Surviving The Undead

Chapter 4

I reached the gas station just as the rain let up the last drop.

It was on the outskirts, which was quiet and nearly swallowed by creeping vines and weeds.

The once-busy highway had fallen silent suddenly, the only sound now heard is the occasional chirp of a bird or rustle of wind which could be brushing across rusted metal.

This place had been forgotten. Good. That usually meant fewer infections.

Still, I didn’t lower my guard.

I parked the jeep behind a large delivery truck and brought it to a rest. The air was thick with the humidity and the faint stench of gasoline and rotting flesh . My hand hovered near my spatial blade as I crept forward with my eyes searching everywhere as I moved.

The station looked empty at first glance, but I’d learned better than to trust appearances in this world.

I moved quietly, ducking under the broken awning and heading towards the shattered glass door. A bloody handprint stained the wall beside it—faded, old. Probably left by someone who didn’t make it out.

I slipped inside. The lights were dead. Dust floated in the air like ghostly snow.

Then I heard it.

A soft shuffle.

Three figures stumbled out from the back of the convenience store.

Zombies.

Their uniforms told me everything—they used to work here.

Now their eyes were pale white, lips split and dry, skin hanging loose off their bones. One of them had a piece of jaw missing.

I didn’t wait.

My spatial blade hummed to life. I spun forward, slashing through the first with a clean arc. The second lunged, groaning deep in its throat. I stepped aside and drove the blade straight through its eye.

The third one stumbled back, almost as if it realized what was coming—but I didn’t show mercy.

I hurled a smaller spatial dagger across the room. It pierced the forehead and pinned the thing to a shelf behind it.

Three down. Quick and quiet.

I took a breath and looked around. The shelves were mostly ransacked, but I wasn’t here for snacks as usual. I made my way to the back storage room.

There.

Four full barrels of fuel, still sealed. Jackpot.

I rolled two of them outside first, loaded them into the back of the jeep, and tucked them deep into my storage space. Then I went back for the rest.

It was while I was loading the last one that I felt it.

Eyes.

Someone was watching me.

I froze.

Then slowly turned my head.

There was a shattered office window above—third floor. Behind it, shadows moved.

People.

Teenagers, by the look of it. Two girls. Three guys.

They didn’t seem infected. No snarls, no hollow eyes. Just faces filled with cautious hope. One of them waved hesitantly at me.

I sighed and closed the trunk.

Figures.

They came down fifteen minutes later after realizing I wasn’t a threat. The tallest boy had a baseball bat strapped to his back, while the others clutched backpacks and water bottles.

“Hey,” he said, stepping forward with forced confidence. “We saw you pull in. Look, we’re not trying to cause trouble.”

I didn’t answer.

One of the girls stepped forward next. She had long black hair, designer shoes, and a phone still clutched in her trembling hand like it meant something now.

“My name is Chloe. My father… he’s Thomas Grayson.”

The name clicked.

Grayson Industries. One of the wealthiest corporate families in the country. Owned half the private airfields on the east coast.

“He had sent a private jet to pick me up,” she said, her chin tilted up like she expected in awe. “It’s landing at a small airstrip ten kilometers from here. Please… can you give us a ride?” she asked.

I glanced at the others. They were probably all university students. Clean clothes, expensive gear, barely any dirt on them. They hadn’t seen much of the apocalypse.

But I had.

“Fine,” I said after a moment. “It’s on my way anyway.”

She smiled like I’d just handed her the world. “Thank you. Seriously, thank you.”

We piled into the jeep, her group taking up more space than I liked. They talked non-stop for the first ten minutes, laughing, checking their phones, pretending like the world hadn’t fallen apart.

Then the demands started.

“Do you have any real food?” one of the guys asked. “Not those crappy bars.”

“Water,” Chloe snapped from the passenger seat. “You must have a bottle or two, right?”

I tossed them one without a word.

They drained it instantly, then tossed the empty bottle onto the floor like I was their driver.

“You could’ve cleaned up this car before picking us up,” one of the boys muttered.

I said nothing.

But I was listening. Watching.

“Hey,” the tallest guy said suddenly, nudging me with his foot from the backseat. “Turn up the AC or something, it’s boiling back here.”

There was no AC.

And I’d had enough.

I slammed the brakes, hard.

Everyone jerked forward with a chorus of screams.

“What the hell!” Chloe shouted.

I turned in my seat and stared at them coldly. “I’m not your damn chauffeur.”

Silence.

“You want to get to the airstrip? You sit down, shut up, and stop treating me like a servant. Or I throw all five of you out right here.”

Their mouths hung open, stunned.

Good.

Chloe’s face turned red. But she said nothing.

The rest of the ride was quiet.

As the airfield came into view—open, with the faint outline of a jet on the runway—Chloe’s phone buzzed. Somehow, it was still working.

“They’re here,” she whispered, face pale. “Dad’s jet. It’s really here.”

We rolled through the gate as the sun began to dip low behind the clouds.

We were miles from the airstrip now, dust curling behind the jeep in thick plumes. I kept my eyes on the road, even though part of me still ached to turn around.

Chloe’s offer still echoed in my mind:

You can come with us. I’ll tell my father. He’ll take you anywhere.

Anywhere sounded nice. Safe, even.

But safety never built anything worth remembering.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“You really think this is gonna work?” the other boy asked, his voice quieter, more serious.

I didn’t answer.

Ahead, the road forked—one path smooth and familiar, the other a battered trail winding into shadowed hills.

The wind picked up. Something shimmered in the distance. Not sunlight.

A figure.

Standing still in the middle of the road.

The boys went quiet.

I slowed.

“Do you see that?” I asked.

No one replied.

I reached for the glove box—where the gun was—just as the figure raised its hand.

And pointed directly at me.