- Zombies aren't usually coordinated. Think drunkards with an appetite for flesh.

  - But when they are, breaking their formation is crucial. That’s your cue to throw a chair, scream something stupid, and sprint like you owe rent.

  - There’s a reason jungle and guerrilla warfare is feared.

  - Maintenance hallways? Death traps. Food court? Battle arena.

  ---

  The moment we stepped into the mall, I knew we were stupid.

  No. I was stupid.

  We decided to try to raid one of the closer, smaller malls.

  The place was a dead echo chamber. Not the fun, nostalgic kind where you remember the scent of pretzels and capitalism. No. The other kind. Where every step sounded like it might wake something up.

  And guess what?

  It did.

  We got split up. One wrong turn. One “I swear this shortcut goes to the back hallway,” and boom—me, alone, in what used to be the candle aisle of a novelty home store, now repurposed into an ambush site for the undead.

  Two standards. Easy.

  A lanky variant with arms like horror noodles. Unsettling, but manageable.

  A dog variant—zombie, yes, but still with the innate speed and hatred of an off-leash chihuahua.

  And finally… the leader.

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Zombie leaders weren’t exactly generals in the traditional sense, but this one stood straighter. Watched. Waited. Like it had some vague concept of tactics. And that pissed me off more than it should’ve.

  I ran.

  Tactical repositioning, I told myself. Not panicking. Definitely not screaming a little. Just… calculating velocity. Like a math genius. A sweaty, mildly terrified math genius.

  I sprinted through a half-collapsed maintenance hallway, ducked a broken “Caution: Wet Floor” sign that hadn’t done its job in years, and skidded to a halt in front of a fireman’s axe lodged into the wall.

  “Oh hey,” I panted. “Ol’ Reliable 2. You're prettier than your late older sister.”

  I yanked it out. It came free with the satisfying schlick that horror movies live for.

  Then I ran again, because the sound had just told everything within five blocks that buffet was open.

  We made it to an open area. The food court.

  Home turf.

  First zombie caught up. I turned mid-sprint, axe in motion, momentum behind me. One solid swing. The zombie’s head spun like a discus in the Olympics and the body flopped like a bad improv actor.

  Second standard came. He was faster. Sloppier. I feinted left, swung low, tripped it, then buried Ol’ Reliable 2 into its skull. That one was messier. Like carving a pumpkin while blindfolded.

  Then I heard it.

  Fast. Four-legged. Snarling.

  “Fido,” I muttered, “stay, boy.”

  Didn’t work.

  The dog variant leapt over an overturned table. I rolled. It clipped my jacket. Not skin. Close.

  I jumped, vaulted off a broken bench, used a trash bin like a springboard, and axe-slammed downward just as Fido lunged for my throat.

  Mid-air kill. Ten points to Gryffindor.

  Now, the lanky one and the leader.

  Double trouble.

  They didn’t rush me. They circled. And I realized then—this wasn’t a normal encounter.

  I stepped back, they moved forward. I stepped right, they split.

  Oh. Oh no. It's a happy feet wombo combo.

  Fuck.

  The lanky one lunged first. I ducked, but the leader came from the side. I didn’t see it. It bashed my head against the pillar. Stars. Black. Then—

  Nothing.

  Just blank. Like someone hit the “skip” button on my life.

  ---

  When I woke up, I was on my knees. Blood soaking my shirt. My arms shaking. And in front of me—

  The lanky variant: decapitated, its neck looking like someone tried to blend a pack of sausages.

  The leader? Just a red smear. One eye dangling by a nerve. Half a jaw missing. Torn like a paper doll.

  My axe was embedded in the floor. Covered in gore. My hands were shaking. Breathing ragged.

  I stood there, looking like someone who got lost in a haunted house and came out the final boss.

  “Holy shit,” Alex said behind me.

  I turned, dazed. “Hey. You guys took your sweet time.”

  “You’re covered in blood,” Jules said, wide-eyed.

  “I think some of it’s mine. Thanks for taking them out for me."

  “You—you did it,” Alex said, stepping closer. “You took them out. By yourself.”

  “I… what?”

  Jules came up to me, gently touching the back of my head. “You blacked out. But you kept fighting. You were… terrifying.”

  I blinked. “Terrifying in a good way?”

  “No,” Alex said, “Terrifying like ‘how is this idiot still alive?’”

  “Rude.”

  “You screamed and charged the leader with a chair and an axe.”

  “Oh.” I paused. “Did it work?”

  “Apparently.”

  I looked at the carnage again. I didn’t remember a single second of it.

  “You sure I wasn’t possessed by, like, a military ghost or something?”

  “We don’t rule anything out anymore,” Jules said.

  I tried to grin, but my legs gave out. “Okay, I’m gonna take a small nap now.”

  Alex caught me before I hit the floor.

  “You’re lucky I like you, you dramatic bastard.”

  As I laid there, barely conscious, covered in guts, I muttered, “You think Ol’ Reliable 2 has a twin somewhere?”

  “Focus on not dying first.”

  Fair.