Jack burst from the water park, keys clenched in a fist. He leapt onto the bike, slid the key in—
Nothing.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
"Why aren't you starting?" he snapped, eyes darting to the dashboard. His helmet glinted—not with light, but frustration.
Fuel gauge full. He checked the gas valve.
"You've got gas," he muttered, then paused. "Oh… ha! Found the problem," he said with a crooked grin, switching the valve on.
Third time: the engine roared like it remembered him.
He grinned beneath the visor. "Knew you weren't gone."
That's when the pocket radio shrieked:
"KRRR…KRAAACK… Don't go… thro…ugh the main High…ways…"
Then nothing. No static. No follow-up.
Jack slowed to a crawl, pulling off the pavement. Minutes passed—no sound, no wind, just the hum of the pulse somewhere deep beneath the earth.
Then, like an omen: a billboard.
REMEMBER: Don't take chances that put you at risk.
Jack squinted at it.
"True. But taking no chances is a risk too," he said, his voice low, visor flashing in the sun.
His fingers tightened on the throttle. Too many days spent holding back. Too many nights wondering what might've happened if he'd stood up.
"It's time to be who I want," he said, and turned off the main road onto a dirt trail swallowed by trees.
After a few winding turns, he spotted it—a rotting house hunched between thornbushes and telephone poles.
Engine off. Silence.
"Time to do this again," Jack muttered, rolling his eyes and stepping into the decay.
The door screamed as it opened, wood splitting like it regretted surviving this long.
Inside: stale air. Dead furniture. A granola bar clinging to a shelf like it was hiding.
In the kitchen—onions, rice, bottled beef stock, half-filled water bottles. He bagged them like treasure.
Then the garage.
And there it was: a chain coiled around a cracked weight, rusted but intact.
Jack stepped forward, lifting it with both hands.
"I know what to do with you," he whispered. His visor shimmered—not with hope, but promise.
Back at the bike, bag loaded tight, Jack fired up the engine. "Got some good stuff," he muttered, visor gleaming.
Then—another building caught his eye. A squat shed, half-swallowed by weeds.
He stepped toward it—then the scream tore the silence.
"RRRRRAAAAAH!"
Something launched from the shadows. A zombie, face peeled like old paint, arms outstretched.
Jack twisted—barely dodging. But claws caught his arm, yanking him to the ground.
He hit hard. Dust. Panic. The grip slipped as Jack rolled clear. No time. No breath.
He sprinted to the shed—his bike too far back. Inside: a steel sickle, curved and waiting.
He grabbed it, turned, and hurled.
The sickle spun once—then stuck in the zombie's forehead like truth being told.
Jack stepped forward, slow. Pulled the blade free. "I could get used to this," he said. "You're going on the chain" Jack says with pride.