Vincent's plan was simple yet daring: lure the zombies away from Walnut Avenue, lead them in a loop, and then double back to enter the gun shop from the east. As the Ford van sped through the streets, Vincent glanced out the window at the receding horde. "Kill the music," he instructed Old Mike.

  The van veered left onto another street, then left again onto Fourth Avenue, connecting to Walnut Avenue's eastern intersection. By now, the massive zombie horde had dispersed along Maylay Street, some drawn back toward Walnut Avenue by the van's noise.

  The van screeched to a halt outside the gun shop. "Move, move!" Vincent barked. The group piled out, slamming the doors shut. Jason, axe in hand, made quick work of the shop's roll-up door lock. They lifted the door just enough to slip inside, then yanked it shut behind them, breathing a collective sigh of relief as zombies pounded against the metal barrier.

  Inside, motion-activated lights flickered on, revealing a gun enthusiast's paradise. The shop, though modest by national standards, spanned over 300 square meters. Rows of shelves and glass cases displayed everything from compact revolvers to heavy machine guns, with a special section for rare antique firearms.

  "Stick to lightweight, high-capacity weapons with fast rates of fire. And don't forget silencers for the handguns," Vincent whispered. The group fanned out, carefully selecting their arsenal. They couldn't afford to be weighed down, so every choice mattered.

  Meanwhile, two blocks away on Elm Street, a familiar group was in dire straits. Vincent would have recognized them – the "Sea Sharks" gang, led by black boss Jordan, whom Vincent had operated on in a basement bar six weeks prior. Among them was Robbie, the gang's top marksman, recently out of his bandages, his brother Doug, and two low-ranking members, Arthur and Anthony.

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  Their escape had hit a snag. Elm Street, a narrow, aging residential road, was clogged with abandoned vehicles, forcing them to continue on foot. Zombies closed in from all sides.

  "Move it!" Jordan shouted, firing his twin pistols as he ran. The others followed, with Doug bringing up the rear.

  "Ah! Damn it, get off!" Doug's scream pierced the air, followed by a rapid series of gunshots. Robbie spun around to see his brother clutching a bleeding shoulder, emptying his clip into an already dead zombie.

  "Doug, what the hell are you doing? Let's go!" Robbie yelled, sprinting back. As he ran, his pistols barked seven times – seven headshots, the farthest target nearly 40 meters away. Even under pressure, Robbie's accuracy was terrifying.

  "I'm done for, Robbie! I'm bitten!" Doug wailed, still firing at the corpse. Robbie dragged him away, but not before Doug emptied another clip into the dead zombie.

  "It's dead already! Go! I'll cover you!" Robbie shouted, his pistols blazing. Zombies fell left and right, but more kept coming. The gunfire was drawing every undead creature in the neighborhood.

  On the other side of the street, Jordan and the others had broken into a small auto repair shop. "Robbie! Hurry up!" Jordan yelled, firing at the approaching horde.

  Inside the shop, Arthur panicked. "There's too many! If we don't shut the door now–"

  "Damn it!" Jordan cursed. With a final glance at the oncoming wave, he yanked the roll-up door shut.

  "Hey! What are you doing? Robbie's still out there!" Doug's muffled protest came from inside as the door slammed.

  Robbie heard the metallic clatter of the door closing. He turned, disbelief etched on his face as he realized what had happened. The others had vanished, leaving him alone on the street – the sole target for hundreds of ravenous zombies.

  His pistols clicked empty. Robbie stood his ground, surrounded by the shambling horde, his fate hanging in the balance.