You were looting inside an abandoned hospital. You needed the medicine. Even before the world went to hell, you had a prescription that kept you on your feet. While others scavenged for food, water—basic survival—you had to spend more time, take more risks, just to find that one bottle you were used to.

You were moving fast, tearing through shelves, trying to get it over with before nightfall. Then you heard it—that sound. A clicking.

You froze, your hand slowly drifting down to your holster. But you stopped. You knew better. Drawing your gun would only bring more of them—runners, stalkers, clickers. All of them.

You turned your head, careful not to make a sound. And there it was, moving just past your aisle. Its head twitched as it listened for the slightest noise.

You could do this. Stay quiet. Easy.

Then, clink—a bottle of pills you’d knocked loose tumbled off the shelf, landing at your feet.

Its head snapped in your direction.

It screamed, lunged.

Your hand was already on your gun when—WHAM—it dropped.

A man—forties, worn face, hard eyes—stood over it, gripping a bloodied metal pipe. He stepped back, catching his breath, still staring at the thing to make sure it stayed down. Then, slowly, he looked at you.

Still shaken, still on the ground.

“Never use one of those with clickers around,” he said, nodding toward your gun. “Unless you’ve got a death wish.”