"Move, move, grab your weapons!" Liam shouted as he bolted toward the center of the second floor. Everyone was already carrying a gun, but aside from Old Mike's shotgun, the rest only had pistols. The rifles were all stashed together near the middle of the store.
"Jason! Get the megaphone—don't forget the batteries! Hurry!" Liam shouted mid-sprint, as if something urgent had just struck him. The megaphone was an electronic item, and all electronics were up on the third floor.
"Roger that, boss!" Jason couldn't resist being theatrical even in moments like this. He raised two fingers to his forehead in a salute, then kicked off hard on his stunt bike. When he passed a low shelf, he lifted the handlebars and launched the whole bike right over it, flying toward the escalator like it was second nature. Jason didn't just dance—he could ride too.
The moment Liam gave the order, the whole group was on the move. Old Mike reached the gun stash first, grabbing a couple of AK-47s and tossing one to Laura. Then he hesitated and shouted toward the shelves, "Hey, kid! Catch! Give us a hand!"
He tossed another rifle toward Bowen, who had been slumped there all day. Bowen blinked, caught the weapon out of reflex. Mike gave him a nod and handed over a bag of bullets and mags. "Come on, let's go."
Bowen hesitated, then stood up and followed with the rifle in hand.
Soon everyone gathered along the northern windows of the second floor, rifles ready.
"Is this worth it?" Manila asked as she chambered a round into her weapon, voice low. "We could burn a ton of ammo and still not save him. This kind of decision isn't like you."
Outside the Walmart, the number of zombies had passed ten thousand. They surrounded the building in every direction. Robby was driving a beat-up old truck, weaving through the sea of the dead, clearly trying to make it to the store. He looked like he was barely holding on. The rescue would be a nightmare. Ammo looked plentiful, but against a swarm this size, nothing was ever enough. As Manila said, it wasn't like Liam to make moves that might cost everything for one man.
But only Manila dared say that to his face. The others followed Liam's lead, silent but clearly treating him as their anchor. He had earned that. He'd executed Andrew without hesitation, led them through chaos, got them armed and fed, and brought them to the relative safety of Walmart. Most survivors were still locked in their homes, shaking behind doors, too afraid to look out their windows. But Liam had built a plan. He moved, they followed.
None of them thought they could lead better than Liam. And most of them suspected this wasn't really about saving Robby alone. Liam didn't do things on impulse.
"He's going to get us killed," Liam said grimly, snatching the megaphone from Jason, who was already tearing open a pack of batteries and handing them over.
"Killed?" Manila's eyebrows rose. She hadn't expected that. "How?"
The others turned to look at Liam. He didn't answer her. Not yet.
Instead, he opened the second-floor window, slammed the batteries into the megaphone, and shouted at the top of his lungs: "Robby! This is Liam! Do not go to the parking garage! Repeat, do not enter the underground garage! We'll meet you at the front entrance—don't go to the basement!"
That was the key.
Why had Liam dared to fire a massive Barrett sniper rifle from the roof, knowing it would echo for miles and draw more zombies? Because they had an escape route. The underground garage wasn't just for Walmart—it was a shared public parking structure. The exit led away from the store. As long as no one attracted attention down there, the place would stay mostly clear, allowing them to escape safely in a vehicle.
But if Robby, trying to escape the zombie, led the them into the garage, the whole plan would collapse. And Liam wasn't planning to die in a store, no matter how well-stocked it was.
It wasn't about bravery. It was about the long game. The longer they stayed in a city full of rotting corpses, the greater the risk of plague. Liam knew what happened when you trapped thousands of infected bodies in a sealed urban grave. Disease was a matter of time. One month, two, maybe four or five. When it hit, no one would survive.
He had to protect their exit route. Which meant he had to save Robby.
"Jason! Christine! Go to the drinks aisle and grab as many bottles of Golden Malt as you can. All of them. Move!" Liam barked.
Golden Malt—infamous across the world. Not for its flavor. Liam never drank the stuff. But because of its alcohol content: 95%. It was banned in half the U.S. for good reason. It was practically liquid fire.
Jason jumped back on his bike, Christine running beside him. They returned with a shopping cart overloaded with more than thirty bottles. They were both panting hard.
"Jason, toss them down, far as you can! Christine, reload the mags when we drop empty ones!" Liam called, glancing once at their red, sweaty faces, then back at the window.
Five semi-auto rifles opened fire together, sending thunderous volleys down into the horde. Zombies dropped in droves. Arms, legs, torsos flew. Some rose again—only headshots could kill them. But the barrage was fierce.
Robby had heard Liam's shout. He didn't hesitate. Liam had saved his life before. That was enough.
He floored the truck. The engine screamed. It wasn't a sports car, but it had guts. He zigzagged toward the front of Walmart, smashing through the swarm, the gunfire overhead slicing open paths that barely held. He dodged, braced, powered forward as zombies slammed into the chassis.
Then came the bottles.
Crash after crash. Bottles shattered among the dead, soaking the street in potent liquor. Jason hurled each one like a shot put, stepping back for momentum, then whipping it down. Manila had made sure they landed scattered. Spread-out flames drew zombies away from Robby, giving them multiple distractions they couldn't process.
They were dumb. They didn't know what was real, what was bait. They only followed sound and fire.
And then, boom—one of the soaked puddles caught.
Then another.
And another.
Columns of fire burst up among the crowd. Zombies flailed and screamed, the stench of burning flesh mixing with the already sickening rot. It was like the gates of hell had cracked open.
Robby hit the gas.
The windshield had already cracked, but he punched through the mass. Then—
CRASH!
The passenger-side window exploded. A huge zombie—twice the size of the others—lunged into the truck.
Robby swerved hard. The creature slammed against the dash, missing him by inches, its bulk crashing into the windshield. It didn't get him.
Robby grabbed his pistol, raised it, and blew the monster's skull apart. Blood and bone sprayed across his face, but he didn't blink. He kept driving.
The body slumped forward, blocking the broken window. Just like that, it became a shield. The others tried to crawl through but couldn't get past it. Robby smiled grimly. One less problem.
At the second-floor window, Liam shouted: "Jason, stop throwing! Grab the fire hose! We'll need to put this out. Everyone else, keep shooting! Mike, with me—we're going downstairs!"
They thundered down the steps. Liam pulled his keys mid-run, racing toward the big glass doors on the first floor. He stopped, glanced outside—waves of the dead pressed against the glass.
He opened the lock. Mike covered the door. They burst out, guns blazing. The truck was closing in.
"Get ready!" Liam shouted.
The truck didn't slow. Robby aimed for the steel barrier and rammed it. Plastic and steel cracked and shattered, the truck bouncing wildly.
Mike gaped. "What the hell is he doing?! He's gonna crash through the damn door!"
"Open the door!" Liam roared, realizing too late. He turned, kicked the door wide, grabbed Mike and dove sideways, just in time to dodge.
SCREECH!
Robby yanked the wheel, slammed the brakes, shifted gears, cut the ignition, and threw a jacket over his head. His knees came up to his chest.
BOOM!
He shot forward like a missile, bursting through the cracked windshield, flying through the open doorway.
He landed hard, rolling across the floor of the store, skidding to a stop.
Outside, the truck screeched to a halt—half a meter from the glass.
Liam didn't check. He sprinted to the door, slammed it shut, locked it, then ran to Robby and dragged him up with Mike. They hauled him deeper into the store, then around the corner.
Then Liam slammed him into the wall.
Hard.
"You almost killed us, you son of a—!"
Liam had lost it. Really lost it. His voice cracked with rage. Robby's reckless entry had nearly shattered their only defense.
"I—I'm sorry," Robby gasped. He'd been thrown hard. He looked half-conscious.
"We need to get out of here," Mike muttered, tapping Liam's shoulder.
They were too close to the door. Too close to the screams.
Too close to hell.