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We reached the shore of the island under a dull gray sky, the water slapping gently against the sand. The air smelled faintly of salt and rot, but the place looked… still. No figures on the beach, no groans drifting through the wind.
"Quiet," I muttered. "Too quiet."
Strand hopped out first, pulling the boat closer so the hull scraped the shallows. We tied it off to the remains of an old pier post, its wood splintered and bleached from years in the sun. I gave the knot an extra tug—if we needed to leave in a hurry, this boat was our lifeline.
We moved inland, slow and careful, our steps deliberate on the uneven sand before we reached the cracked pavement. The road into town was only a few hundred yards from the shore, but I still scanned every shadow, every doorway. My katana rested in my grip, the polished steel catching the faint light. Strand had his pistol drawn, the safety off.
"Been a while since I set foot on an island this small," Strand murmured as we walked.
"Let's just hope it's as empty as it looks," I replied, keeping my eyes ahead.
He smirked. "Optimism doesn't seem like your strong suit, Alex."
I shot him a glance. "Optimism gets you bitten."
His smile faded, but he didn't argue.
By the time we reached the first line of weather-worn houses, the sound changed—low, dragging footsteps and the faint, guttural moans of the undead. My muscles tensed automatically.
"Eyes up," I whispered.
We ducked into the nearest house, a faded blue bungalow with one shattered window and the faint smell of mildew inside. From here, we could see more of the town—a cluster of narrow streets, maybe a dozen buildings total, not far from the water's edge.
Unfortunately, it wasn't as empty as the beach. Figures wandered aimlessly between cars and storefronts, skin pale and torn, their movements jerky. I counted at least fifteen, maybe more.
I turned to Strand. "Remember—headshots. That's their weak spot. Don't waste bullets anywhere else."
He gave me a skeptical look. "Still haven't explained how you figured that out."
"Doesn't matter," I said, adjusting my grip on the katana. "What matters is, if you don't hit the head, they just keep coming."
For now, the plan was simple—stay hidden, keep quiet, and wait for an opening. But deep down, I knew it was only a matter of time before the quiet broke.
After combing through side streets and peeking into half-collapsed houses, I finally spotted what looked like the only store on this entire island—a squat, weathered building with a faded sign and cracked windows.
"That's gotta be it," I said quietly. "If there's gas anywhere, it'll be here."
Strand nodded, keeping close. "Lead the way."
We moved carefully, weaving between rusted cars and keeping our distance from the shambling dead. A pair of them passed just a few yards away, their milky eyes fixed on nothing in particular. We froze until they wandered off.
We were maybe fifteen steps from the shop's entrance when it happened—Strand caught his foot on a chunk of broken pavement.
He stumbled forward with a sharp grunt.
"Damn it," I hissed under my breath, grabbing his arm and hauling him upright.
The sudden noise turned a few heads. Groans grew louder behind us.
"Run!" I snapped, pulling him toward the entrance.
We made it through the door just as one of the dead lunged within arm's reach. I slammed it shut, my chest tight with adrenaline.
"What the hell, Strand?" I said, my voice was low but sharp. "I told you to stay sharp."
He raised his hands. "I'm sorry, alright? I didn't plan to faceplant into the apocalypse."
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I was about to fire back when I heard it—the faint sound of the doorknob turning.
My stomach knotted.
That… wasn't possible.
"There's no one alive out there," I muttered, staring at the knob. "So who the hell—"
The knob turned again. Slowly. Deliberately.
A chill ran down my spine. Strand's face paled, his usual smugness gone.
"Get something to block it. Now," I said.
He didn't argue. He rushed to the side, grabbed a heavy wooden cabinet, and shoved it against the door just as the knob clicked again.
We both stood there, listening to the faint thud of something on the other side.
"Undead can open doors now?" I whispered.
Strand shook his head slowly. "If that's true… we've got bigger problems than running out of gas."
I let out a slow breath, forcing my hands to unclench. "Alright… forget it. Let's search the place."
We moved through the dusty aisles, the air thick with the smell of mildew and something faintly rotten. Shelves were half-collapsed, and most of the packaged food had been picked over long ago. Still, I grabbed what I could—cans of beans, a few bottles of water.
Food was good, but it wasn't why we were here.
From the back room came Strand's voice, loud enough to make me tense up.
"Alex! You're gonna want to see this!"
I hurried over, half expecting trouble. Instead, Strand stood grinning beside three dented metal fuel cans.
I crouched down, checked the weight, and unscrewed a cap just enough to catch the smell. Gasoline.
Not just a little, either—enough to get the Abigail to Florida without another stop.
A rare smile tugged at my mouth. "Well… looks like you earned your keep today."
Strand smirked. "Told you I was good for more than tripping over pavement."
"Yeah, yeah. Let's just get this back to the boat before our new door-opening friends decide to visit again."
Just as I was about to lift the first gas can, a sound cut through the air.
A scream.
"Help! Help, please!"
I froze. Strand's eyes met mine, both of us hearing it loud and clear. The voice was coming from somewhere outside—close.
We moved to the front of the shop, careful not to step too loud, and peeked out.
The street was different now. The dead were converging from every direction, drawn like moths to a flame. And at the center of it all… a woman.
She was waving her arms, stumbling backward, her voice cracking as she begged for someone—anyone—to save her.
I let out a bitter breath. What an idiot. Screaming out here was as good as painting a target on your own back.
Strand glanced at me, his face somewhere between worry and calculation. "Well?" he asked.
I shifted my grip on the katana. "The first rule of survival—don't make yourself bait."
But even as I said it, the woman's voice rose again, and the horde was closing in fast.
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