The four of them walked like prey.
Zeke stayed behind them, knife at his side, watching the way their steps rang too loud against cracked pavement. Mara's backpack straps squeaked with every nervous tug. Toby dragged his cleaver across the edge of a car without realizing the sound carried. Even Daryl, trying to walk tall at the front, kept glancing over his shoulder, his nerves betraying him.
Zeke moved differently. Every step placed with purpose. Quiet. Balanced. He scanned alleys, rooftops, every broken window that might hide a corpse. He had learned in a single day what these people hadn't in two: survival meant moving like a predator, not prey.
If noise drew them in, panic fed them.
And this group was noisy, panicked, and half-starved.
"Evac zone's just a few blocks north," Daryl muttered, voice low but strained. "Heard on the radio yesterday, before the signal died. Said they were holding out near the bridge."
No one answered. Mara's breathing was too shallow, Lena kept her hood low, and Toby only muttered something under his breath.
Zeke's eyes narrowed. He didn't believe in evac zones. If any had existed, they'd already been overrun. But he said nothing. Let them chase hope. It would keep them moving.
By mid-morning, the cracks began to show.
Mara stumbled, clutching her pack. Daryl snapped at her to keep up. She froze, then whispered, "It's… it's almost empty. The food. We're nearly out."
Toby's head whipped toward her. "What? Already? We had more!"
"I—I didn't—"
"You ate it, didn't you?!" Toby hissed, voice rising despite Daryl's sharp glare. "That's why you're so goddamn slow. You couldn't wait, so you—"
Mara flinched, eyes wet. "I just—"
"Enough," Daryl barked. His voice cracked. "We'll find more. Just… keep moving."
Zeke said nothing. He only watched.
Fighting over scraps. Wasting breath. Losing focus.
If this is how they break over food, he thought coldly, they won't survive the week.
The supermarket looked like a graveyard.
Its windows were shattered, doors hanging off their hinges. Blood smeared across the tiles inside, leading to dark stains in the aisles. Shelves were toppled, most stripped bare. The smell of rot was thick.
"We have to check," Daryl insisted, gripping his pipe tighter. "There might still be something."
Zeke followed, silent. His knife was steady in his hand.
The group scattered through the aisles, rummaging through boxes, cans, anything left behind. Mara tugged nervously at her sleeves, Toby cursed under his breath when every box turned up empty.
Zeke found a lone can of beans under a shelf, dented but sealed. He tucked it into his jacket without a word.
That's when the moans rose.
From the back of the supermarket, figures stirred.
Six shamblers lurched into view, drawn by the sound of their search. Their skin hung in tatters, jaws broken and hanging, eyes locked hungrily on the movement.
The survivors froze. Daryl raised his pipe, trembling. Mara whimpered, backing away.
Zeke stepped forward.
The first shambler reached for him. His knife flashed once, slicing across its throat, then buried itself in its skull. The body crumpled.
Another stumbled close. He pivoted, driving the blade up under its chin, twisting until it fell limp.
Daryl swung his pipe wildly, barely clipping one's shoulder. Toby slashed with his cleaver, missing entirely. Mara screamed as another corpse grabbed her sleeve.
Zeke moved fast. He shoved Mara aside, slammed his boot into the corpse's chest, and finished it with a precise stab.
One by one, he cut them down. Efficient. Clean. No wasted motion.
By the time the last body hit the ground, the others were gasping, pale with terror.
Zeke crouched over the corpses.
Devour?
"Yes."
Black smoke rushed into him, filling his veins with fire. His muscles tightened, his breath steadied, his body thrummed with strength.
Devour complete. +12 points. +30 EXP.
He exhaled slowly, standing tall again.
The others hadn't noticed. To them, he'd just been staring coldly at the bodies. Mara glanced at him once, brow furrowing, but quickly looked away.
They regrouped in silence, shaken.
Daryl tried to speak, voice rough. "We… we got lucky."
Zeke's eyes flicked to him. Luck had nothing to do with it.
When they rested in the alley behind the supermarket, Zeke opened the Shop. Words burned faintly across his vision:
Reinforced gloves – 4 points
Crowbar – 5 points
Painkillers – 3 points
Tactical flashlight – 4 points
His ribs still ached from the Runner fight. Painkillers would help. But his knife-hand was raw, fingers burning from constant grip.
"Reinforced gloves," he whispered.
The weight settled into his hands. Black leather, snug, padding across the palms and knuckles. He flexed his fingers. Perfect.
He tugged them on and felt the difference immediately. His grip steadier. His strikes sharper.
If the group slowed him down, he'd need every edge to last longer in fights.
Night fell. They holed up in an abandoned office building, blocking the door with desks. Daryl set a weak fire in a metal bin, muttering about how "the evac zone can't be far." Mara curled up against the wall, clutching her pack. Toby sharpened his cleaver with nervous, uneven strokes. Lena sat in the corner, silent, hood pulled low.
Zeke leaned against the wall, knife across his lap.
Mara glanced at him, voice barely above a whisper. "Do you… do you think Daryl can really get us there?"
Zeke looked at her. His eyes were cold, steady. He didn't answer.
She turned away, shivering.
Toby muttered into the firelight. "He's not human. You saw him. He doesn't even flinch."
Daryl tried to rally them, his voice cracking under the weight of his own doubt. "We'll make it. We just have to keep going. Just a little farther."
Zeke stayed silent. He knew the truth. Hope was their crutch. Logic was his weapon.
When his turn came for watch, Zeke stood at the broken window, knife in hand, eyes scanning the crimson-stained streets.
That's when he saw it.
Something moved in the distance. Not a shambler. Not a Runner.
Its body was swollen, twisted, muscles bulging unnaturally against splitting skin. One arm dragged along the ground, claws carving sparks against asphalt. Its head jerked in odd angles, too sharp, too fast, like its bones didn't fit right.
It was dragging something heavy. A half-crushed body, leaving a smear of blood behind.
Even from here, Zeke could feel it. The weight of its presence. Stronger. Meaner. Wrong.
A mutant.
His grip tightened on the knife, reinforced gloves creaking.
The group behind him slept fitfully, unaware of what was coming.
Zeke's eyes narrowed.
They aren't ready for this. Hell… even I might not be.