Night had fallen, and the zombies had become feral, driven by an insatiable hunger. At night, they transformed into something primal, dangerous even to the most seasoned survivors. Typically, people would barricade themselves in hideouts, too fearful to risk a confrontation with the Walkers.
But for Jarlath, master of the undead, the night posed no real threat. While his ability to control the zombies was limited to a certain number, it was more than enough to allow him to roam freely, as though the apocalypse were a mere inconvenience.
"I don't have time to make it back to my building," Jarlath muttered, his gaze drifting toward the looming structure ahead. "And I certainly don't feel like climbing stairs tonight."
He glanced sideways at what had once been The Shops & Restaurants at Hudson Yards. Two years ago, it had been a bustling, gleaming shopping mall in Midtown Manhattan, designed by Kohn Pedersen Fox, with over a million square feet dedicated to high-end stores like Dior and Chanel, alongside more accessible brands like H&M, Zara, and Sephora. It was a place of luxury and culture, featuring public art, vibrant culinary experiences, and dynamic institutions like The Shed.
But now, the once-glittering mall was a husk. Its glass facade was cracked and overgrown with vines, moss creeping up the walls. The lights inside had long gone out, and shadows shifted ominously within.
"Just another abandoned ruin," Jarlath muttered. "I'll check it out in the morning."
Crack!
His thoughts were interrupted by the sharp crack of gunfire. A bullet whizzed past, embedding itself in the ground near his foot. Instinctively, he ducked behind a flipped vehicle, just as a second shot grazed the side of his head. He could feel the sting of the wound, though it was shallow. His heart raced for a moment before he forced himself to calm down, laughing softly, though his amusement was tinged with frustration.
"First time for everything, I suppose," Jarlath mused, irritated at the unexpected attack. "Whoever it is, they clearly want me dead. Unusual. No one's ever tried this hard before."
He considered the possibility that the shooter was someone from his past, an old enemy perhaps. Or maybe it was a survivor with a deep hatred for the undead. The thought crossed his mind that this person might know about his abilities, which would explain the relentless pursuit.
Crack!
Another gunshot rang out, hitting one of the zombies creeping toward him. The sniper was skilled, deliberately keeping the undead at bay.
Jarlath frowned. Whoever they were, they weren't just out to kill him—they were hunting him.
"I need to get inside," he muttered. There was no time to hesitate. If the shooter was this determined, his best chance was to lose them in the dark maze of the mall. But his options were limited. The zombies he controlled were either too far away or were being picked off by the sniper. He had to be smart.
Two Crawlers, zombies with shattered legs that left them dragging themselves across the ground, were nearby. Jarlath seized the opportunity.
"Stop," he commanded, freezing them in place. He needed to create a distraction.
One of the Crawlers, he sent crawling behind a nearby vehicle. The other, he struggled to lift—it was heavier than it looked, and his muscles strained under its weight. He cursed under his breath. Zombies shouldn't be this heavy, he thought, but there was no time to dwell on it.
Once the first Crawler was in position, Jarlath hurled the second one out into the open. As he'd hoped, a sniper's bullet immediately tore through the Crawler's skull.
With the distraction in place, Jarlath sprinted toward another vehicle, barely ducking in time as the second bullet missed him by inches.
"This isn't how it's supposed to be!" he growled, his pulse pounding in his ears. He hadn't felt this vulnerable in two years. Not since before the world had fallen apart.
More zombies were closing in, but the sniper was ruthlessly efficient, dropping each one with chilling accuracy. Jarlath's greatest weapon—his ability to control the undead—was utterly useless.
A bitter memory surged within him, the familiar feeling of being cornered, just as he had been so many times during his school years, a victim of relentless bullies.
His fist clenched. No, not anymore. He was the king of this apocalypse. This was his world.
"Wait," Jarlath muttered, an idea forming. "I can still use them."
He took a deep breath and let out a bloodcurdling scream. The sound echoed through the night, a primal cry that stirred the zombies all around. In response, monstrous growls rose from the darkness. The sniper's shots grew frantic, some missing their mark now as the undead closed in.
Jarlath grinned. This was his chance. He picked up the Crawler he'd hidden earlier, using its body as a shield as he made a break for the entrance of the mall. Gunfire rang out, but now the sniper was too busy dealing with the swarm to focus on him.
Crack!
As Jarlath sprinted through the revolving doors, a sharp pain exploded in his leg. A bullet had struck his calf, and he collapsed onto the cold, cracked floor of the mall. He gritted his teeth, fury coursing through him as he pushed himself up. In a fit of rage, he stomped on the Crawler's head repeatedly until it was nothing more than a pulpy mess beneath his boot.
"Whoever that was," Jarlath snarled, "they're going to regret this."
Limping deeper into the mall's shadowy interior, he knew he'd have to stay hidden. For now, at least, the darkness was his ally.
———
Inside the mall, it was nothing but ruins. The once pristine, modern walls were now overrun with moss, vines, and cracks. Shattered glass from clothing store windows littered the floor, likely remnants of earlier survivors trying to create distractions for zombies.
Worn-out furniture was scattered about, and jewelry displays were smashed or tarnished by the passage of time. Broken signs hung precariously from storefronts, while the floors were overgrown with weeds, stained with dry blood, and littered with pieces of skeletons.
Cracked screens of long-dead electronics dotted the walls, and debris from the upper floors and ceiling were strewn everywhere.
But none of that mattered to Jarlath right now. Limping slightly from the bullet wound in his calf, his only focus was finding an escalator to reach the upper floors.
As he moved through the wreckage of various stores, he grabbed a shard of glass for protection—wasting bullets would be foolish. He heard the distant growls of zombies, but something strange was happening.
Each time a growl echoed through the ruins, it was followed by an eerie silence.
It was unusual.
Finally, Jarlath found the escalator. He began to climb, carefully avoiding the gaping holes in the steps. His face twisted with pain and frustration as he groaned, "That damn bastard! When I find them, I'll make sure they squirm before I finish them!"
Reaching the second floor, Jarlath entered a clothing store called Levi's and sat down to tend to his wound. Ever since he gained the power to command the undead two years ago, he had also acquired the ability to slowly regenerate. The bullet hole would heal, but it would take time—three to four hours at best. Time he didn't have.
Rolling up his pant leg, he inspected the wound. "Not too bad," he muttered. "I've had worse."
The sight of the injury triggered a memory. Back in Ireland, during his school days, he had been tormented by bullies. One day, while sitting in the schoolyard, minding his own business and listening to music, a group of troublemakers had targeted him. When he ignored them, they grew angry, dragged him under a tree, and slashed his right leg with a sharp, thorny branch.
He rolled up his other pant leg, revealing the long, jagged scars from that day. "I hate them. I hate everyone," he whispered, bitterness in his voice.
Those bullies were never punished. They had walked away scot-free, while his parents' complaints were dismissed by the school staff, who insisted that Jarlath had started the fight. The bullies were never held accountable, likely because they'd silenced their other victims as well.
That day had marked the beginning of years of torment for Jarlath, a cycle that had continued long before the apocalypse shattered the world. Life had always been cruel to him, and he had never understood why.
Jarlath leaned back, preparing to sleep to pass the time, but his rest was abruptly cut short.
Kshhh! Kshhh!
The sound of shattering glass echoed nearby, followed by the unmistakable thuds of zombies being put down. Someone else was in the mall. Whether it was the sniper from earlier or an accomplice, it didn't matter—he wasn't safe.
He stood, knowing that staying still would only make him an easy target. Armed with nothing but a glass shard and a pistol with ten rounds left, he stepped cautiously out of the store, his eyes scanning every shadow. He hoped to find zombies nearby that he could control, but the eerie silence continued.
Climbing over the debris in his path, he moved slowly, listening intently for any sound. But there was only silence—an oppressive, suffocating quiet that gnawed at his nerves.
His pace began to falter. Panic set in.
He hadn't felt this way in two years. Not since before the world fell. His breaths grew shallow, and his vision blurred as his heart raced uncontrollably. He stumbled, leaning against the wall of a store called UpWest, barely avoiding the glass shards scattered across the floor.
He tried to walk it off, forcing himself to move, but his legs gave way, and he found himself leaning over the glass railings. Below, the first floor stretched out in front of him, the stores on the opposite side barely visible in the dim light.
"I need zombies..." he stammered, his voice trembling as panic gripped him tighter.
Sweat dripped from his brow, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The fear that he had buried for two years surged to the surface, overwhelming him. This was the feeling he had long tried to forget—the helplessness, the vulnerability.
He had thought that in this new world, he had found strength. He had his undead servants, his power over life and death. But here, in this silent, abandoned mall, without a single zombie growl to reassure him, the fear took hold. He was on the verge of tears, like a child lost in the dark, crying out for a mother who would never come.
A footstep echoed behind him, followed by a voice, calm but laced with malice.
"So there you are."
Swish!
Jarlath snapped out of his panic and instinctively dodged to the side just as the assailant lunged at him with a knife. The blade missed, slamming into the glass railing, shattering it into a thousand pieces. Without hesitation, the assailant hurled the knife at Jarlath. He narrowly avoided it, but before he could fully recover, a powerful kick sent him sprawling to the ground.
"Who the hell are you!?" Jarlath demanded, scrambling to put distance between them.
The attacker twirled another knife in their hand, the metal gleaming faintly in the dim light. "That's not important."
The assailant was clad in a tattered navy blue jacket, emblazoned with the letters "P.E."—the remnants of a high school physical education uniform. The jacket, torn and worn from countless encounters, bore the marks of battles long past. Underneath, a bloodstained white T-shirt clung to their body, the dried crimson a grim mixture of their own blood—or perhaps that of the undead, or a forgotten survivor.
With sudden speed, the assailant charged at Jarlath, aiming to plunge the knife into his leg. Jarlath barely managed to roll out of the way, kicking the assailant hard enough to buy himself some space. He staggered to his feet just as the attacker slashed toward his head. Jarlath caught the arm mid-strike and, in one fluid motion, locked the assailant in a chokehold.
He attempted to execute a move he had seen in his favorite wrestling videos, hoping to drop them to the floor. But the assailant twisted free, shoving him hard enough to send him crashing to the ground.
Before Jarlath could react, another knife came down toward his throat. He rolled to the side, dodging the blade, but this time, the assailant managed to trap him in a chokehold, pushing the knife dangerously close to his neck.
Jarlath fought desperately, his muscles straining against the force. He noticed the attacker losing balance and seized the moment—he jerked backward, headbutting the assailant in the groin. The knife missed its mark, grazing his cheek instead and leaving a thin scar along his right side.
With his adversary momentarily stunned, Jarlath pulled out his pistol and fired off five quick shots. The assailant dove into the Goodlife clothing store, vanishing into the shadows. Jarlath stood panting, his heart racing, and now with only five bullets left.
But that had been his plan. He could hear the distant moans of zombies—his salvation. He'd use them to overwhelm this assassin.
He tried to make a break for it, moving toward where the zombies were, but—
"You're not going anywhere!" the assailant shouted, hurling another knife.
Jarlath dodged just in time, though the blade grazed his chin, drawing blood. Frustration surged through him, burning hot. How dare this intruder try to ruin him in this apocalyptic paradise? He had been freed from his torment; why should he let anyone take that away? He would never let anyone make him feel weak again, not after what he had endured.
As the assailant reached for their fallen knife, Jarlath rushed to pick up another one. But just as his fingers closed around the handle, the assailant flicked their first blade with precision, slashing across Jarlath's knuckles and forcing him to drop the weapon.
He cursed inwardly. These knives were a death trap—he wasn't skilled enough to win this fight with them. The assailant, on the other hand, moved with deadly proficiency, their every motion calculated.
Jarlath considered using the pistol again, but with only five rounds left and the enemy too close, it wasn't worth it. He needed those bullets for something else—for someone he'd enjoy torturing once this nightmare was over.
Escape was also out of the question. He couldn't risk running to the escalator—the assailant would catch him easily before he even reached the stairs. What frustrated him more was how the attacker showed no sign of exhaustion, while he was already panting heavily.
It was as though this person had limitless stamina, while his own was rapidly depleting. Jarlath gritted his teeth. Who the hell was this relentless monster?
In an attempt to stall, he tried reasoning, though the desperation in his voice betrayed him. "Who the hell are you!?" he demanded again, eyes wild. "I want to remember your name after I kill you for trying to bully me!"
"Bully you?" The assailant snorted in disbelief, their voice filled with contempt. "Er denne fyren ekte?" They shook their head. "From where I'm standing, you're the bully. You torment people for your own twisted benefit. You use those monsters to make others' lives more miserable than they already are. If that's not the definition of a bully, then you're far more vile than I thought."
Jarlath flinched, anger flaring at the assailant's words. "Why do you care!? The world is overrun by the undead! You don't have time to worry about others! You're living in a damn fantasy if you think you're some kind of hero! You're the abnormal one in this world!"
The assailant stood firm, her voice cold and resolute. "If no one steps in to kill these monsters and protect the living, then who will? And make no mistake, you're one of the few true monsters I'll remember."
With a sharp movement, she reached behind her and pulled out a battered red pipe wrench. The weapon gleamed ominously in the dim light. "You want my name? Fine. Ever since the apocalypse started two years ago, I've been killing zombies, day in and day out. I don't stop! I won't stop, until I've wiped out every last one of them! The survivors I've rescued call me the Zombie Slayer!"
"Zombie Slayer?" Jarlath felt a tremor of unease. The name rang in his mind like a distant warning bell.
A year ago, he had toyed with a survivor, one of the many he let live just to enjoy watching their torment. That survivor had babbled about the Zombie Slayer—rumored to be the Savior of the World, a brutal, relentless fighter who left nothing but a trail of undead corpses in her wake.
Jarlath hadn't believed it at the time, dismissing it as a desperate fairy tale to give people false hope in a dying world. But now, standing before him, was someone who claimed that title—and the realization made his stomach twist.
The assailant sneered, reading the uncertainty on his face. "Thanks to your twisted sense of humor—leaving survivors to suffer for your amusement—I was able to track you down. It wasn't easy, but after a year, I found you. The 'Lone Wolf.' The 'Zombie King.'" She spat the words like they were venomous. "What ridiculous names you gave yourself."
She raised the pipe wrench, her voice filled with finality. "Well, Zombie King, this is your last reign. Got any final words?"
Jarlath stood frozen, his mind racing. Whether this was the fabled Zombie Slayer or not, he knew his chances of surviving were slim. His body was battered, his energy drained. He was no match for her in this state, and he knew it.
But something tugged at his thoughts. The wrench. Ever since she had pulled it out, something about it gnawed at him. It looked familiar in a way that irritated him, clawing at his memory. And then it clicked—Jon.
Two years ago, Jon had wielded a pipe wrench just like that one. Could it be the same wrench?
His instincts, driven by a mix of curiosity and frustration, made him ask. "Where did you get that?" His voice was tight, laced with irritation.