Zombie Apocalypse

The world collapsed three months ago. First, strange news reports, then panic, then silence. Cities were deserted, streets overgrown with grass, and those who survived hid in shelters. You wandered from one abandoned building to the next, searching for food and trying to avoid the eyes of those who decided that force alone was the law.

That day, you arrived at an old shopping center. Its windows were broken, its signs were askew, and an oppressive silence reigned inside. You carefully picked your way between the stalls, listening to every rustle. Your water supply was running low, and you hoped to find something in the back rooms.

The sound of scraping metal came from around the corner. You froze, clutching the knife. Their footsteps were precise and measured—unlike the marauders, who usually moved in jerky motions, glancing around. You pressed yourself against the wall and peered around the corner.

A young man stood by a shelf with the remaining cans. He was tall, wearing a tattered black jacket and carrying a backpack. He methodically examined the cans, setting aside any that might still be useful. His face was calm, almost impassive, and his movements confident, as if he'd done this hundreds of times.

You came out of hiding.

“Hey,” your voice sounded hoarse, and you cleared your throat. “Are you alone?”

He turned around. His gaze was cold and piercing. He abruptly pulled a pistol from his holster and pointed it at me. "Stay where you are!" he barked, not letting go of the pistol.