She looks back at the children, huddled under the bed like they trained for earthquake drills. Their mouths covered with masks and bagpacks ready in their arms.

  “Remember what we practiced?” she asks.

  They nod, fingers on lips, quiet, hidden.

  It’s times like these that Yaryu is grateful she devoted her free time taming the students at school instead of putting an end to her solitary.

  They're obedient, her trained little soldiers, ready to follow her to the world's end.

  But they are children. And children make mistakes. And if one of them panics—

  Yaryu shuts the thought down before it can choke her.

  A cold hand nudges her back to her senses. Anaki signs to her, Orion is with them.

  That’s right. If it's Orion, they'll behave. He's her nephew, the second in charge. The one they respect. The one she trusts.

  She swallows hard. Glances back one more time—Will they really stay still until her return? Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe she should just wait—

  "Miss Yaryu."

  The way Anaki says her name sends a chill down her spine.

  "We have to do this. It's now or never."

  She steadies her grip. Swallows down her fear. Orion is in place, waiting for her to leave. He gives her a small nod.

  She looks down at Anaki. He’s more ready than she is.

  They're only kids and yet they beat her at it. That thought is more terrifying than embarrassing.

  Her hand twists the handle, and Anaki bends low. He motions a halt, eyes peering through the gap.

  He sees it shuffle in the dark.

  But he knows these bastards can’t smell. He crouches lower, hidden behind the door frame. As long as he stays out of sight, he has the upper hand.

  Yaryu swallows against the dryness in her throat as Anaki slithers through the gap. She follows.

  Click.

  The door shuts behind them.

  She’s alone with him in the dim hallway, like a frozen statue in the dead of winter.

  Right across from them—three… no, five zombies.

  The janitor she met on the first day. Two tourists. The security guards.

  Their bulging eyes. Pulsing veins. Open wounds oozing something dark.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  What the hell is that? Black blood?

  It doesn't dry up. It just sticks to the wounds like some kind of pulsing, living patch.

  And the smell—thick, rotten, miasmic—it might kill her before they ever bite.

  Anaki pokes her. Her soul nearly leaps out of her body.

  He nods for her to follow.

  "Anaki—no!" she hisses, barely above a breath, but he's already gone.

  Trailing the walls. Slipping into the shadows. Heading toward the back door.

  She curses under her breath and follows. Crouching low.

  And to her disbelief—he was right.

  They don’t see them.

  As long as she stays behind something—not peeping a sound—they just trudge by, senselessly.

  It’s more terrifying to think about how Anaki knows that. Or about the hideout he calls Black Raven.

  At this point, she might actually believe it exists.

  She crouches beside him at the door. Checks the other side. Empty.

  They hold their breath as Anaki slowly tilts the handle.

  A long, loud groan.

  Not from the handle.

  Not from the door.

  Not from Yaryu’s growling stomach.

  Behind them.

  A sixth undead.

  Tall, fat, his arms bulging black. He was bitten there.

  And this bastard lunges.

  If not for Anaki’s quick reflexes, she would have been pancaked between the fat zombie and the door.

  BAM!

  The impact echoes through the hall. Maybe even out onto the streets.

  The shuffling from the lobby goes dead silent.

  Yaryu knows.

  They’re not deaf.

  They’re just dull. Slow. But she?

  She’s screwed.

  The fat bastard lurches again. She scrambles aside. Lets it slam into the others.

  They’re surrounding her—

  Wait.

  Where’s Anaki?

  A security guard-zombie lunges—

  WHACK!

  She kicks it aside. It doesn’t even react. No pain. Just pure, brainless hunger.

  It jumps at her again. Yaryu rolls back, her shoulder slamming into the wall.

  Cornered.

  Screwed.

  Dead—

  WHAM! WHAM!

  ...Wham?

  She cracks open one eye. Her breath stops.

  The two-meter, chubby zombie drops like a boulder—crushing the security guard under its weight.

  Blackish brown blood puddles where his head should have been.

  Something sliced it clean off.

  It doesn’t move again.

  How?

  "Duck!"

  Yaryu does not duck.

  She sprints.

  Straight under the two approaching undead. Slides past them.

  And—

  WHAM! WHAM!

  Another head falls cleanly.

  A miracle.

  Or a seven-year-old decapitating former humans with a nailshooter and fishing wires like it’s an arcade video game.

  WHAM! The first nail embeds into the wall.

  WHAM! The second nail secures the other end. The wire snaps tight—a thin, deadly bridge—

  And the fourth undead loses its head. It's body crumpled to the floor, on the heap of others.

  Yaryu stares, breath caught in her throat.

  She doesn't recognize Anaki anymore.

  He holds the nailshooter loosely in his grip. It's freakishly heavy. He’s out of nails. Out of wires. And completely depleted.

  "Where the hell did you—?" she starts.

  Something lunges at her from behind.

  Instinct takes over.

  A dead grip.

  She twists—yanks—

  And WHACK! Slams the body over the pile.

  "Nice." Anaki nods, unfazed.

  He hurls the nailshooter at Yaryu—

  "WOAH!”

  She ducks.

  It slams into the last undead’s head, sending it sprawling. The machine dents it head but it twitches. Persistent and hungry.

  Yaryu doesn’t hesitate—kicks it hard in the foot. It snaps in half. With that it won't dare move—

  STAB!

  She spins, stomach plummeting.

  Anaki.

  His face is unreadable as he rips the iron rod free—

  And—

  STAB. STAB. STAB. STAB.

  He doesn’t stop.

  Six heads. Pierced.

  Drowning in their own black blood.

  Yaryu covers her mouth, stumbling back.

  The smell. Thick with mildew. Rotting.

  But most of all—

  The way Anaki did it.

  Her stomach twists.

  That… That isn’t normal.

  It wasn’t a child flailing desperately for survival. It wasn’t messy, panicked, human.

  It was surgical.

  Six heads. Pierced. Drowning in their own black blood.

  Yaryu stumbles back. The wall catches her. Her hair stand on ends, her skin shudders, chest squeezing her heart.

  The air reeks—like meat left in the sun, like iron, like death. Writhing into her lungs, choking her breath.

  She swallows back the bile, and grabs the edge of the wall, steadying herself.

  And Anaki?

  Anaki just wipes his sweat.

  "They need their brains to move," he mutters, tapping the rod against his palm. "This won’t kill them, I probably missed the core. But it’ll buy us time to get the others to the van…" He glances at her. "You okay, Miss Yaryu?"

  Yaryu opens her mouth. No sound comes out.

  She tries again.

  "Y—yeah?"

  It’s barely a whisper. More like a croak.

  He nods. Just nods. As if there is no need to to say anymore. As if this is normal. And he's used to it. As if he's done it before.

  And that’s what terrifies her the most.

  Not the zombies. Not the blood.

  But the fact that Anaki—seven-year-old Anaki—has done this without remorse.

  She feels sick.

  Anaki would never harm a living soul and yet, without hesitation—is he even the same kid she knew?

  “We should get moving.”

  Anaki wipes his sweat, exhaustion settling in.

  He flicks the blood from his weapon.

  "Let's get our ticket out of here."