The truck rolled to a stop beside a deserted gas station along the highway. Ethan Miller surveyed the survivors crammed into the cargo bed—clothes caked with dust, faces drained of color from the brutal ride.
He pulled Emily Miller close, holding his sister tight. Relief washed through him in waves. Against all odds, she was safe. Nothing had gone wrong.
Emily opened her mouth, prepared to lecture him about his reckless plan, but the words died on her lips. Seeing him so focused and composed, her anger evaporated. Instead, she patted his shoulder gently, a quiet gesture of reassurance.
But there was no time for sentiment. The absence of zombies didn't guarantee safety—only a temporary reprieve. Ethan gave his sister a brief nod, then turned as Rachel Carter jumped down from the cab beside him. She remained silent but alert, her sharp gaze sweeping the horizon for threats.
"Alright. You can get out now," Ethan said coldly to the survivors still huddled in the truck bed.
One man among them frowned. "Hey, who do you think you are, talking to us like that?" Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group, dissatisfaction coloring their faces.
Another stepped forward. "Come on, we all survived this together. Show some respect."
Ethan's expression didn't shift. "Are you finished? I saved your lives out of necessity, not charity. If it weren't for my sister, you'd all be dead weight." His words carried the cold edge of absolute certainty.
Frustration bubbled among the survivors, protests forming on their lips—then a gunshot cracked through the air.
Rachel stood at Ethan's side, pistol raised toward the sky. Her first shot ever. She hadn't aimed to kill, but the sound alone was enough to silence every voice.
The survivors stared. Rachel's sharp gaze, the black muzzle still smoking in her hand, her confident stance—it was a warning carved in steel. They froze, finally grasping the severity of Ethan's authority.
Emily observed quietly, a playful smile tugging at her lips. She'd caught Rachel addressing her brother as "master" earlier. Her brother's influence over this newcomer was surprisingly absolute.
Rachel's demonstration proved sufficient. The survivors stepped back instinctively, understanding the danger. Few had ever seen firearms used so casually, and none wanted to test whether the next shot would be aimed higher—or lower.
"Men on the left. Women on the right," Ethan commanded.
The group hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. But under Emily's subtle guidance and pressure from the calmer survivors, they gradually obeyed, shuffling into two separate groups.
"Watch carefully," Ethan said, taking the pistol from Rachel's hand.
He aimed. Fired.
A single, precise shot struck one man's shoulder. Blood bloomed instantly, spreading across fabric like spilled wine. The others screamed, stumbling backward in shock and terror.
"Yes, Master!" Rachel breathed, admiration threading through her voice. The devastating power of one bullet—it was far beyond anything her hands could accomplish.
Ethan's voice dropped to arctic temperatures. "If any of you run, you'll end up worse than him."
Eight women clutched each other, tears streaming silently down their cheeks as they absorbed his ruthlessness.
One man remained defiant despite the display. "This... this is murder!"
"Try me," Ethan said with a cold sneer. "Out here, the government doesn't exist. Laws don't exist. No one is coming to save you. If I didn't care about conserving bullets, none of you would still be breathing."
His strategy was brutally simple—eliminate threats before they could grow. His survivor base would be a sanctuary for women, and only women. There was no reason to tolerate men who might destabilize or threaten that vision.
The defiant man—Li Foster—hesitated, weighing his options against impossible odds. Eventually, he turned away, trudging off into the distance with bitter reluctance. Ethan's smile was faint. One bullet saved.
The other men followed Li's lead, dispersing like scattered seeds on barren ground.
"Emily, you and Rachel go inside. Find a defensive position and hold it," Ethan instructed.
While his sister and Rachel secured the gas station interior, Ethan grabbed an oil siphon and approached a dead attendant's abandoned truck. He drained its remaining fuel, transferring every precious drop into his own tank. With Emily and Rachel's help, they systematically cleared the station's store—bottled water, bread, canned goods, batteries, first aid supplies, and several barrels of gasoline. The truck bed filled to capacity, laden with enough provisions for the long journey ahead.
Loading the last barrel, Ethan paused to glance back at the distant city skyline. Somewhere out there, the zombie horde continued its relentless march. He allowed himself a faint smirk.
He didn't need to do more. Those who'd fled—Li Foster included—would eventually succumb to the undead anyway. The apocalypse made no distinctions between the bold and the cowardly. It consumed them all with equal hunger.
The only survivors would be the cunning and the prepared. The ones willing to make hard decisions when mercy became a luxury no one could afford.
"We're ready," Emily called from the truck cab, Rachel already settling into the passenger seat.
Ethan took one last look at the gas station—a temporary oasis in an ocean of death—then climbed behind the wheel. The engine rumbled to life, a mechanical heartbeat in the silence.
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