March 1, 2025. Eleven days had passed since the outbreak. Though it seemed like a short time, the world had already been irrevocably altered. In truth, the world had changed on the first day, but now, eleven days later, the transformation was complete. The planet was overrun with flesh-eating zombies, and the few remaining humans hid in whatever safe havens they could find. Some, too weak or too terrified to venture out, had already starved to death. It wasn’t that food was scarce—it was that fear had paralyzed them.

  New York City.

  Shattered storefronts, bloodstained streets littered with corpses, wrecked cars, toppled billboards, and dust-covered windows painted a grim picture of desolation. The once-vibrant metropolis was now a ghost town, teeming with an endless sea of wandering zombies. The city, now in the grip of summer, was sweltering. Flies buzzed around decaying bodies, and the stench of rot mingled with the guttural growls of the undead, creating an atmosphere of dread.

  Inside the Walmart on Second Avenue in Brooklyn, the group prepared to leave. But one member of their party had chosen to stay.

  "Are you sure you won’t come?" Vincent asked Bovin one last time.

  Bovin sat on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, leaning against a shelf. He looked up at Vincent, his expression hollow. "No. I’m staying here. It’s safe. There’s food... maybe I can..." His voice trailed off, his gaze dropping to the ground. He had made up his mind, and Vincent was stunned. He hadn’t expected anyone to be so consumed by despair that they’d refuse to leave.

  "Hey, man, come on. We’re heading to the countryside. It’s safe there. Staying here... anything could happen. You should come with us," Jason said, grabbing Bovin’s arm and trying to pull him to his feet. Despite their initial conflict, Jason and Bovin had grown close over the past few days. Jason didn’t want to leave him behind.

  Bovin shook off Jason’s hand, his voice barely above a whisper. "I’m not going."

  The group exchanged uneasy glances. The apocalypse had broken people in ways they couldn’t fully understand.

  "Son..." Laura, ever compassionate, started to speak, but Old Mike gently pulled her back, shaking his head. There was no point in arguing. Bovin had made his choice.

  "Good luck," Vincent said finally, giving Bovin one last look before turning away. The others followed, though Laura hesitated, her lips parting as if to say something. In the end, she sighed and walked away.

  "Good luck," Bovin called softly, watching their retreating figures. He turned to the window, staring out at the desolate streets before lowering his head again. The sound of footsteps faded, leaving him alone in the vast, silent supermarket. The shelves were stocked with food, but the emptiness was overwhelming.

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  The group entered the freight elevator, descending to the underground parking garage. Vincent unlocked the door, and they stepped into the dimly lit space.

  "Quick, Robbie, with me. Everyone else, get in the truck!" Vincent said in a low voice, repeating the plan he’d laid out earlier.

  "Be careful," Mannila said, grabbing Vincent’s arm and kissing him.

  Old Mike and Laura climbed into the truck’s cab, while Jason, Christine, and Mannila settled into the modified cargo container. The truck, a German-made diesel with 210 horsepower, had been outfitted with welded blades along its sides and small gun ports for defense. Inside, foldable beds lined the walls, and shelves were stocked with food and supplies.

  The vehicles were fueled and ready. Robbie, in the Jeep Grand Cherokee, gave a thumbs-up through the window. Old Mike, in the truck, did the same. The engines roared to life, and the convoy set off.

  The Jeep led the way, its agility making it ideal for scouting the road ahead. The truck followed, its bulkier frame less suited for quick maneuvers. As they emerged from the parking garage, a few zombies shambled toward them, but the vehicles plowed through without hesitation.

  The streets were eerily quiet, save for the occasional groan of the undead. The group had agreed to avoid gunfire unless absolutely necessary. Ammo was precious, and attracting more zombies would only make their journey harder.

  Inside the truck’s cargo container, the mood was tense. The small gun ports let in slivers of light, casting the space in a dim glow. Christine and Mannila sat strapped into their seats, while Jason fiddled with the walkie-talkie, adjusting the frequency.

  "Help us! Someone, please help us!"

  A woman’s desperate voice crackled through the walkie-talkie. Jason froze, his playful demeanor vanishing. This wasn’t the first time they’d picked up distress calls from other survivors. Brooklyn still housed tens of thousands of people, all desperate for salvation. But what could they do? They were barely surviving themselves.

  Jason adjusted the frequency, silencing the voice. He sat back, his expression somber. The apocalypse had hardened them all. It wasn’t that they didn’t care—it was that survival had become a zero-sum game.

  *Bang! Bang! Bang!*

  Gunfire erupted outside, the familiar staccato of an AK-47. Jason jumped to his feet, grabbing the handrail welded to the truck’s interior. He peered through one of the gun ports, but the angle was too narrow to see anything.

  "What’s going on out there?" Jason asked into the walkie-talkie.

  Back at the Walmart, Bovin stood at a second-floor window, an AK-47 in his hands. He smashed the glass and began firing into the horde below, screaming and crying as he emptied the magazine. Vincent hadn’t left him much ammo—he hadn’t expected Bovin to need it.

  "You bastards, just die!" Bovin roared, hurling the empty gun at the zombies below. Then, with a final, desperate cry, he leaped from the window, swinging the gun like a club as he fell. The zombies swarmed him, and his screams were quickly silenced.

  Vincent, in the Jeep, caught a glimpse of the scene in the rearview mirror. He couldn’t see clearly, but he knew what had happened. Bovin was gone.

  "Did anyone hear that? What’s going on?" Jason’s voice crackled over the walkie-talkie again.

  A long pause followed before Vincent’s voice came through, slow and heavy. "It’s Bovin. He used up all his ammo and... jumped. He’s gone."

  The convoy fell silent. The weight of Bovin’s death hung over them like a dark cloud. For some, death was an escape—a release from the unbearable pressure of survival. But for those still fighting to live, it was a chilling reminder of how fragile their existence was.

  Bovin’s despair had consumed him. He hadn’t stayed behind to survive; he’d stayed to die. In a world without hope, many would make the same choice. For the living, the thought was enough to send a shiver down their spines.