Chapter 12: Success

The night was eerie, shrouded in a thick silence broken only by the distant groans of the dead. Maarg and Jack moved like shadows across the street, each step careful, calculated. Maarg clutched the speaker tightly under one arm, while Jack carried the pack filled with firecrackers, sanitizer, a lighter, and a few makeshift weapons they'd collected.

The dog, once reluctant to follow anyone but his selfish owner, now led the way. He sniffed the ground, tail twitching as he picked up familiar scents—scents of the people who had ventured out that morning and never returned.

To distract the zombies, they followed a pattern Maarg had devised. At regular intervals, he would place the speaker down in a safe corner, set it to play a high-pitched loop, and turn up the volume. The sound echoed through the deserted streets, pulling clusters of zombies away from their path. It worked brilliantly. With each blast of sound, the infected would shamble toward it, buying Maarg and Jack precious minutes to move undetected.

Still, not every encounter could be avoided.

Some zombies remained, deaf to the sound or simply slow to react. Jack handled them without hesitation. Clad in a motorcycle helmet and leather jacket, he used a rusted metal pipe like an extension of his arm. One hit to the head—then another if needed. The first kill had rattled him days ago, but now it was muscle memory.

"Up ahead," Maarg whispered, pointing.

The dog barked once, then darted across the street.

"Damn it," Jack hissed, following.

They reached the grocery store soon after—a medium-sized building with broken signage and shattered windows. The entrance looked like it had been hastily barricaded, then violently torn apart. The heavy carts and planks meant to keep intruders out now lay strewn across the pavement. Blood marked the walls in dry streaks, handprints and smears that told a silent, grim tale.

Maarg crouched low and crept inside, Jack close behind. The dog, undeterred, was already ahead—nose in the air, tail stiff.

Inside was chaos. Food packets trampled into the floor. Cans rolling under shelves. The air was thick with the stench of rotting produce and something metallic.

Then Maarg saw them—six bodies near the back, slumped together behind what remained of the barricade. They weren't moving.

For a moment, everything stopped.

His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he rushed forward, panic surging in waves. One of the bodies was his father—bloodied, bruised, pale. The dog let out a distressed whimper and ran to his actual master—the selfish neighbor, lying unconscious a few feet away from the others.

"Dad! Hey!" Maarg fell to his knees, gently tapping his father's cheek. "Wake up, please. Come on…"

Jack crouched beside the others and checked pulses. "This one's breathing. So's this guy… they're not dead." He looked up. "Just unconscious."

Maarg's father groaned and shifted slightly. His eyes fluttered open, and he blinked up at the dim ceiling, then at his son.

"Maarg…?"

"Yeah, it's me," Maarg said, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. "Don't talk too much. Just breathe. You're alright now."

Slowly, Jack helped wake the others. The selfish neighbor stirred last, muttering something unintelligible as his dog licked his face persistently.

Maarg's father sat up with a grunt, wiping blood from his lip. His face was swollen, but his eyes were sharp.

"What happened?" Jack asked.

"We found supplies in the back of the store. Not much, but enough for a few days," he began, voice hoarse. "Just as we were about to leave, another group showed up. Armed. Organized. They didn't say a word—just attacked us."

"Why?" Maarg asked.

"Probably wanted everything we gathered. They didn't want to share, didn't want to risk resistance. Easier to knock us out and take it all."

Maarg looked around. No supplies. Empty backpacks. Gone.

"We failed," one of the volunteers muttered bitterly.

"No," Maarg's father said firmly. "We're alive. That's more than I expected when I told you all to come with me. That means something."

The group fell into silence. The only sound was the occasional whimper from the dog and the distant howls of the infected.

"We need to move," Jack said. "There could be more coming back. Or worse."

"There's another store," one of the men whispered. "Smaller. A bit deeper into the neighborhood. We skipped it earlier because it was too risky… but we don't have a choice now."

Maarg stood and offered his hand to his father, who took it and slowly got to his feet.

"Then let's go," Maarg said. "We're not leaving empty-handed."

He handed out water bottles and energy bars from his pack. "Eat first. Get your strength back. We move in ten."

The group huddled together, bruised and bloodied, but no longer broken. As they quietly ate and prepared to move on, the selfish neighbor sat with his dog in his lap, silent for once. He didn't offer thanks, nor did anyone expect him to.

They'd come for supplies. But more importantly, they'd come for each other.

And that mission, at least, had been a success.