On the rooftop, Mary was preparing breakfast. The air was thick with the scent of cooking meat—peeled rats sizzling on a makeshift grill. Their fur lay scattered across the ground, adding to Jarlath's already mounting disgust. Alongside the rat meat, she stirred a pan of scrambled eggs, their origin suspect.
Mary had stored the eggs in a storage unit on the third floor, and whether they were spoiled or not was irrelevant at this point.
"Care for some?" Mary offered with a calm sincerity, though her eyes betrayed the faintest hint of amusement. She fully expected the arrogant tyrant to decline.
Jarlath scoffed, his expression twisted in disdain. But his defiance faltered when his stomach betrayed him with a loud growl. Reluctantly, he nodded. "Whatever. Screw you too."
Suppressing a chuckle, Mary plated the food. Her amusement only grew as she watched him recoil at the sight of the cooked rat meat. She had a few precious strips of bacon left in her supplies, but the thought of wasting them on someone like him was unthinkable.
No, Jarlath didn't deserve such luxuries. Letting him have even the eggs was more generosity than he deserved.
"What do you want to talk about?" Jarlath grumbled, eyeing the rat meat as though it might spring to life. He prodded it with his fork before taking a hesitant bite.
"I heard you know a lot about zombies. I want details," Mary replied, cutting into her own rat meat with unnerving ease, as if it were a fine steak. The sight made Jarlath gag, and he had to stifle the urge to vomit. "It'll help me be more efficient at killing them."
"For a so-called Zombie Slayer, you're surprisingly ignorant about your prey," Jarlath sneered, recovering some of his bravado. "Didn't realize my so-called antithesis was such a dumbass." He flinched slightly when Mary's fork stabbed the table between his index and middle fingers with a deliberate thud.
"Do you think I have time to study those monsters?" Mary's tone grew sharp, her patience thinning. "I kill every single one of them I see! I don't care what they are or what makes them tick, as long as they're eradicated. All I want is for them to disappear so I can go back to my normal life!"
Her words brimmed with venom, her hatred for the undead palpable. She glared at Jarlath, daring him to argue.
Jarlath met her gaze but decided against provoking her further. Instead, he leaned back, an arrogant smirk tugging at his lips. "So, why come to me? Just because I control zombies doesn't mean I have a Ph.D. in zombiology. I use them for fun—entertainment, really. I'm not some researcher."
Mary's eyes narrowed. "Don't play dumb with me. I passed through a settlement recently, and one of your victims had a notebook he kept hidden. It was full of information about zombies—stolen from you."
Jarlath's smirk faltered, and he stiffened slightly.
"The idiot refused to share it with anyone in the settlement," Mary continued, her voice icy. "When they found out, he burned it before anyone else could see. But not before I... persuaded him to talk." Her lips curled into a dark smile. "Let's just say I made it very clear he wouldn't be having children in the future."
Jarlath stared at her, stunned. For a moment, he was speechless, his mind racing to process what he'd just heard. 'She's as twisted as I am', he thought, the revelation both unsettling and intriguing. And from her tone, he didn't doubt the threat was genuine.
"And this victim of mine," Jarlath finally said, regaining his composure, "he mentioned me by name?"
"Drop the act." Mary's voice cut like a blade. "He didn't have to. I saw the name on the notebook before it burned—Mavely. And after I heard whispers about the so-called Zombie King, I knew it was you. You sealed your fate the moment you introduced yourself last night. Stupid move, by the way."
Jarlath winced internally at the reminder of his blunder but masked it with indifference.
"Unfortunately," Mary continued, "he burned the notebook before he could memorize it all. Not many survivors know about the different types of zombies out there now, especially the locals of countryside. But it's obvious you do. They don't attack you, after all."
"Not always," Jarlath muttered before quickly clearing his throat, hoping she wouldn't press him on the slip. "So, let me get this straight. You want me—someone who commands the creatures you slaughter—to share valuable information about them? With you?" He leaned forward, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "That's quite the bold request."
"Unless you value your life and want to see Byron Kade dead, I suggest you start talking," Mary hissed, her voice icy and resolute. Without hesitation, she flicked her wrist, sending a knife sailing through the air. It landed with precision, embedding itself mere inches from Jarlath's most vulnerable spot. "I'm not the kind of person who jokes about these things. You tell me what I want—nothing more, nothing less."
Jarlath's lips curled into a wry smirk, his composure unshaken. "That's no good," he replied, leaning back just enough to feign indifference. "I want something from you, too. Kill me if you want, but let's not kid ourselves—you need me. You need the very monsters you loathe to deal with that overfed tyrant. And you won't risk throwing that opportunity away."
His confidence was maddening, but it was hard to argue with his logic. Mary had spared him for a reason, and he was keenly aware of it.
"You think I'm stupid enough to fall for your little threats? If you really wanted me dead, you would've left me to be ripped apart by my 'friends.' But you didn't, did you?"
"Cocky bastard," Mary muttered under her breath. Her fingers itched to hurl another knife, but she forced herself to think. Jarlath was playing her, and she knew it. Yet, as much as it enraged her, he had a point. His knowledge—and his power over the undead—was vital for taking down Kade. And once that goal was achieved, she'd have no problem killing Jarlath herself.
"Fine," she said at last, glaring daggers at him. "You have a deal. Now talk."
Jarlath's smug grin faltered slightly, replaced with a glimmer of irritation. Sharing what he knew grated against his very nature. That stolen notebook still haunted him—a bitter reminder of the victim who'd dared to swipe it.
That man had been a notorious thief, and Jarlath cursed himself for not feeding him to the horde sooner. The knowledge it contained, carefully compiled over months of meticulous research, was now burnt by that thief who had no business wielding it.
But Mary wasn't lying. If she'd seen the Mavely name on that notebook, she'd undoubtedly stumbled onto more than most ever would. And as much as it angered him, he could always deal with her after Kade.
"Fine," Jarlath finally relented, though his tone dripped with reluctance.
He leaned forward, his voice lowering as he began to recount the story. "The world first fell apart two years ago, on September 11, 2024. At first, the undead were what you'd expect—slow shamblers, like something out of old horror movies. Some of them were quicker, more feral, but still manageable. The military worldwide almost wiped them out after a few months. It was sloppy work, sure, but effective enough that people thought this nightmare might actually end. I thought so too—for a moment."
Jarlath's eyes darkened as he continued. "Then July 4, 2025, came. That was the day everything changed. That's when they showed up—the new ones. The types that don't just lurch or run. The first one I encountered? A Martial Artist."
Mary raised an eyebrow at the term, but she didn't interrupt.
"That thing nearly killed me," Jarlath admitted, his voice laced with bitter amusement. "A roundhouse kick to the side of my head almost knocked me out cold. My zombies? They were completely useless. The damn thing moved like a professional fighter. Fast, precise, efficient. It was a disaster until I managed to get control of it. Barely."
He leaned back, the memory clearly leaving a mark. "That was just the beginning. After that, more types started appearing. Defied every rule we thought we understood. Each new class was worse than the last—stronger, faster, smarter. The military couldn't handle them. They tore through defenses like wet paper. And just like that, the hope of ending this apocalypse evaporated. For most people, it became a living hell, but a paradise for me."
There are three known classifications of zombies: Common, Variant, and Evo.
Common types represent the baseline of zombie existence. These are the hordes most survivors encounter regularly, characterized by their simplicity and rudimentary behaviors. Despite their lack of intelligence, they are a constant threat due to their overwhelming numbers and relentless pursuit of the living.
Common types embody the traits typically associated with traditional zombies—mindless aggression, an insatiable hunger for human flesh, and a drive to infect others. While individually weak, their true danger lies in their ability to swarm, using their sheer numbers to overpower even the most prepared survivors.
These zombies form the foundation upon which the more specialized and evolved types are built.
Variant types mark a significant departure from the mindless behavior of Common types, displaying retained or enhanced cognitive functions. These zombies exhibit a disturbing level of intelligence, utilizing skills and abilities that make them particularly deadly in specific scenarios. Their behavior often reflects remnants of their past lives or newly acquired abilities.
The hive mind phenomenon is particularly prominent in Variant types, granting them access to a collective pool of knowledge and tactics. They can navigate complex environments, manipulate tools, and even employ rudimentary strategies to trap or outwit survivors.
These zombies suggest that the virus is capable of preserving or augmenting cognitive abilities in some infected, creating enemies that are as cunning as they are deadly.
Evo types represent the pinnacle of zombie evolution, creatures whose abilities transcend natural physical and cognitive limitations. These zombies possess extraordinary capabilities—what could only be described as superpowers. Enhanced strength, size, and even new anatomical features like claws or specialized limbs make them fearsome adversaries.
The Evo class is a result of the virus's mutation, pushing the boundaries of what the infected can become. Each Evo type is unique, often exhibiting abilities tailored to its environment or purpose. The presence of these zombies hints at the virus's continuous evolution, suggesting that as time passes, the undead will only grow more dangerous and unpredictable.
Evo types are not merely a physical threat but a chilling reminder of the virus's potential to adapt and dominate.
Mary furrowed her brows as she absorbed the information. It was a lot to take in. So many of the battles she had fought suddenly made more sense. The strange behavior, the inexplicable strength—she had ignored these anomalies in her blind hatred, dismissing them as irrelevant.
"I see," she muttered, her voice laced with a mixture of realization and frustration. "I encountered a zombie before entering the mall last night. Its hair... it acted like a whip. I didn't even stop to think about how unnatural that was."
Jarlath scoffed, his irritation barely concealed. He leaned back, crossing his arms as a bitter smirk spread across his face. "You ran into a Whippersnapper, or Whip-Hair if you prefer, an Evo type. It should've killed you. Shame it didn't."
Mary cringed at the names Jarlath had given the zombies, though she ignored his insult. "And what about a zombie that stalked me three months ago? At first, I thought it was some creepy, perverted survivor, but it turned out to be a zombie carrying a machete. What do you call that one?"
Jarlath tilted his head, his expression almost bored. "If it was just following you in the shadows and tried to kill you out in the open, then it's a Stalker—a Common-type zombie. But if it waited until you let your guard down or got too distracted, then attacked with a blade or any kind of weapon, that would be a Slasher—a Variant-type zombie."
His explanation was precise, though he frowned slightly, wondering why he was sharing this knowledge with a Zombie Slayer. Every detail he gave her was another chip away from his advantage. If he revealed too much, he risked losing his wild card entirely.
Mary frowned, confused by the subtle distinctions. "You sure know a lot about these monsters. If only you used all this knowledge to save innocent survivors instead of tormenting them."
"Innocent?" Jarlath scoffed, shaking his head with a mocking grin. "You're just as naive as I thought. Maybe even more than me."
His words grated on Mary's nerves, but before she could retort, he leaned forward, his smirk turning sharper. "Now it's my turn to ask you something."
"What is there to ask? I kill zombies because I hate them. Nothing special," Mary replied quickly, her tone defensive.
"Oh, but it is special," Jarlath said, his gaze piercing. "Your ability. Or rather, abilities. How did you get them? And why do you have two?"
Mary stiffened at the question, her jaw tightening. She had agreed to answer his questions in exchange for his knowledge of the undead, but this wasn't something she wanted to discuss—especially not with him.
She didn't even fully understand how her powers had manifested, though she knew why they had. The thought of revealing that to Jarlath made her stomach churn.
As if sensing her hesitation, Jarlath's smirk deepened, taunting her. He didn't even need to say anything—his expression alone was enough to push her buttons.
"I—" Mary started, but her response was cut off by a sudden, deafening noise from the road below.
Her head snapped toward the source of the sound, but before she could investigate, a derelict Toyota Corolla flew into the air, crashing down on the rooftop near them with a thunderous impact.
Both Mary and Jarlath froze, staring in disbelief at the mangled vehicle.
"What the hell was that?" Mary muttered, her eyes darting to the street below.
Jarlath's laugh cut through the tense silence, low and cruel. "You call yourself a Zombie Slayer, but I'd like to see how you plan to slay that."
"What are you talking about?" Mary snapped, her frustration growing.
Jarlath pointed toward the street, where a seven-foot-tall zombie lumbered into view. Its grotesque, muscular frame towered over the debris, and it roared, shaking the very air around them.
Mary's eyes widened. "What... is that?"
"That," Jarlath said, his voice dripping with mockery as he pushed aside the rat meat on his plate and continued eating scrambled eggs as if nothing were amiss, "is a Gargantuan. An Evo-type zombie. Much much stronger than a Bodybuilder—which is only a Variant-type. Good luck taking that one down. It's about as strong as the Hulk. The one from the movies, anyway."
Mary scowled, grabbing a knife and hurling it into the table near his plate, the blade quivering inches from his hand. "Control that thing, now!"
"Unfortunately, I can't control Evo-types," Jarlath admitted with a disarming shrug, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed his enjoyment of Mary's predicament. "I don't fully understand why, but my best guess is that they have some sort of willpower—if you can call it that—despite being mindless beasts. There's a reason I avoid them. They're just too uncontrollable. For all I know, they might not even be connected to the hive mind. Who knows?"
Mary's eyes narrowed, disbelief and anger brewing behind her glare. "Then how come you can control the Boneclaw? Don't lie to me!"
Her voice rose as frustration seeped into her words. The sight of the monstrous Gargantuan below was one thing, but knowing every second she spent dealing with it was a second closer to more survivors falling into Byron Kade's hands grated at her.
Jarlath let out a derisive laugh, shaking his head. "For heaven's sake, do you even use your brain? How in the hell have you survived this long?" His mockery was biting, laced with incredulity. "I can control weaker Evo-types—ones with abilities that barely surpass Variant-types, like Boneclaw or Whip-Hair. They're still tethered to the hive mind, however faintly. But something like that"—he gestured toward the Gargantuan with a flick of his wrist—"is way beyond my control. You think I can just snap my fingers and tame it?"
Mary's lips twisted into a smug smirk. "Then you're not much of a Zombie King, are you?" she countered, her tone sharp and cutting. "More like a Zombie Prince if you can't even control one oversized freak."
Jarlath's amusement faded, his expression hardening. He snickered darkly, the glint of malice in his eyes. "Give me a few years, and I'll have every Evo-type bowing to me," he said, his voice low and venomous. "You'd best remember that, you sow."
Before Mary could fire back, the ground beneath them trembled violently. The entire building began to shake under the ferocious blows of the Gargantuan pounding its fists against the structure. Each impact was deafening, resonating like the echo of a distant explosion and sending dust and debris cascading from the roof.
Mary staggered to maintain her balance, her gaze darting to the edges of the roof as the force of the Gargantuan's attacks sent shockwaves through the concrete. She couldn't imagine what it would feel like to take a direct hit from one of those fists.
Even with her abilities, she knew a single blow from that monster would leave her incapacitated or worse.
Jarlath, on the other hand, seemed unfazed. Rising to his feet, he rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles, his grin widening with delight.
"Now this," he said with a glint of anticipation in his eyes, "is where the fun begins."