Tactical Shopping Spree

Chapter 11: Tactical Shopping Spree

Alright.

Here I am. Crouching outside an armory in the middle of zombie-infested Atlanta, gripping a nail gun, a hammer, and a healthy amount of bad decisions.

Some would call this reckless. Others might say it's suicidal.

Me? I call it a Tuesday.

The good news? The zombies haven't seen me yet. The bad news? There are a lot of them. Like, "midnight release of a next-gen console" levels of crowding. All shambling around aimlessly, occasionally bumping into cars, each other, or just standing there like NPCs waiting for their AI to kick in.

Now, I could do the smart thing—sneak around, find a quiet way in, avoid unnecessary fights.

…But where's the fun in that?

Step One: The Distraction

I glance around. There's an old delivery truck parked nearby. Its windows are shattered, and its side panel says something about "Fresh & Fast Delivery"—which is ironic, considering the rotting corpse half hanging out of the driver's seat.

More importantly? The horn looks intact.

Bingo.

I creep toward it, keeping low like I'm in some tactical stealth mission—which is total bullshit because I nearly trip over my own shoelace twice. But eventually, I make it to the truck, reach inside, and—

HOOOONK!

The horn blares loud enough to wake the dead. (Which, technically, is exactly what I don't want to do.)

Every zombie in a five-mile radius jerks its head toward the truck. They let out that gross, wet growling sound—you know the one—and immediately start stumbling toward the noise.

And me? I'm already sprinting the other way.

Step Two: The Entrance

With the horde distracted, I rush to the armory's entrance. Locked. Because of course it is.

I jiggle the handle, like maybe I can convince the door to stop being a little bitch. No luck.

Plan B.

I whip out my trusty hammer and go for the window next to the door. A few hard smashes later—

CRASH!

Glass shatters everywhere. I climb in, trying very hard not to cut myself, and land inside what I can only describe as Apocalypse Christmas.

Step Three: The Looting

I take a moment to bask in the glory of what's in front of me.

Racks of guns. Shelves of ammo. Tactical gear. Grenades. Knives. I'm about five seconds away from tearing up.

"This… this is beautiful."

I sniff dramatically. If I had a flag, I'd plant it.

But I don't have time for sentimentality. Zombies are still outside, and I need to fill my bag with as much badassery as humanly possible.

So, what do I grab?

Shotgun. Because subtlety is overrated.

Pistol. Always good to have a backup.

Machete. Because sometimes, you just need to go medieval on some undead bastards.

Ammo. As much as I can carry without breaking my spine.

Tactical vest. To complete my new "apocalypse chic" look.

One grenade. Just in case I get bored.

I stuff everything into my bag, zip it up, and—

BANG! BANG!

Gunshots.

From outside.

Oh, for fu—

I duck low and crawl to a window. Peeking out, I see the zombies going absolutely nuts. But they're not coming toward me. They're going after someone else.

A group of guys—armed guys—are firing wildly at the horde, clearly panicking. One of them already got tackled, his screams turning into wet gurgles as he gets torn apart. The rest are trying (and failing) to be heroes.

I sigh, shaking my head.

"Idiots."

One of them looks toward the armory. Probably thinking of running in here for safety.

Oh, hell no.

I'm not sharing my brand-new armory of fun.

I reach into my bag, pull out my freshly acquired grenade, and casually toss it out the window.

"Catch."

Step Four: The Exit

The explosion is glorious.

The armed idiots? Less so.

Zombies go flying. Limbs everywhere. And just like that, the problem solves itself.

I dust off my hands, grab my bag, and hop back out the window, slipping into the alleyway behind the armory. Time to bounce.

As I climb into my truck, I can't help but grin.

Guns? Acquired.Zombies? Distracted.Idiots? Extra crispy.

All in all, a damn good day.

I rev the engine, pop open a bag of chips, and drive off into the night.

Atlanta better be ready.