They rolled into Atnta and cut the engine. Stepping out slow and cagey, they scoped the scene. This ain’t no podunk town anymore—the city was lousy with walkers, and every damn noise could pull a swarm of those bastards.

  Melk took point, fingers locked tight on the Bushmaster. Kevin tailed him close, police pistol slick in his sweaty grip. Melk had id it out—keep that thing stashed unless all hell broke loose. Bsting off rounds would just ring the dinner bell for more walkers, and up close, a bde was the smarter py.

  Kevin’s nerves were fried to hell. He’d never swung a knife in his life, and now Melk figured he’d gut walkers with one? Catching Kevin’s shakes, Melk flicked him a quick, half-assed gre before running him through a rough-and-ready knife rundown.

  To Kevin’s shock, he nearly crapped himself when a quick ping fshed: Small Bdes Mastery, Level 1—5% boost to damage and speed with knives.

  Kevin damn well knew it now—Melk’s a freaking skill book on two legs. Grinning like a fool, he stuck tight on Melk’s heels.

  They crept down the street, hugging the shadows. At the block’s end, Kevin snuck a quick peek around the corner.

  Straight outta the TV show, there it was—a badass intersection. A hulking M1A1 tank squatted off the road, a nasty leftover from the military’s st gasp. The driver was long gone, his mangled corpse dangling like some sick joke from the cannon. Walkers were thick as flies, buzzing around the blood stink. Rikk had rolled through earlier—his horse, still getting ripped apart by the bastards, was the bloody proof.

  Near the tank’s base, smack in the middle of the walker swarm, sat a fat duffel bag. It was stuffed to the gills with guns—rifles, pistols, the whole damn arsenal—and no way you’d miss that beauty. Kevin’s eyes popped wide. This was the freaking jackpot they’d hauled ass for.

  “Score!” Kevin hissed, all hyped, jabbing a finger at the bag.

  “Yep,” Melk grunted, squinting at it. “Go snag it.”

  “Wait, what?” Kevin choked out. “You want me to grab it?”

  “Yeah, that haul of guns over there,” Melk said, shrugging like it was no sweat. “You want ’em? Go fetch, kid.”

  “Me?” Kevin’s voice cracked like a cheap radio. “You’re the badass here. Shouldn’t you be on it?”

  Melk just smirked, all cocky. “Why the hell you think I taught you to fight? Time to quit being a damn leech. Show me your chops, or I’m out. Your move.”

  Kevin gaped at Melk, gut twisting like a freaking pretzel. “Ugh… alright, fine! But can I at least throw ’em off first? I ain’t looking to be walker chow.”

  “Suit yourself,” Melk shot back, smirk stretching wide. “Only thing keeping you from turning into one of them is this,” he tapped his skull, “so use it, before you lose it.”

  Kevin sucked in a shaky breath, trying to pull his shit together. He fshed back to Rikk in the show—swarmed by walkers, ducking under the tank to hide. Glenor, that Korean dude if he remembered right, had bailed Rikk out by luring the bastards off.

  Kevin scoped the scene, brain churning for a pn on the fly.

  “We need a fresh walker,” Kevin said, voice low and cagey.

  “Knock yourself out,” Melk tossed back.

  A small rock pinged off the skull of a far-off chick walker in a white blouse, snapping her head up. Drawn by a flurry of dead-on throws, the “dy”—freshly dead with a face still creepy as hell—lumbered into an alley. Two lowlife punks skulking in the dark jumped her, smming her ass to the dirt.

  The crew wasted her—and, yeah, shit got ugly quick. They hacked her open, yanking out guts like vultures tearing into roadkill. That poor “broad” wasn’t staggering outta that alley again. (Hell, her corpse might as well have croaked, “You sick bastards! Can’t I catch a damn break even dead?”)

  Kevin hurled again, guts churning like a damn washing machine. Melk was tough as nails—had just forced Kevin to shank a walker up close, pretty much bare-knuckled. First time swinging a bde, and jamming it into rotting meat was every bit as vile as he’d dreaded. Even knowing it wasn’t human anymore, that face still had a creepy-ass human vibe that wouldn’t quit.

  Then Melk made him lop off its head, rotten brains spraying everywhere—deliberately spttering Kevin’s sorry ass.

  Nasty as fuck.

  Kevin thought the stink was bad before, but now Melk had him rip open the walker’s gut and yank out its heart. He’d started getting numb to the walker reek, but this stench hit like a freaking truck. Rotten guts and blood spttered all over, air so thick with rot even Melk—built like a damn tank—noped out, keeping his ass well clear.

  “Nice work, kid,” Melk said, smirking just enough to piss you off. “But if those walkers clock you ain’t one of them, I’m not pying hero. You were shaking like a bitch back there, by the way. Nut up!”

  Kevin grumbled, “Whatever. I die, I’m haunting your ass tonight.”

  Melk just chuckled, low and smug.

  Then a reeking “walker” shambled onto Atnta’s streets. Kevin pyed it slick, copying the walkers’ stumble, inching toward the horde. A couple of the bastards shambled his way, noses twitching like freaking bloodhounds. They sniffed the air, scrunched their rotting mugs in disgust, then peeled off.

  Kevin fist-pumped on the sly. Yeah, he was scared shitless, but he’d nailed the walker gig—wobbly legs and all. Truth was, he was shaking so bad his teeth were rattling, sweat pouring off him like a busted faucet.

  The walker mob closed in tight as Kevin pressed deeper, their rotting hulks rubbing up against him. He couldn’t shake the gut-churning dread that his human stink would sell him out. But he had no damn choice—kept slogging on, heart thumping like a jackhammer in his chest.

  The streets were crawling with walkers. Kevin tried dodging through the mess, but a clumsy bastard crashed into him, sending him sprawling ass-first to the dirt. Worst part? That fake gut rope—draped around his neck like some fucked-up scarf—flew off.

  “This is bad,” Kevin thought, eyes locked down as he scrambled to snatch his loose intestine. The reek smashed his nose like a goddamn fist, but to him, it was a twisted nod to those German sausages he loved—shit he’d trade his left nut to swap for that fake gut right now.

  To Kevin’s absolute horror, some “helpful” walker scooped up his fake gut rope and chomped a bite. The damn thing chewed it slow, like it was savoring some long-lost pre-walker snack. (Kevin couldn’t shake the thought—did it taste like his damn German sausage?) The walker tore into that intestine like it was at a freaking buffet.

  Kevin hissed a curse under his breath, “What the hell’s wrong with these walkers? They eating their own now?” No choice—he kept hauling ass forward.

  But shit never hits solo, right?

  That nasty walker wolfed down the “German sausage,” then zeroed in on Kevin like a bloodhound on a hot trail. Panic smmed him hard, but bolting wasn’t in the cards. He shuffled on, cranking the speed just a hair.

  This foodie walker wasn’t just stubborn—it was hell-bent, charging like it’d been a damn Olympic sprinter pre-apocalypse. It lunged, jaws snapping at Kevin’s neck.

  Kevin froze up, scared shitless, and let out a yell that could’ve woken hell itself. Lucky break—the foodie chomped down on some fake organ dangling off his neck—maybe a kidney or liver—gnawed it, gagged, and spat it out like it’d tasted hot garbage.

  Kevin was this close to passing out, barely any “cover” left clinging to his sorry ass.

  The foodie walker wasn’t letting up. It dove in again, ripping another chunk of intestine off Kevin’s waist—another piece of his disguise gone. This bastard clearly had a hard-on for guts.

  Kevin clocked walkers closing in, noses twitching like goddamn bloodhounds on a hot scent. Heart smming in his chest, he picked up the pace, dodging through the horde till he hit the gun stash. He dove for it, snagging the haul in a rush that damn near juiced his veins.

  Maybe that foodie walker figured Kevin’s taste was top-shelf—anything he grabbed had to be primo shit. It came charging back, this time gunning for the package in Kevin’s grip. The nearby walkers caught on, eyes locking onto him like wolves sniffing out a stray. Slow but steady, they started boxing him in.

  Kevin saw the whole mess going south fast, and he was pissed as hell. He ripped a riot shotgun outta the bag, leveling it right at the foodie walker’s stinking, drooling mug. “Chew on this, you bastard!” he bellowed, bsting the trigger.

  The foodie’s head popped like a damn pi?ata, blood and brains spraying everywhere, fake teeth soaring through the air and smacking dead-on into a McDonald’s sign. Fitting exit for a shitty excuse of a chowhound.

  Kevin didn’t fuck around. He hauled ass, sprinting like a bank robber with the loot, legs pumping for dear life. He bsted the shotgun till it clicked empty, then gripped it tight and swung it like a Louisville Slugger, bashing through the horde like a madman.

  But the street narrowed tight ahead, and after a few hundred feet of hauling ass, he smmed into a dead end. Walkers jammed the road like Bck Friday gone to hell on Fifth Avenue.

  “This is it,” Kevin thought, heart sinking into his guts. “I’m toast. Game fucking over.”

  Right then, a motorcycle roared in like a goddamn beast, engine screaming as it ripped through the walkers, barreling straight for Kevin.

  “Melk! My brother!” Kevin yelled, eyes wet with damn tears. “You finally showed, you bastard! I take back all the shit I said about you being a dick—”

  But the rider—face masked by a helmet—snatched the gun bag right outta Kevin’s hands and gunned the engine like he was about to ditch his sorry ass!

  Kevin yanked the gun bag back and hollered, “Melk! What the hell you pulling? You jackass! Somebody call the damn cops!”

  The whole scene went dead quiet. Even the walkers looked stumped, like they were all scratching their rotting heads, wondering who the fuck Melk was, what cops were, and why Kevin kept tagging the biker a jackass.

  The rider froze, thrown off for a quick second. Kevin didn’t waste it—jumped right onto the back like a cat.

  “Go! Go! Go!” he barked.

  The bike roared and peeled out.

  ***

  Kevin’s world went dark as a sack was yanked over his head, snuffing out the light. He hit the dirt hard, pain jolting through him as boots and sneakers smmed into him from every direction. His arms and legs twisted into shapes that screamed “oh fuck.” Didn’t take a genius to clock this wasn’t Melk—some other bastard had nabbed him.

  “Seriously? More shitty luck?” he groaned, wincing like a bastard. “Who’d I piss off now? Why’s everyone so damn hot to stomp me ft?”

  A man’s voice spoke. “What do we do with him?”

  “Kill him,” came the ice-cold answer, dripping with a thick Spanish accent.

  The sharp click of a gun cocking sent a chill racing down Kevin’s spine. But then, a wild idea hit. That voice—Spanish accent, Atnta vibe—rang a bell. He yelled,

  “Wait! Don’t shoot! I’m a prophet!”

  The world dropped into eerie silence. Then, bam—a rifle butt smashed his face, blood gushing from his nose.

  “Bleeding prophet, huh?” the Spanish-accented voice sneered.

  Kevin shoved the pain aside and leaned into it. “Hey, how’d you peg me as the Bleeding Prophet?” He cocked his head, pying it cool like he was sizing shit up. “Wait, you’re Guin, right?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Guin sputtered, yanking Kevin upright with a hard pull. “How the hell you know my name?”

  “I see visions, dude,” Kevin shot back, piling on the mystic vibes thick as shit. “Big ones. I know your deal—grandparents stuck in a nursing home, yeah? No meds, no grub, zilch. So you risked your ass for guns. Only you nabbed mine.”

  Before Guin could blink, a shaky voice piped up. “Let him go, Guin.”

  As the sack over Kevin’s head got ripped off, his eyes squinted against the dim light, spotting a young guy shielding an old dy.

  “Grandma, we can’t trust this phony!” the young guy barked. “He’s no prophet—just some slick con man! We can’t risk it. Let’s ditch him!”

  The old dy smiled calmly, not fazed by her grandson’s fit. “Guin, he hauled in the guns we’re dying for.”

  “Those are my damn guns!” Guin snapped, voice spiking with a mix of piss-off and hurt.

  “Well, he nabbed ’em first, and he gets what we’re dealing with,” she shot back, serene smile locked tight. “He’s our savior, Guin.”

  Guin paused, huffed out a sigh, and waved his hand, sending the young crew off.

  The old dy hauled “Bleeding Prophet” Kevin to the nursing home. No surprise—the joint was a mess. Tons of old folks could barely budge, frail as hell, stuck in beds or wheelchairs. Their kin, all heart and grit, wouldn’t ditch ’em, hanging on despite the shitshow outside. But weirdly, the older folks looked half-decent—docs, nurses, and aides were busting ass to keep ’em comfy.

  Kevin even clocked Glenor—Guin’s earlier catch—hustling around the home. That sure as hell wasn’t in the original script. Rikk’s crew hadn’t rolled in to spring him yet.

  In the version Kevin knows, Glenor got nabbed hunting a gun stash. Now, Kevin felt like he’d tripped into that gig—pure dumb luck.

  Then, a faint ruckus buzzed from outside.

  Walkers hitting us, or Rikk sniffing around? Kevin’s brain spun back to the version he knew—Glenor nabbed hunting a gun stash, Rikk’s crew tripping over this nursing home to spring him and snag the guns. They’d geared up for a brawl, but the gut-punch sight of frail old timers clinging to life flipped Rikk’s script. He’d coughed up half the haul and bailed with Glenor.

  Wasn’t that wrap-up a bit too damn tidy?

  Kevin knew the director had axed that cut. In that take, the home got swamped—sweet old dy turned walker chow. That’s just how this fucked-up world rolled. Even with guns, a nursing home didn’t stand a snowball’s chance against a horde.

  Guin stepped out, then rolled back in with Melk—turns out, he’d tracked the bike’s trail right to Kevin’s ass.