The last few fell quickly after that. A construction worker missing half his face. An elderly woman in a floral dress. A jogger still wearing his fitness tracker. Each one became another point, another small increment of power added to Ethan's growing total.
In less than thirty seconds, blood and gore painted the playground equipment. The swing set was splattered with dark fluid. The sandbox had become a pool of crimson. The ground was littered with twitching corpses, their nervous systems taking minutes to realize they were already dead.
Ethan stood among them, chest rising and falling with steady breaths. Not exhausted—not even winded, really. The doubled endurance from the System meant he could fight much longer before fatigue set in. His muscles felt warm, loose, ready for more if needed.
His red-edged war axe gleamed faintly—sharp as ever, even after cutting through a dozen skulls and spines. No chips in the blade. No cracks in the handle. The enhancement had been worth every single point.
The enhanced weapon was incredible. No dulling, no damage from repeated impacts against bone—just raw, efficient destruction.
He wiped a streak of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, muttering, "Worth every point."
Behind the colorful plastic slide—bright yellow and red, meant for children who would never play on it again—a young woman with messy brown hair crouched low, watching him with wide, terrified eyes.
Rachel Carter—twenty-six years old, pop singer with three albums and a modest following in the Chicago music scene—had never seen anything like this in her entire life.
She'd seen action movies, sure. Played zombie survival video games with her manager during tour bus rides. But nothing—nothing—had prepared her for the reality of watching a man systematically butcher a dozen reanimated corpses with the calm efficiency of someone chopping firewood.
When the outbreak hit, she'd been performing at a downtown promotional event for a new club opening. Mid-song, right as she was hitting the high note in her signature track, the first screams had started. Within minutes, half the audience had turned into monsters—not metaphorically, not in the artistic sense she might have sung about, but literally. Teeth and claws and blood, tearing through the crowd like wild dogs through sheep.
The security team—three big guys who were supposed to keep overeager fans from rushing the stage—had barely gotten her out alive. They'd tried to reach the police station, calling every emergency number they could think of, but the roads were jammed with abandoned cars and the sirens that had filled the air during the first hour had stopped.
One by one, her security team had fallen. Torn apart. Infected. Turned.
By the time she'd stumbled into this park—hungry, exhausted, her designer dress torn and covered in dirt and blood that wasn't all hers—she was alone. Completely, utterly alone for the first time in years. No fans, no handlers, no stage lights to make her feel invincible.
When she'd spotted Ethan fighting his way through the street, moving with purpose and confidence in a world gone mad, instinct had made her scream for help. The rational part of her brain—the part that her manager had spent years training to think strategically about career moves and public image—had shut down entirely.
Now, watching him move like a killing machine, she covered her mouth with both hands to muffle her breathing. Afraid to make a sound. Afraid he might turn that axe on her next.
He was cutting them down like he'd done it all his life. Like this was normal. Like the world hadn't ended just hours ago.
When the last corpse dropped—a zombie that had been wearing the remains of a police uniform—Ethan turned sharply toward her hiding spot. His eyes locked onto hers with unsettling accuracy, as if he'd known exactly where she was the entire time.
"You want to live?" he said coldly, his voice cutting through the night air like a blade. "Then shut up."
Rachel flinched as he strode toward her, his boots squelching through blood and worse. Before she could respond—before she could thank him or apologize or ask who he was—he reached down and grabbed her wrist. Not roughly, but firmly. Possessively.
His tone was firm, his eyes colder than steel. "Move. Stay quiet."
He pulled her along, and she scrambled to keep up with his longer strides. They slipped around the edge of the park, taking a narrow side path that led toward the main road. The noise from their earlier fight had already drawn more groans from the nearby alleys and storefronts. Shadows moved in the darkness, shambling toward the scent of fresh carnage.
After a few minutes of silent movement, she finally dared to whisper, her voice trembling, "W-where are you going?"
Ethan stopped abruptly and turned to face her. In the moonlight, she could see his expression clearly—hard, focused, with no trace of the friendly warmth she'd come to expect from men who approached her. No starstruck recognition. No attempt to charm or impress.
His voice was low and hard. "Listen carefully. From now on, you stick with me. You follow my lead. You don't argue, and you don't slow me down. Got it?"
Rachel blinked, stunned by the sheer authority in his voice. Nobody talked to her like this. Nobody had talked to her like this since she was a teenager taking orders from her first vocal coach.
"What—why are you acting like this?" she whispered, anger starting to creep into her fear. "I just needed help—"
"Help?" He gave a bitter laugh, short and humorless. "You screamed and brought a dozen corpses right on top of us. I'm the reason you're still breathing instead of being torn apart and infected. So yeah, you'll listen."
His tone wasn't cruel—not exactly. It was matter-of-fact, the voice of a man who'd already accepted how ugly the new world was. No room for politeness or social niceties. Just survival.
Rachel looked at him, feeling anger and humiliation mixing in her chest like oil and water. Just a few hours ago, she'd been standing under stage lights, microphone in hand, adored by thousands of screaming fans. People had paid money just to hear her sing. To see her smile.
Now, she was covered in dirt and blood, staring at a stranger who treated her like cargo. Like an inconvenient burden.
"No," she whispered fiercely, finding some core of pride she'd thought the apocalypse had shattered. "I'll repay you for saving me. I'm not ungrateful. But I'm not your property."
Ethan's expression didn't change. Not even a flicker of emotion. "Then you're a liability."
Before she could react—before she could process what he meant—he reached out and grabbed her by the collar of her ruined dress. His enhanced strength lifted her with one hand, as if she weighed nothing at all. Her feet left the ground.
"Wait—what are you—"
"Relax," he said, voice flat and emotionless. "I'm not that kind of monster. But you need to understand something—noise gets people killed. Stupidity gets people killed. And right now, you're both."
With that, he tossed her—gently, but firmly—over the fence into a patch of grass on the other side. She sailed through the air with a startled cry, landing hard on her shoulder. Pain shot through her arm as she hit the ground, the impact knocking the wind from her lungs.
She looked up, dazed and furious, ready to scream at him—
The sight that met her eyes froze her blood solid.
Half a dozen zombies were crawling out from behind the nearby picnic area, drawn by her earlier screams like moths to flame. Their dead eyes fixed on her immediately. Fresh meat. Alive and warm and terrified.
"No—no, please!" Rachel scrambled to her feet, her voice rising into a panicked shriek despite herself. "Please don't leave me!"
On the other side of the fence, Ethan sighed deeply—the sound of a man who was very, very tired of other people's problems. He swung his war axe over his shoulder in a practiced motion, the weight settling comfortably against his back.
"Guess I'll clean up your mess again," he muttered, already moving toward the fence gate.