Apocalypse: After Reanimation, I Became The Queen-Chapter 82: _ Did You Kill Our Friends?

By the time the crumbling city skyline cuts through the haze, it’s dark enough that even the cockroaches are holding tiny flashlights.

We’re exhausted. Like bone-deep, soul-heavy, exhausted and hungry, but we keep moving... one foot dragging after the other. The cracked asphalt under our boots smells like rain, dust, and old blood, and every gust of wind carries the sour stench of decay. It’s the kind of place where even shadows look like they wanna mug you.

Vic’s still trailing behind us, his hoodie pulled so low over his face he could pass for a depressed Jawa. Every so often, he stumbles, and Dom is right there to steady him. Dom’s loyalty is sweet. It’s also gonna get us all killed if Vic loses it again.

Benji leads with his usual cocky strut, riffle swinging lazily in his hand like he’s starring in some post-apocalyptic boy band. Trish follows right behind him, all tense and alert, her crossbow raised and ready to turn anything twitchy into a kebab. I’m at the rear with my pistol in hand while I throw glances back at Vic like a paranoid owl.

Maybe I am.

The closer we get to the heart of the city, the worse the feeling in my gut grows. Every broken window looks like it’s watching us. Every pile of garbage could be hiding something worse than a rat.

And worse? It’s quiet. Too damn quiet. The kind of silence that makes you think the world’s holding its breath.

"Guys," I mutter, low enough that only those near me can hear, "this smells like a setup."

Benji flashes a grin over his shoulder. "Relax, boss. Maybe the zombies finally unionized and went on strike."

"If they did, they’re about to break it real quick," Trish says, tense. Her voice is the tight pull of a bowstring.

We skirt an overturned bus and duck through an alley choked with weeds and rusted bikes. The whole city feels... abandoned and restless. Like an angry animal pretending to sleep.

We move fast, sticking to the edges, hugging walls, and stepping over broken glass and bones. For a while, we’re lucky. Real lucky.

Until we aren’t because luck can only get you far enough in this world.

The first zombie comes out of nowhere like a hunched shadow peeling itself off a wall like a bad sticker. It moves too fast.

Vic freezes and I wonder why. That’s literally his buddy. Benji swears and I raise my pistol on instinct.

Bang.

The shot splits the night like an axe. The zombie drops, half its skull blown away. But it’s too late.

The noise has woken up the neighborhood.

How can I make such a mistake? I guess I’m just currently super on the edge.

But what’s done is done. Shadows appear from the broken windows, from the sewers, from the busted cars, they pour out like pus from a wound. Rotten, staggering, snarling things, their mouths working like they’re already tasting us.

"Move!" I bark.

We start running, but it’s like trying to sprint through syrup. They’re everywhere.

Trish fires her crossbow which she has picked up from one of the dead cannibals, the bolt thunking into a zombie’s eye. Benji hacks wildly with his machete.

His movements are panicked and ugly but effective. Dom sticks close to Vic, knifing anything that gets too close.

I squeeze off shots, ears ringing, feeling every bullet leave the gun like it’s part of my damn soul. Each time a zombie drops, two more seem to crawl over its corpse.

One latches onto my arm. I can feel the bony fingers digging in like iron hooks. I jerk free, kicking it square in its moldy chest and sending it sprawling.

Vic, to his credit, is still mostly himself. He fights like a drunk scarecrow, flailing and stumbling, but somehow knocking a zombie’s head clean off with a lucky punch.

He’s fighting for us though, because the zombies are clearly not interested in his rotten flesh.

"Jesus, Vic!" Benji yells, "Remind me to never arm-wrestle you, you walking beef jerky!"

"This is bad!" Trish shouts over the chaos. "They’re gonna keep coming!"

"Gunshots!" I yell. "We need to STOP shooting!"

Too late.

A final blast from Benji’s shotgun echoes into the night. And it’s like ringing the goddamn dinner bell.

Somewhere beyond the zombies, we hear it. We hear the fast, organized pounding of boots on concrete.

Not zombies.

Humans.

Armed ones.

"Shit, shit, shit," I breathe.

We don’t have time to regroup. The last few zombies go down under desperate blows, and we’re panting, covered in blood that isn’t ours, when they arrive.

At first, all I see are flashlights slicing through the dark like angry fireflies. Then the sharp, commanding, and cold voice.

"Drop your weapons!" someone barks.

We freeze.

From the shadows emerge about a dozen people, rough-looking bastards clad in scavenged riot gear, patchwork armor, and that look of hungry desperation you only find in survivors who’ve made peace with being monsters.

Oh, God. Not anymore survivors. I am literally so tired of them. All they do is to create even more problems. However, it is inevitable to stumble on new ones wherever you go.

The guy leading them is tall, muscular, with a shaved head. He’s got a rifle pointed casually at Benji’s chest, like he’s deciding if he feels like pulling the trigger.

"Where you coming from?" He demands like we are just supposed to disclose our location to him like it’s the drill.

We don’t answer fast enough.

Another guy who is a greasy, twitchy little bastard with two knives steps forward and prods Vic with the tip of one blade. "And what the hell is that?"

Vic flinches, pulling his hood tighter.

"He’s sick," Dom lies quickly. "He has a disease. It’s... it’s a thing."

The bald-headed guy raises an eyebrow. "Sick, huh? He smells like death warmed over."

"Yeah, well," Benji mutters, "so do you."

I want to shoot him. I really do. Instead, I step in. "We’re just passing through. No trouble. We’re looking for supplies and stumbles in this city.

He smiles, all teeth and no warmth. "Supplies, huh? So you have something on you worth taking?"

And there it is.

These guys don’t care about reasons. They don’t care about mercy. They’re going to rob us blind, maybe worse.

Trish’s fingers twitch near her crossbow. Benji shifts his stance, subtly getting ready to bolt. Dom is trembling with rage, glancing at Vic, who’s trying to make himself invisible.

I keep my hands where they can see them, trying to think. Fast.

The bald one steps closer, close enough that I can smell the rot of his breath. "Strip. All of you."

Strip? Seriously?!

Dom bristles. "Like hell, we will."

A rifle butt slams into Dom’s gut, dropping him to his knees. He gasps for air but doesn’t cry out.

That does it.

Vic growls low in his throat, looking ready to tear into the one who attacked his brother. I can see that glint in his eyes. The one as before and something tells me he might snap pretty soon.

I don’t know if I’m being paranoid, but I’ve got a very bad feeling about Vic. It almost feels like he’s... Like he’s craving human flesh.

Trish’s eyes blazes and Benji grips his machete so tight his knuckles whiten.

Me? My mind goes cold. Because we’re cornered. Outnumbered. Outgunned.

But not outsmarted.

"Fine," I say coolly. "You want our stuff? You can have it."

I toss my bag forward. It hits the ground with a heavy thunk. I literally don’t have anything there except for the ammunition we scavenged from the dead cannibals.

Bald head nods arrogantly. His men move in, weapons ready.

However, he suddenly blurts from behind. "We sent some of our men out and they are yet to return. We heard some gunshots earlier today. That you? Did you kill them?"

The question is absurd especially since it’s obvious we are just getting into the city. I consider the options and possibilities of his question.

It’s either there’s another group here or the cannibals killed their friends and for one wild second, I think about just lying through my teeth.

But then I catch the glint in Baldie’s eye — that furious, desperate spark. He wants us to say yes. He’s itching for an excuse to unload on us.

I wipe my bloody hands on my jeans and lift my chin. "Haven’t seen your men," I settle for that instead of disclosing the presence of the cannibals. "Maybe they tripped over their own dicks and shot each other."

Benji snickers under his breath, which earns him a sharp elbow from Trish.

Baldy’s nostrils flare. He looks like a bull about to charge. "You think this is funny?"

I glance around, trying to gauge just how screwed we are. It’s bad. It’s real bad. They’ve got us boxed in on all sides, and more are filtering out of the darkness. Shadows with guns, bats, knives, and that look of people who stopped seeing others as human a long time ago.

Even Vic seems to sense the rising tension because he lifts his head slightly, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that’s... not reassuring. Not even close.

It’s the gleam of a man who’s hungry, who’s cornered, and who’s about two seconds from doing something incredibly stupid.

And here’s the thing about incredibly stupid moves; sometimes, they’re the only shot you have left.