The second night after the apocalypse had fallen, a night destined to be sleepless for many. Some were fleeing in panic, others huddled in unsafe places, trembling with fear, and some lay clutching their bite wounds, awaiting the inevitable embrace of death.

  Darkness enveloped New York, a once-thriving metropolis now eerily silent. Amidst the steel jungle, occasional faint glimmers of light hinted at survivors.

  Zombies, typically more subdued at night, only occasionally let out guttural growls. Vincent believed that everything could be explained by science. If something defied current scientific understanding, it was merely a limitation of our technology. Zombies, though a freak occurrence, were no exception. A virus that killed and then "revived" its hosts through some mysterious mechanism.

  Zombies weren't alive in the traditional sense, yet they weren't entirely dead either. Dead things don't move, so perhaps "the living dead" was an apt term—creatures caught between life and death.

  According to the law of energy conservation, zombies must be consuming something to sustain their movement and aggression. It was logical to assume they fed on the flesh of other creatures, including humans. Their nocturnal stillness might be a form of rest, conserving whatever energy they had left.

  Vincent wasn't sure; he could only speculate.

  Inside a clothing store's second floor, windows and doors were tightly shut, curtains drawn. A single desk lamp cast a dim, yellowish glow over the room. The group huddled around a coffee table, making final preparations.

  Their arsenal was modest: a five-shot revolver, a fire axe, a half-meter-long wrench, and two large kitchen knives. Vincent's surgical tools, stashed in his backpack, were the exception.

  After arranging their makeshift bedding with soft clothes and placing weapons within easy reach, they lay down, fully clothed, ready to flee at a moment's notice.

  The night grew still.

  Vincent and Manuela lay in a corner, cushioned by thick layers of clothing. Manuela, her hair disheveled, nestled in the crook of Vincent's arm, deep in sleep.

  Suddenly, Vincent's eyes snapped open, a scalpel appearing in his right hand. His gaze sharpened, then softened.

  "What's wrong?" he whispered, lowering the scalpel.

  "I'm scared alone. Can I sleep here?" A pair of bright eyes peered at him in the dark. It was Christina, clutching a pile of clothes. She had been sleeping on the sofa.

  "You're scared?" Vincent chuckled.

  "Yes," Christina nodded earnestly, quickly laying out her clothes beside him and curling up. "Let's sleep. I'm so tired."

  "Sleep," Vincent murmured, closing his eyes.

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  The night passed uneventfully.

  At 6:30 the next morning, sunlight filtered through the curtains, illuminating the room. Vincent stirred, feeling something tickle his chin. He looked down to find Christina nestled in his arms, fast asleep. On his other side, Manuela sprawled awkwardly, half on the floor, half on their makeshift bed.

  "Hey, Christina, wake up," Vincent gently shook her.

  Christina jolted awake, her body tense, then relaxed.

  "Hi," she said, looking up at him.

  Vincent smiled and tilted his head.

  "Sorry," Christina quickly sat up, moving away.

  "It's fine," Vincent said, pulling a scalpel from beneath the clothes. He stood, clapping his hands. "Everyone, time to get up. We've got a long day ahead."

  One by one, the group roused themselves. Vincent was already at the coffee table, rummaging through a bag of food. "Let's eat. We leave in half an hour."

  In the corner, Manuela eyed Christina, who was also just waking up. "Why are you sleeping here?"

  "I was scared," Christina offered weakly.

  "Really?" Manuela muttered, standing and brushing her hair, her eyes lingering on Christina.

  "What's wrong?" Christina asked, standing as well.

  "Nothing," Manuela smiled, giving Christina one last glance before heading to the sofa.

  May 22, 2025, 7:00 AM.

  "Ready?" Vincent zipped up his leather jacket and turned to the group. Seeing their nervous nods, he yanked open the clothing store's back door.

  "Quick, everyone, move!" he shouted.

  Old Mike, the driver, was the first out, scrambling to start the van parked in the alley. Despite his age, he was spry, his slight beer belly barely slowing him down as he clambered through the window.

  The alley was eerily empty, thanks to Vincent's earlier diversion. But the noise of their escape would soon draw the undead. The group moved swiftly, piling into the van as the first zombies began to close in.

  Within a minute, everyone was inside. Zombies surrounded the van, pounding on its sides. Some even tried to climb onto the roof.

  "Go!" Vincent slammed the van's sliding door shut. Old Mike hit the gas, reversing into the alley and plowing through a couple of zombies before spinning the wheel and speeding off.

  The van roared down the street, blasting death metal from its speakers. Old Mike, a former rock enthusiast, seemed energized by the music, bobbing his head as he drove.

  Laura, sitting beside him, frowned at the noise but said nothing. The music wasn't for enjoyment—it was a distraction, a way to lure the zombies away.

  They raced through the streets, heading for Walnut Avenue, where the gun shop was located. The once-bustling commercial street was now a graveyard of abandoned cars, blood, and dismembered limbs. Zombies roamed, their blackened teeth and blood-red eyes a stark contrast to their tattered, bloodstained clothes.

  As the van turned onto Walnut Avenue, the sheer number of zombies became apparent. Thousands of them filled the street, drawn by the van's noise and music.

  "Damn, that's a lot," Vincent muttered, leaning forward between the front seats.

  The van slowed, zombies closing in from all sides. The sound of their pounding fists echoed through the vehicle.

  "Wait, just a little longer," Vincent urged, his eyes fixed on the approaching horde.

  A crack appeared in the side window near Manuela, who screamed and clutched her knife, pressing closer to Christina.

  The zombies were almost upon them, the van shaking under their assault.

  "Now!" Vincent slapped Old Mike's seat.

  The van lurched backward, then spun in a tight circle, flinging zombies in all directions. With a roar of the engine, it shot forward, leaving the horde behind.

  They sped down Walnut Avenue, the music still blaring. The plan was working—the zombies were following, drawn away from their target.

  As the van reached a quieter street, Vincent and Jason hopped out, armed with a scalpel and an axe, respectively. They quickly dispatched the few zombies nearby before jumping back into the van.

  The horde was now fully committed to the chase, leaving Walnut Avenue nearly deserted. The gun shop was within reach.

  "Let's move!" Vincent ordered as the van sped off, leaving the zombies far behind.

  The dangerous game had begun, and they were playing for their lives.