_ Shit, Survivors

I jump. We land on a half-destroyed fire escape with a loud clang. The metal creaks under our weight. 

The zombies trudge below us, groaning, sniffing the air, confused. 

The kid squirms. "Let me go!" 

I drop him unceremoniously onto the platform. Talk of granted wishes. 

He groans. "Ow." 

I crouch down in front of him, meeting his eyes. "Listen, kid. If I was gonna eat you, I wouldn't be standing here chatting like we're at a fucking café."

He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Y-You're not normal."

"Tell me something I don't know. I just saved your sorry ass. And I could've left you to become zombie chow, but I didn't. So maybe, just maybe—you can stop looking at me like I'm the boogeyman." 

If one thing I learned during the one year of the outbreak, it was that every time you help strangers, it always comes with a price.

Most of the time, they would betray you right in your face and shove your 'help' down your ass. 

The boy's lips press together, uncertainty clouding his gaze. I don't blame him. If I were in his shoes, I'd be scared shitless too.

"You… you don't smell like them," he mumbles out of the blue.

That made me pause. "What?"

He pauses, then points a vibrating finger toward the horde I'd sent away. "The zombies. They smell rotten. Like, really bad. You… don't."

Huh. I frown. That's new.

The undead stench was something every survivor recognize—cloying, putrid, and smells like rotting meat and decay.

 But if I don't reek like them, what do I smell like?

I lift my arm and sniff cautiously. All I get is the faint scent of blood and dust. No death.

Interesting.

"Good to know," I mutter, dusting my palms together.

The kid inches back against the cracked pavement, watching me with suspicion. His face was gaunt, streaked with grime, and his brown eyes were wide and desperate.

In them, I can see too much knowledge for someone his age.

He had seen things. Bad things.

"What's your name?" I ask, testing him.

His gaze flashes with hesitation before he finally mumbles, "Lucas."

"Alright, Lucas." I tilt forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "Are you with anyone? A group?"

If he is with a group, that could become a problem for me, but it would be good for him. 

He stiffens. "Why do you wanna know?"

I rolled my eyes. "Because if you're alone, you won't last. And if you're with people, I need to know if they'll try to shoot me on sight."

Lucas doesn't answer immediately. His fingers curl around his ripped sleeves, and the way his shoulder hunch tells me more than his silence does.

He is alone.

Well, shit.

I breathe out, glancing at the darkened street behind him. The city was a graveyard, filled with dangers worse than the undead. In the apocalypse, sometimes, humans are a greater threat than the zombies.

A kid wouldn't survive long out here by himself.

I am not exactly in the business of babysitting, but…

I gritted my teeth. Damn it.

"Come on," I said, pushing to my feet.

Lucas blinks. "What?"

"You're sticking with me," I say, already turning. "Unless you'd rather test your luck out here alone."

He stares at me like I have grown a second head. "You want me to go with you?"

"Unless you've got a better plan," I shoot back.

Lucas hangs back, glancing down at his scraped-up hands. His survival instincts were probably screaming at him not to trust me. 

Smart kid.

But in the end, hunger and desperation outweighed the fear.

"...Okay," he mutters, slowly standing.

I nod, satisfied. "Good choice."

Together, we start moving.

The streets are eerily silent as we walk, passing rusted cars and bloodstained sidewalks.

Lucas keeps a few cautious steps behind me, still not fully trusting my presence. That's fine. I don't need trust—I just need him to keep up.

"Where are we going?" he asked after a while.

"Away from the open," I reply, scanning the abandoned buildings. "Somewhere safe to rest."

Lucas snorts. "There's no such thing as safe anymore."

I glance at him, smirking. "Kid, I just cleared an entire street of zombies with a flick of my hand. If you're with me, you're safer than you've ever been."

He stares at me blandly. Then, after a moment, he huffs. "That's… weirdly reassuring."

I chuckle, shaking my head. Then, I hear a damn noise. 

I freeze. Lucas does too. I turned my head slightly, listening. My senses had sharpened since my "rebirth," and right now, they were screaming danger.

The noise is Idistant but growing closer steadily. I can hear footsteps crunching against debris-strewn pavement. Not the clumsy, trudging steps of the undead. 

No groaning, no snarling. This was different.

I exhale through my nose. Survivors.

In the Apocalypse textbook; those are usually more problematic than the undead even. 

Lucas hears it too. His body tenses. From the corner of my eyes, I can see his fingers twitching at his sides. His mouth parts slightly like he wants to say something, but I don't give him the chance.

I grab his arm. "We're leaving."

Ugh… that is too late. 

A voice calls out from the behind the shades in a command. "Step away from the boy!"

I stop dead.

Four figures then emerge from the ruins of a half-collapsed storefront, rifles raised and aimed squarely at me. They're dressed in the usual post-apocalyptic chic—patched-up clothes, holsters strapped tight, expressions set to 'trust issues' mode.

Lucas stiffens at my side.

"Whoa." I lift my hands in surrender. "Easy there, trigger-happy. I'm not looking for trouble."

"Then let the kid go," the leader snaps. He's tall, lean, and has an aura that screams 'authority'. 

His finger hovers over the trigger like he's just waiting for an excuse to shoot. 

I glance at Lucas. "You wanna tell them how I just saved your ass?"

Lucas opens his mouth. However, before he can say a word, another voice interrupts.

"There's no need for that."

A guy steps forward, arms folded. And oh. Oh no.

He's ridiculously pretty.

Like, infuriatingly goddamn cute. The kind of attractive that makes you want to punch someone out of principle. He has tousled dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and an easy smirk that screams 'I was born to be a problem.'

He tilts his head, studying me like I'm some kind of novelty. "We saw it all."

I chew on a cuticle. "You—what?"

"We've been watching you," Pretty Boy says, gesturing lazily to the others. "Wisely, might I add."

I let out a mirthless laugh. "Wisely? Buddy, there is nothing wise about getting on my nerves."

He smirks wider, like I just told him his existence had a purpose. "Noted."

God, I already hate him.