and Manila sat buckled in. Jason sat across from them, face lit with excitement, fiddling with his radio, tuning frequencies.
"Help us—someone help us!"
A woman's voice crackled through the speaker, raw with panic. It wasn't one of their own. Their radios reached up to ten kilometers—meaning they could hear anyone within a twenty-kilometer radius using the same brand and model.
Jason quickly changed the frequency. The voice cut off. His smile vanished. This wasn't the first time he'd picked up stray voices. Brooklyn still had hundreds of thousands of survivors. Everyone wanted to live. Everyone cried for help. But who could save them?
Not Jason. Not Liam. The truth was bitter. You could barely save yourself. Saving others was a fantasy.
That wasn't cruelty—it was survival. This world didn't let you be a hero.
Then—tat-tat-tat! Gunfire erupted nearby. AK-47s. Jason knew that sound.
He jumped up, bracing himself with the welded handrails as the truck bounced. He tried peeking out through the back firing hole, but the angle was too narrow.
"What's going on?" he asked over the radio, strapping himself back in.
Just after the vehicles left the parking garage, back at Walmart, gunshots rang out.
Bowen stood at the second-floor window, AK-47 in hand. He'd smashed the glass, now screaming as he emptied the magazine downward, crying, yelling, firing at the horde. Zombies fell. But the bullets ran dry—Liam hadn't left him much.
"You monsters! Die!" Bowen screamed one last time, then, with a wild swing of the empty rifle, he hurled himself out the window, right into the undead.
There were screams. Then silence.
He was gone.
Liam saw the motion from the Jeep's rearview, far behind them. He couldn't make out the figure, but there was only one person left in Walmart. He knew.
"What's happening? Can someone respond?" Jason said into the radio. The speaker crackled—a soft hiss, someone holding the mic but saying nothing.
Then a voice. Liam's.
"It was Bowen. He used all his bullets. Then he jumped."
The vehicles went quiet. No one spoke.
Maybe one day, they'd face the same fate.
Bowen's soul was too fragile for this world. The fear, the isolation, the endless weight of it all—he couldn't take it. When they left, he didn't stay to survive. He stayed to die.
Sometimes living is harder than dying. In a world where there is no tomorrow, ending it can seem like mercy.
For those still clinging to life, watching others fall isn't just sorrow. It's a cold shiver down the spine.