What is despair?

  Despair is being alone, surrounded by a horde of zombies, running out of ammunition, and teetering on the brink of death. It's the kind of situation that leaves no room for hope because death feels inevitable.

  Robbie, a gangland sharpshooter with nerves of steel, was no stranger to high-pressure situations. Like Vincent, he possessed a steely resolve, a survival instinct honed in the crucible of the apocalypse. Even as panic threatened to take hold, he remained outwardly calm, his focus razor-sharp.

  *Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!...*

  Robbie's weapon of choice was the Beretta 92F, a pistol that had replaced the M1911A1 as the standard sidearm for the U.S. military in 1987. Its widespread adoption had made it a common sight in civilian hands as well.

  Robbie's reloads were lightning-fast. Each M9 magazine held 15 rounds, and in just three minutes, he had emptied seven of them. Now, with only two magazines left—both nearly spent—he had already taken down over a hundred zombies. But the horde seemed endless.

  The street was filling up with undead. Though slower than humans, their relentless advance from all directions was closing in. Robbie's strategy was to shoot a path through the zombies, creating a temporary gap to escape through. But each time he broke free, the horde would regroup, forcing him to repeat the process. If only he had enough firepower, he might have been able to break through before the zombies fully converged. But now, his options were dwindling.

  "*Huff... huff...*" Robbie panted, his breath ragged. The street wasn't long—only about half a kilometer—but his zigzagging path, dodging and weaving, was exhausting. The zombies were relentless.

  His left M9 ran dry first. Without hesitation, Robbie hurled the empty pistol at an oncoming zombie, just as Vincent had done before. Carrying a useless gun was a liability, and trying to use it as a melee weapon against zombies was suicidal. A true gunslinger avoids hand-to-hand combat at all costs—unless necessary.

  "You filthy bastards!" Robbie cursed, firing off the last rounds from his remaining pistol. His eyes darted to a parked car outside a small café—a pristine General Motors sedan, untouched by the chaos. Its owner was likely either dead or turned. Robbie knew how to hotwire a car, but the zombies wouldn't give him the time.

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  "Damn it!" he muttered, hesitating. He was down to his last bullet—a gunslinger's instinct told him exactly how many rounds he had left.

  "Go to hell, all of you!" Robbie shouted, charging forward. Instead of firing, he shoved a zombie aside and leaped into the air, twisting mid-jump to face the car.

  Bang!

  His final bullet struck the car's gas tank. The explosion was deafening, shattering windows and sending shrapnel flying in all directions. Robbie hit the ground, covering his head as the blast wave rolled over him. The nearest zombies were obliterated, their bodies set ablaze by the fireball. Shards of metal tore through the horde, dropping dozens in an instant.

  Robbie's ears rang, his vision blurred. The world seemed to sway as he struggled to his feet, the zombies' growls muffled and distant.

  Meanwhile, a battered Ford van barreled down the street, its windshield wipers struggling to keep up with the splatter of zombie gore. Inside, six survivors sat surrounded by an arsenal: pistols, assault rifles, and a couple of shotguns. They had also stocked up on ammunition—small black bags filled with bullets of various calibers. While the weight of the guns was a concern, bullets were relatively light. A thousand rounds of 9mm ammunition weighed only about 15 kilograms—a manageable load for short periods.

  Vincent, seated in the middle row, fiddled with a Colt 2000 pistol. Over the roar of the engine and the zombies' cries, he thought he heard something. "Gunfire. Up ahead," he said, his voice tense.

  "Lots of it," Jason agreed, setting down his AK-47 to listen.

  "Must be on Elm Street. We're heading that way. Should we detour?" Old Mike asked from the driver's seat. "We're low on fuel."

  "Go straight through," Vincent ordered, swapping his Colt for an M16. He preferred smaller calibers for zombies—a 5.56mm round was just as effective as a 12.7mm when it came to headshots, and far less wasteful. Still, he had grabbed a Barrett M82A1 sniper rifle from the shop, along with over a hundred rounds of ammunition. It wasn't for show—he had a specific purpose in mind.

  As the van approached the northern intersection of Elm Street, Vincent frowned. "The gunfire's drawing more zombies," he muttered. Just as they were about to cross, he spotted something. "Stop! Stop the car!" he shouted, pounding on the back of Old Mike's seat. "I know that guy!"

  Through the chaos, Vincent had seen Robbie. But the roar of the horde drowned out the sound of the approaching van, and Robbie hadn't noticed them yet.

  "Everyone down! Cover your ears!" Vincent yelled, his voice urgent.

  BOOM!

  The car outside the café exploded, the shockwave rippling through the street.