Chapter 3 combat
He grabbed his crowbar, slowly opened the window, careful not to make a sound. The faint creak of the frame made his breath hitch, but nothing stirred outside. Slipping through, he landed softly on the fire escape, descending one floor at a time. Each metal step groaned under his weight, but the groans of the dead below masked the noise.
Reaching the ground, he moved quickly but cautiously, hugging the shadows as he slipped around the corner of his apartment building.
Crouched behind a small brick wall, he peered over the top, counting.
Twelve.
Twelve walkers shuffled aimlessly in the parking lot, their decayed forms swaying like broken puppets. Their guttural moans blended with the occasional clatter of debris kicked by their dragging feet.
Former military training kicked in — calm the breathing, assess the area, look for weaknesses. He scanned the lot again, noting the way the walkers bunched near the broken sedan. The others scattered near the chain-link fence, slow and aimless.
Twelve is too many… but not if I can split them up.
He slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out a small metal bolt — something he'd scavenged for exactly this kind of situation. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he tossed it across the lot, letting it clatter loudly against a dumpster on the far side.
The sound was like a dinner bell.
The walkers closest to him immediately turned, their heads snapping toward the noise, guttural moans rising as they began to shuffle in that direction. One, two, three, four… six of them wandered off, leaving half the group behind.
Better odds.
He gripped the crowbar tighter, rising slowly from behind the wall. The remaining walkers still swayed in place, oblivious to the danger creeping toward them.
He exhaled, steady and focused.
One step at a time.
The first walker stood only a few feet away now, its milky eyes staring past him, jaws snapping absently at nothing. The stench was suffocating — the heavy, sweet rot of decaying flesh baking under the afternoon sun.
He moved fast.
The crowbar arced down, driving through the walker's skull with a dull crack. Its body dropped instantly, knees folding as it collapsed in a heap of tangled limbs. Before the next one could react, he yanked the crowbar free, gore trailing from the curved end, and swung again.
CRACK!
This time the force was brutal — too much — splitting the second walker's head nearly in two. Its body twitched as thick, black blood sprayed across his jacket.
Three more turned at the sudden noise. Their groans grew louder, eagerly.
They closed in quicker than he liked.
The first reached out, grasping at him with bony, dirt-caked fingers. He sidestepped, drove his knee into its midsection, and slammed the crowbar down like a butcher cleaving meat. The skull shattered beneath the blow, fragments of bone and brain matter splattering across the concrete.
Another grabbed his shoulder from behind.
Snarling, he twisted violently, smashing the crowbar into its face. The metal end crunched through the nose, crushing its skull inward like paper folding in on itself. Its body dropped, arms still twitching in a grotesque spasm.
The last one lunged — jaws wide, teeth flashing in the dim light.
He let it come.
At the last second, he ducked low and drove the crowbar straight up under its chin, burying the tip deep into the brain cavity. The walker froze mid-lunge before collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.
Silence returned — but only for a moment.
In the distance, the half of the herd he had lured earlier began to shuffle back. The commotion had drawn their attention again.
Shit.
He wiped the sweat from his brow, his breath sharp and ragged, eyes darting for his next move.
The half-lured herd was coming back — six more. Shuffling faster now, drawn by the echoes of violence. Their guttural moans grew louder, a wave of death rolling toward him.
No time to run.
He planted his boots, tightened his grip on the blood-slick crowbar, and prepared for the next storm.
The first walker broke ahead of the others — a tall one, its jaw half torn off, skin peeling from its face like old wallpaper. It hissed as it reached for him, but he charged forward, meeting it head-on.
The crowbar swung wide, catching it across the temple. The force was monstrous — its head snapped sideways with a sickening crack, spine twisting unnaturally as the body crumpled to the ground like a sack of broken bones.
Another closed in from his left.
He didn't hesitate.
With a savage grunt, he drove the crowbar into its open mouth, the metal rod bursting out through the back of its skull in a spray of black gore. The corpse convulsed as he wrenched the weapon free with a wet squelch.
Four left.
They advanced together, snarling, moaning, arms outstretched.
He stepped back, back again — boots scraping against the blood-slick ground — until his heel hit broken concrete. No more room to retreat.
Fine.
With a roar, he surged forward.
The crowbar rose and fell in a merciless rhythm — steel splitting flesh, bone giving way with every brutal impact. The third walker lost half its face to a horizontal swing, the lower jaw flying off in an arc of blood and teeth before it crumpled.
The fourth grabbed him — fingernails digging into his forearm, teeth snapping inches from his face.
He headbutted it. Hard.
Skull met the skull with a dull, nauseating thud. Dazed but unrelenting, he drove his knee into its gut, then brought the crowbar down — over and over — until the head was nothing but shattered pulp beneath the relentless blows.
Two more.
The fifth stumbled forward as he turned — too fast, too close — forcing him to bash the crowbar sideways like a club. The first strike crushed the cheekbone; the second caved the head in completely, black sludge oozing onto his boots.
The last walker paused, swaying, its rotten tongue flickering through broken teeth as if tasting the air — a grotesque mockery of life.
He stepped closer, rage burning behind his eyes.
One precise thrust — straight through the eye socket. The body jerked once, stiffened, then collapsed at his feet.
---
And then… silence.
Heavy, suffocating silence.
His chest heaved, sweat mixed with gore streaked down his face. Blood dripped from the crowbar, pooling into the cracks of the broken pavement.
Still breathing.
Still alive.
After a thorough check of his body, Marcel was fine — just exhausted. Sore muscles ached with every movement, but nothing serious. One by one, he dragged the corpses to the back of the complex, clearing the lot with slow, steady effort. Two more walkers had stumbled onto the scene during his work, but they were easily dealt with — a quick jab to the skull, and they crumpled to the ground like broken puppets.
Once the bodies were handled, Marcel turned his focus to securing the area. Over the next hour, he maneuvered six vehicles from the parking lot, carefully lining them up to block off the main entrance. It wasn't perfect, but it would slow down any future walkers, or worse, looters.
With the perimeter secured for now, Marcel ventured into the remaining rooms to scavenge. Since it had only been about a week since the world fell apart, most of the apartments still held supplies—some untouched, others already picked over by desperate hands. He moved cautiously, checking each room, keeping his crowbar in hand.
In one of the upstairs units, he wasn't alone. A young woman, maybe in her early twenties, and a man who looked a few years older were holed up inside. The pair had clearly been through hell, their faces drawn, clothes ragged, but they were still alive. Marcel didn't exchange many words with them — trust was a rare currency now — but after a moment of thought, he placed a few cans of food he'd found on the counter and silently left the room.
Walking back into his room, Marcel paused at the doorway.
Sarah stood near the window, a towel draped over her head, her damp hair still dripping slightly onto the fabric. The clothes she wore clearly weren't hers — a pair of loose sweatpants cinched awkwardly at her waist, and an oversized T-shirt that nearly swallowed her frame.
The sight caught Marcel off guard, and without meaning to, his eyes lingered for a moment longer than they should have.
Noticing his prolonged stare, Sarah's cheeks flushed with a soft pink. She shifted her gaze downward, suddenly finding the floor incredibly interesting.
In a quiet, shy tone, she offered an explanation, "M-my clothes were dirty… and these were the only things I could find."
Marcel blinked, snapping out of his momentary daze. He gave a small nod, his voice calm. "It's fine. You did what you had to. Make yourself comfortable."
A brief silence settled between them — not awkward, but fragile, as if neither quite knew how to navigate the new world they were in, or the strange safety they found in each other's presence.
Trying to cut through the fragile silence, Marcel spoke, his voice even but firm.
"Tomorrow… I'm going downtown."
The words barely left his mouth before Sarah's shy demeanor evaporated like mist. It was as if something inside her snapped. Her eyes widened, and she spun toward him, the towel nearly falling from her head.
"WHAT?!" she blurted, her voice loud and sharp, echoing slightly in the small apartment.
The sudden outburst caught Marcel off guard for a split second, but he held his calm.
"You heard me," he said quietly. "I need to look for supplies. Food, medicine, whatever I can find. We can't stay locked here forever."
Sarah shook her head, stepping closer, her earlier timidness completely gone.
"But downtown? Marcel, that's suicide! You've seen how bad it's gotten out there. The further you go, the thicker the walkers get. And who knows what else is out there!"
Her voice trembled — not just with anger, but fear. Genuine fear for him.
Marcel met her eyes, his tone steady but gentle. "I know the risks. But sitting here hoping for things to magically get better isn't a plan. The apartment's not going to feed us for long."
Sarah bit her lip, the fight still burning in her eyes. She opened her mouth to argue again but closed it just as fast. Deep down, she knew he was right.
Still, her voice softened, almost a whisper now. "Then… at least let me go with you."
For a moment, Marcel said nothing. He watched her—how her hands fidgeted, how her voice trembled beneath her determination. She was scared, but she didn't want to be useless.
"No," he said firmly, but not unkindly. "It's too dangerous. If something happens out there, I can move faster on my own. I need you safe, here."
Sarah's lips pressed into a thin line. The towel slipped from her head, falling to her shoulders, but she didn't bother adjusting it.
"But I can help," she insisted, voice softer but desperate. "I'm not useless. I've... I've shot before. My dad used to take me hunting when I was younger. I can—"
Marcel raised a hand gently, cutting her off before she spiraled.
"I don't doubt you," he said. His tone was calm, almost warm. "But the streets aren't like the woods. Out there, they come from every direction. It's not about being brave or strong — it's about being smart. And right now, staying alive means you stay put."
Her shoulders slumped, defeated but still visibly frustrated.
He sighed, softening a little more. "Listen… you can help by keeping watch while I'm gone. Keep the doors locked, stay away from the windows. If I'm not back by nightfall, you barricade everything."
Sarah's eyes glistened slightly, but she blinked it away quickly and nodded. "Okay."
Marcel placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I won't be long."
Then, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a kitchen knife — roughly 20 centimeters long, its edge recently sharpened. The handle was worn, but it was sturdy enough to do the job if she needed it.
"Here," he said, extending it toward her. "Take it."
Sarah hesitated for a moment, staring at the blade. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached out and took it from his hand, feeling the weight of the cold metal in her palm.
"I… I hope I won't have to use it," she whispered.
"Hopefully you won't," Marcel agreed, his voice low but steady. "But if you do, aim for the head. Don't hesitate. Hesitation gets people killed out there."
Sarah swallowed hard, gripping the knife tighter. "Got it."
Marcel gave her a small nod, seeing the mixture of fear and determination in her eyes. He could tell she was still scared — they both were — but there was a kind of quiet strength in her too.
He turned toward the window, eyes scanning the dim streets below, lit only by the early morning gray. "Get some rest. I'll leave at first light."