Morning came cold and gray. Breakfast was the same as last night—stale bread, water, no warmth, no comfort. Everyone chewed in silence, heads bowed, as if afraid to taste disappointment again.
Afterward, an officer entered their tent and barked orders. "You'll all be assigned tasks. Pregnant and sick stay back. The rest of you—up."
Groans of unease rippled through the group. Mr. Harlan muttered that his knees wouldn't hold. Clara clutched Anna, whispering that she couldn't leave her fevered child. They were separated without pity.
Lexi, and Maya—the high school girl with short-cropped hair—were ordered forward with the rest of the healthy. Maya's face drained of color, her hands trembling as she clung to her ration bag.
"Move," the officer snapped.
They joined a larger group outside: fifteen in total. Survivors in blue jumpsuits stood stiffly in a line, eyes darting nervously as two stern-looking men strode before them. The men carried rifles, their posture rigid, their gaze cold and measuring.
"Supply run," one announced, his voice clipped. "We go out, we gather, we come back. You follow orders or you don't come back at all. Clear?"
A weak chorus of "yes" followed.
The men dumped a pile of weapons at their feet. Rusted machetes, metal pipes, axes, and a handful of old guns with limited ammo. People hesitated, fingers hovering as though the steel might burn them.
Lexi stepped forward without hesitation and picked up a sharp dagger, spinning it once in her palm before sliding it smoothly into her grip.
The silence that followed was thick. Some stared, eyebrows raised in disbelief. The schoolgirl, Maya, swallowed hard and whispered, "A dagger?"
Lexi said nothing.
Slowly, the others began picking their weapons—most reaching greedily for the few guns, clutching them like lifelines. Their eyes flicked back to Lexi, as though she'd made a mistake.
But the two officers noticed. Their gazes lingered on her, then flicked at each other in silent approval.
The truck ride was wordless, the hum of the engine broken only by nervous shifting and the clink of metal. Maya sat beside Lexi, pale and sweating, whispering a prayer under her breath. Lexi stared out the window, watching ruined streets blur by, her face unreadable.
A mile into the city, the truck stopped. "Out," one of the men ordered. "We go on foot."
The air reeked of smoke and rot as they moved through the deserted streets. Their footsteps were quick, sharp, every shadow making someone flinch.
The first zombie appeared limping from an alley, jaw slack, eyes glazed. A man panicked and fired, the gunshot deafening. The officers cursed under their breath, silenced him with a glare.
But Lexi moved first. She darted forward, blade flashing once, sinking into the skull. The body dropped instantly, her movements precise, clean.
The group stared. Even the officers paused.
Another came, groaning as it stumbled closer. Lexi shifted, struck again, silent, efficient. No wasted motion.
The survivors whispered to each other in awe. One of the officers' lips curled faintly. She's different.
By the time they reached the police station, several zombies had fallen at her feet—each kill clean, quiet together, most kills from the officers who move with swift precision. Maya clung to her side, visibly trembling, but Lexi didn't slow.
The building loomed ahead, dark, the windows shattered. Inside, the air smelled of mildew and gunpowder. The officers split the group: "Pairs of three. Sweep every room. Weapons, food, ammo—bring it all."
Lexi was paired with Maya and a tall, scruffy man named Ricks.
The three moved down a long hall, the walls smeared with old blood. They found the weapon room at the end—its metal door locked.
Ricks raised his boot to kick it in, but Lexi caught his arm. "Don't," she said flatly.
He frowned. "And what, princess? You got a key?"
Lexi knelt, pulled a hairpin she'd hidden from the camp bathroom, and began working the lock. The pins clicked in seconds. She pushed the door open with calm precision.
Ricks stared. "Well damn… what were you, a criminal in school?"
Lexi ignored him and stepped inside. Maya scurried after her, wide-eyed.
The room was chaos—guns scattered, ammo boxes overturned, old riot shields lying in heaps. They stuffed weapons and bullets into their bags. Lexi strapped a handgun to her side, attaching a silencer and lining her jumpsuit with spare clips. She moved like someone preparing for war, not just survival.
She paused, eyes narrowing. Something was wrong. The silence felt too heavy.
They regrouped in the main hall with the others. For a moment, everything was still. Then—
A scream split the air. High-pitched, ragged, cut short. Gunshots erupted outside, echoing through the building. Groans followed, the rising chorus of the dead.
"Zombies!" someone shouted.
Panic exploded. Survivors shoved each other, scrambling for exits. Maya clutched Lexi's sleeve, sobbing, "Don't leave me!" Lexi tried to help but the flood of bodies tore them apart.
The officers shouted commands, trying to form order, but fear drowned them out. The first officer bolted for the door, not looking back.
"Go!" Lexi barked, shoving the nearest survivors forward. Zombies crashed through broken windows, gnashing teeth, clawing arms. Bullets flew wildly, hitting as many walls as undead.
Lexi fought with brutal precision, her dagger sinking into skull after skull. Her motions were cold, surgical. She yelled once, loud enough for others to hear: "Brains—stab or shoot the brain!"
The tip cut through the fog of panic. People obeyed, stabbing wildly, some succeeding, some failing. Lexi pushed through the tide, but Maya was gone—swallowed by the horde.
By the time Lexi and a handful of survivors burst onto the street, their group of fifteen had dwindled to less than half. Their breaths came ragged, their eyes wide with shock. No one spoke of those who had died. There wasn't time.
"Move!" one officer barked, his face pale but furious.
They sprinted down the street, cutting down the dead as they went. Lexi's blade dripped black ichor, her movements tireless. Every strike was a lesson, every motion an example.
Finally, a small restaurant loomed ahead. They rushed inside, barricading the door with overturned tables and chairs.
The silence that followed was deafening. Survivors leaned against the walls, panting, trembling, some breaking into sobs. The officers scanned the room with hard eyes, trying to mask their shaken nerves.
Lexi stood in the center, dagger in hand, chest rising and falling steadily. Her eyes swept the room like a predator among prey.
She said nothing. But everyone saw it—
Without her, most of them wouldn't be alive.