OutBreak

Chapter One

"Fuck," I hissed, clutching the black bag tightly. It was worth more than my life. I moved slowly, crouching, so these shitheads couldn't detect me. Somehow, I had to lose them. Where am I? My home, or at least what's left of it. I had once lived here with my folks and older brother. Now the place was a ruin: the roof fell in, and among the debris lay a cheap bottle of cologne. I had no idea how it ended up here; I'd never allow such trash into my home.

It's almost comical if you really think about it: the world that bragged once about achievements in science and colonization of the moon turned into nothing but rubble. If you ever do meet a human, they're either going to kill you first or eat you. A month ago, there was a zombie apocalypse. As for me, well, I'm just an average guy who happened to awaken some sort of ability. But there is no time for backstory. I needed to get out of here with this bag and nine bottles of liquor I had to get to a delivery point.

These zombies might be dumb, but their senses were sharp. If I had a cut, they could smell me. And, of course, that's just what happened. I crouched as low as possible while my hand caught on a protruding shard of steel from the rubble and sliced open. Sharp pain, but I bit my tongue. Screaming was suicide. I couldn't die today. Not when she was counting on me. I took a piece of cloth from my bag, opened one of the bottles of liquor, and drenched it with the spirit. Tied it over my wound, I proceeded toward what appeared to be the only way out.

Then, a growling sound came from behind my back. I sprinted towards the gap, followed by the shuffling of innumerable zombies behind. I have to lose them, but cautiously. The place was a haven for houses, each of which was probably full of these creatures. Any noise would attract them all to me. Outside, I turned right and took a running start in the general direction of my next destination. Being awakened gave me more stamina, and I wasn't about to waste it. I looked around for anything that could help—a working vehicle, maybe—but most were either gone or stripped clean.

That's when I saw a car. It looked abandoned, its fuel tank open with a siphoning pipe hanging out. An idea struck me. I saw a brick lying ahead of me and snatched it up in my stride, hurling it at the car. The alarm wailed through the empty streets. The zombies all turned toward the sound of the alarm and gave me enough time to duck into another house. It was a rash move, but the only one I had. I closed the door, barricading it with a couch—just in time for the first zombies to slam into it. Their snarls filled the air as they hammered on the door, realizing they'd fallen for a trap.

The zombies beat on the door, their fists loud with each blow, which vibrated through the house. I leaned my weight against the couch, feeling it buckle into my chest. It was all that stood between me and the horde. The hinges creaked and groaned; the door splintered, flying apart as the wood began to give under the pressure. My face was running with sweat, my mind racing as I swept the room for anything that could help me shore up the door. My gaze fell to a heavy bookshelf. With a surge of adrenaline, I yanked it in front of the couch. Books flew to the floor, but I did not care. All that mattered was buying more time.

The barricade held—for a little while, at least. The roars of zombies mixed with the creaking of the weakening door. Then came the loud thud. The house shook and I froze as a skeletal hand punched through the wood, clawing at the air. Instinct kicked in—I grabbed a kitchen knife off the floor. In one swift movement, I cut at the fingers. The hand withdrew, black blood smearing the blade.

But there was no time to celebrate. The door was failing, and the zombies weren't stopping. "Fuck," I muttered, as panic rose in my chest. I needed a solution fast. My eyes darted around the room, then I saw it—a canister of gas in the corner. A risky plan formed in my head. I grasped the canister and jerked a rag off the floor, wrapping it around the nozzle. My hands shivered as I struck a match and lit the rag. The flames flickered, casting eerie shadows.

The banging at the door grew louder, the zombies growing more frenetic. I drew a deep breath, launching the canister in flames at the door; it burst upon the wood barricading it. Time froze for a single instant. An inferno lit from the gas that was on fire with an explosive growl, engulfing the door. The banging by the zombies became furious as it all turned to frenzied shrieking; they were taken by the flames as their bodies collapsed into smoldering heaps.

I stepped back, watching as the inferno had its way, spreading everywhere. The once-invulnerable force was nothing but ash now, but deep inside, I knew I wasn't safe. The fire would attract more of them. I needed to move before this place became my tomb. I cast one final glance at the burning door before turning and padding toward the back of the house, steeling myself for the horrors that awaited me.

The fire behind me crackled as I slipped through the back of the house. The bag slung over my shoulder clinked with each and every step—the bottles of liquor inside at a value equal to trading for the explosives. The streets became a graveyard of rusted cars with shattered glass and the remains of the world that formerly existed. I moved quickly but cautiously, sticking mainly to the shadows. Every corner was a potential ambush. A rumbling growl in the distance froze me in my tracks, my heart racing wildly. Still, it was far enough away; I didn't stop moving, dodging down alleys.

I was not the only survivor out here; glimpses of desperate souls lurking in the shadows, eyeing my bag with hunger. I kept a hand on my knife, ready to defend myself, but they knew enough not to attack. Yet. The meeting place was in the periphery of the city—at a defunct, rundown old factory. The sky was dark and elongated, with heavy clouds, leaving the glow to be supplied by faraway lighting. The presence of the factory sent chill bumps over my skin. The air smelled of oil and decomposition, and it was very quiet.

He was already there, leaning against a rusted beam, his face unseen under the hood. He was tall and thin, trying to look casual, though I could see the tension in his stance and his eyes flicking towards me as I approached. I dropped the bag between us, the bottles clinking softly. He echoed the gesture with a much smaller, heavier bag—explosives or worse. Neither of us budged. There was silence between us, thick with suspicion. Nobody could afford to trust.

Finally, he reached for the liquor, and I snatched up the strap of his bag. Our gazes met briefly—a flash of fear or fatigue. The ground started shaking. A low rumble swept through the floor. We turned cold and paralyzed—the moans came louder, nearer. The factory magnified the sound, and it was as if the zombies were upon us.

Instinct took over. I grabbed the bag of explosives and slung it over my shoulder as I backpedaled. He did the same, but before we could say another word, the first zombie stumbled into view, followed by another, and another, until a horde was pouring into the factory. There was no time to think. He reached into his jacket and tossed me a grenade. "Here!" he shouted. I caught it, barely registering before he pulled out another for himself.

The zombies were almost on us, the factory filling fast. I pulled the pin and hurled the grenade into the horde. The explosion ripped through the air, shrapnel and decayed flesh scattering, but the zombies kept coming. He threw me a long sword while he kept a gun. We counterattacked in return, liquid and desperate, holding off the tide of undead that just would not seem to stop.

Clattering gunfire roared around the factory, booms of explosions mingled with dying zombie screams and the smell of burning flesh. Chaos, utter and complete, it was. But in all of that, I did find a strange cadence, I suppose—a grim dance of survival as we fought together, holding the horde at bay. But that wasn't enough. The factory's walls creaked and screamed under the strain, weakened by years of neglect and the ferocity of the attack. A tremor ran through the ground—a precursor to something far worse.

"We have to get out of here!" I yelled—my voice barely audible over the roar of battle. He nodded, wordlessly understanding. We sprinted off, weaved to avoid zombies, and jumped piles of rubbish to head, as swiftly as possible, towards the nearest exit. Behind us, the factory was well on its way to utter collapse: steel beams and concrete slabs crashed down as the building gave way. I didn't turn around to look; I couldn't afford it. The only thing that counted was survival.

Just as we burst through the side exit, the factory imploded in a shockwave of force that coursed through the ground. I went flying forward, smacking hard onto the ground, with dust and debris showering around me.

For a minute, everything was hazy: the blur of pain and noise; then it was all over. I was lying on the ground, gasping for breath. The guy lay beside me, equally bruised but alive. I sat up, wincing as the pain in my side sliced through, and turned to him. There was a moment of silence, just the two of us staring at each other; tension from before trickled back in. I looked down at the satchel of explosives still slung over my shoulder, then back at him. He had his own bag slung over his shoulder—liquor, not explosives—but there was something in his eyes now, something that hadn't been there before. Maybe it was respect, maybe just relief, but whatever it was, it made me falter.

"Looks like we both got what we came for," I said, trying to speak in a voice that sounded like I hadn't inhaled half the dust and smoke in the room. He nodded, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a slight smirk. "Yeah. Guess we did." Another pause, weighing options across both sides of the table. In another world, perhaps we were enemies; at the moment, however, we had bigger fish to fry. I extended my hand, and he stared at it a moment before his firm and steady grasp swallowed it.

"If you ever need more armor," he said, "you know where to find me."

"Same for food and drinks," I replied.

With that said, we turned and went our separate ways, disappeared into the darkness in our own directions amongst the ruins of the city. I walked away, there was a far-off rattle of gunfire, followed by the low growl of engines. I turned to catch, just barely, a convoy of armored vehicles tearing down the road towards the factory-too late to help, but not too late to be a problem. The world had changed; survival wasn't just about keeping the zombies at bay, for there were other forces at play, other dangers that lurked in the ruins. Holding the satchel of explosives tightly, I was aware that the next fight was waiting round the bend.