THE CHOICE AHEAD

Clay quickly glanced behind him. The voice had come from the small cabinet under the sink. He hesitated, unsure if there was just one person in there or if someone else was lurking in the kitchen. The voice was unmistakably feminine. Could she be bait? he wondered. His mind raced through various possibilities—could this be an ambush? Or maybe he was overthinking things. Who would set up an ambush in this kind of situation? He couldn't help but think his past experiences of being bullied were influencing his thoughts. It was as if some deep-seated fear in his mind was constantly telling him to expect an attack from anyone at any moment

"Who's there?" Clay's voice was cold, trying to sound brave. He didn't want to come across as weak or vulnerable. If the person in there thought he was a wimp, they might try something. He had to maintain control.

A soft sniffle, followed by a quiet sob, came from the cabinet.

"Are you infected?" The woman's voice trembled.

Clay fell silent for a moment. He couldn't understand why the zombies weren't attacking him. Was it because he was immune or was there something else at play?

"No," he replied, his voice steady. He wasn't bitten or scratched, so to him, that meant he wasn't infected.

Slowly, the cabinet door creaked open. Clay frowned.

'Seriously? She's just opening the door like that? What if I'm lying? What if I really am infected? She's being reckless.' He thought, watching her cautiously.

As the door fully opened, the girl stepped out, revealing herself. Clay observed her closely. She had short, messy hair, her bangs covering part of her face. Her clothes were filthy, stained with blood and torn at the sides. She appeared exhausted, as though she'd been through a lot.

What caught him off guard, though, was the small knife she was holding, pointed directly at him. Her eyes were filled with suspicion, scanning him with distrust. There were no tears, no trace of vulnerability—so clearly, she was faking her sobs.

Clay couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. What is she doing? He thought. She looked like she was ready to strike, poised to attack at any moment.

"Why are you pointing a knife at me?" Clay asked, trying to keep his voice steady despite the situation

"Because you lied," she shot back, her voice shaking with tension. "You said you're not infected, but you somehow managed to walk past the zombies in the cafeteria. That place is crawling with them. You can't get in here unless you're already bitten and about to turn into one of them!" The knife trembled in her hand, but it remained pointed at him.

Clay raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I wasn't bitten or scratched. I managed to avoid them. And there were only a few outside," he explained, trying to reassure her. He don't want to tell her that he have some kind of immunity. He don't trust her—and from the way she was holding the knife, he was sure she didn't trust him either.

She raised an eyebrow, scanning him from head to toe. Then, to his surprise, she ordered, "Take off your shirt. In fact, take off all your clothes."

Clay's eyes widened in shock. What? Is she crazy? He stared at her, unable to believe what she was asking.

"What… what? You want me to take off my clothes in front of you?!" He repeated, his disbelief evident in his voice. Instinctively, he covered his chest with his arms, feeling the heat rise in his face.

The girl realized how it sounded and blushed slightly, clearly embarrassed by her request. But she quickly regained her composure and insisted,

"Yes. Now do it. I need to make sure you're not infected. If you are, you'll end up like her." She pointed to the dead cafeteria lady, a knife sticking out of her neck.

So she's the one who killed the cafeteria lady, not suicide like I thought, Clay realized, his stomach tightening.

Clay wasn't afraid of the knife, but he didn't want to argue. His priority was getting out of there quickly, not getting into a confrontation with a stranger.

Despite his embarrassment, he reluctantly began to remove his shirt. As he did, it became clear just how thin and scrawny his body was. He wasn't built like the other high school boys; there were no muscles, no definition—just a frail frame. He looked more like a freshman or sophomore, but he was already a senior.

The girl seemed indifferent to his body, but she meticulously scanned him, searching for any signs of bites or scratches.

"Turn around," she ordered.

Clay complied, turning his back to her, though his face flushed with discomfort.

"Now, your pants," she demanded.

Panic surged through him. There was no way in hell he was going to let her see him like that, especially not in his underwear.

"W… what? No way!" His voice raised slightly in panic, and the girl visibly flinched at his sudden outburst.

She stepped toward him, closing the gap, and pointed the knife at his neck.

"Raise your voice again, and you'll regret it," she warned, her voice cold and threatening.

Clay was beyond irritated at this point. He was tired of being bossed around. He snapped and slapped the knife away from his neck, anger flaring in his chest.

"Don't point that thing at me!" he snapped, his tone sharp.

The girl was taken aback by his sudden defiance. She seemed unsure of how to respond, her grip on the knife faltering slightly.

"Look here, miss," Clay continued, his voice low but firm. "I don't know you, and clearly, you don't know me. How about we go our separate ways and forget about all this? You don't have to trust me, and I don't care whether you believe I'm infected or not. I came here for food, and now I'm leaving. Goodbye." He quickly put on his shirt and turned his back to her. He started walking toward the door.

"W… wait!" she called out, her voice panicked. "If you go out there, the zombies will attack you."

Clay didn't even turn around. He just waved his hand dismissively. "I'll be fine," he said, knowing the zombies wouldn't bother him.

"I don't care about you! If they attack you, they'll know where I am, and they'll come for me too!" She sounded frustrated, her grip on the knife tightening. Should I just kill this guy? she thought for a moment. If she killed him, the zombies wouldn't know her location

Clay sighed in frustration and turned back to face her. "Hey, what's your name?" he asked suddenly, surprising her.

She was bewildered by the question, but after a brief pause, she answered, "Lory… Lory Dawson."

"Well, Lory, my name's Clay Rivera," he said, his voice flat. "Not that it matters. But just so you know, I don't like your attitude. You're rude and kind of idiotic."

Lory raised an eyebrow, about to reply, but Clay raised a finger to silence her.

"You clearly want to spend the rest of your life in this kitchen. But sooner or later, the supplies here will run out or get raided by someone else, and then you'll starve or get killed by the zombies. If I were you, I'd pack up and leave, find a refugee camp or something."

"And that's exactly what I'm doing," he added, lying through his teeth. He didn't actually plan to head to a refugee camp, but he didn't want to stay and argue either.

Lory's face paled as she considered his words. She was torn, unsure whether to stay or leave. What if I die out there? The thought terrified her. She shook her head, trying to push the fear aside.

"I… I'll just stay here and wait to be saved," she said softly, her voice filled with resignation. She felt weak, pitiful. She felt like a coward compared to this guy. She dropped the knife, no longer pointing it at him.

Clay didn't say anything at first. He simply looked at her, feeling a wave of pity. Not long ago, I was just like her. A coward, too scared to step outside. He thought. If it weren't for his immunity, he would probably be just as trapped in here, afraid of the outside world.

Sighing, he looked her in the eyes. "Hey, do you want me to help you?" he asked quietly.

Lory stared at him, puzzled, unsure how to respond.

Lory stood silently in the kitchen, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. Clay's words echoed in her head. The supplies will run out… you'll starve… you'll get killed by the zombies. She swallowed hard, the weight of her situation sinking deeper into her chest. She glanced around the room—familiar, but suffocating. The fridge, half-empty, the cabinets with a few cans and dry snacks, all of it felt so temporary now.

What am I doing here? She thought. The reality of her isolation, of being trapped in this kitchen with no real escape, was starting to feel unbearable.

Her gaze shifted to the small window above the sink, where the faint light of the setting sun barely filtered through the grime. Outside, the world was chaotic—shrouded in terror, but still a world. She imagined walking out there, feeling the cool breeze on her face, hearing the rustling of leaves… but what if she didn't make it? What if the zombies were waiting just outside? What if they were out there right now? She shuddered at the thought.

Clay was still standing by the door, waiting for her to make a decision. She couldn't understand why he seemed so calm, so confident.

She glanced at the knife still clutched tightly in her hand, the fear it once caused her now starting to feel insignificant. Slowly, she lowered it. Her pulse quickened as she took a tentative step toward Clay. Her voice barely a whisper, she spoke.

"Yes, please help me get out of here."