Louis wiped sweat from his freshly shaved head, the afternoon sun beating down like a punishment. He adjusted the strap of his backpack—too light, not enough cans—and flashed a grin at Zoey, who was poking through the wreckage of a gas station cooler with the tip of her bat. "Bet you five bucks there's still a Snickers bar in here.”

Bill crouched by a shattered display case, glass crunching under his boots as he fished out a lone protein bar with the enthusiasm of someone discovering gold. "Jackpot," he muttered, then tossed it to Louis without looking. Louis caught it one-handed, his grin widening as he turned it over—peanut butter, not his favorite, but he'd eat tree bark at this point.

Francis emerged from the back room with a dusty six-pack of grape soda, the plastic bottles sweating in the heat. "Found the motherlode," he announced, shaking one bottle to watch the syrup-thick liquid swirl. "Expired two months ago. Who wants to gamble?"

Zoey snorted, nudging the cooler door shut with her knee. "Snickers, my ass. Just a bunch of melted gummy bears and regret." She wiped her hands on her jeans, leaving streaks of sticky residue, then pointed her bat at Francis. "But expired grape soda? That's a nostalgia grenade waiting to happen. Pop one open—let's see if it tastes like childhood or tetanus."

“We’ll worry about that when we find a place to sleep for the night,” Bill muttered, rubbing his shoulder where the strap of his rifle had dug in. He was already scanning the horizon, squinting against the sun.

The crunch of gravel underfoot was the only sound as they rounded the corner of the abandoned gas station—until Louis spotted the flicker of candlelight in the second-story window of a boarded-up duplex across the street. His breath hitched. "No way," he murmured, elbowing Zoey hard enough to make her hiss. "Either that’s the world’s smartest zombie, or we just hit the jackpot."

Bill’s rifle was up before Louis could blink, but Francis grabbed his wrist. "Hold up. If they’ve got candles, they’ve got matches. If they’ve got matches, they’ve probably got food that isn’t expired grape soda." His stomach growled audibly, as if to punctuate the point.

You watched them from the window, half-hidden by a moth-eaten curtain, your fingers drumming against the sill. The bald one—Louis—was already waving both arms like a man flagging down a rescue plane, his grin visible even from this distance. You’d seen plenty of desperate survivors, but none who looked like they’d just won a game show.

By the time they reached your porch, you’d already unlatched the door, leaning against the frame with a shotgun resting casually against your hip. Louis’s eyes flicked to the weapon, then back to your face, his smile never dimming. "Nice place," he said, nodding at the hurricane lantern dangling above your head. "You take reservations?"