Chapter 6
SIX
PARIS
In the evening, I take my binoculars to the balcony, scanning the streets below in the fading light. The zombie population has thinned, drawn to some disturbance several blocks west.
Only one remains hanging around the emergency exit of our building, a former mailman still wearing his blue uniform.
Never liked the guy. He was kind of creepy, always insisting on personally handing over the package instead of leaving it at the reception.
He even rang sometimes without even having anything to deliver, asking if I had something to send back or informing me about his vacation plans.
At first it seemed considerate, but it quickly took overhand, and he was getting into personal territory… Ugh. “Am I a bad human for taking this as a small mercy, Bino? Hmm… The moon will be nearly full tonight.”
Back inside my room, I gather my backpack from under the bed, checking its contents. Water bottle, flashlight, spare batteries, first aid kit, protein bar.
“Going somewhere?” Knox’s voice comes from behind me.
I whip around, jamming the backpack behind me like a child caught stealing cookies. “Hi.”
“Hi.” He leans against my doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. “Didn’t answer my question.”
“Just organizing.” I stand and kick the backpack further under the bed with my heel. “Bored.”
“At nine PM.” His eyes track my movement. “With a packed bag.”
“It’s always packed. Apocalypse 101.”
He pushes off from the doorframe, moving into my space with that predatory grace that makes my skin prickle. His ankle barely bothers him now. Eight days of rest and he’s nearly healed.
“You’re a shit liar.” He stops inches from me, close enough that I catch the scent of the soap he borrowed. “What’s the plan?”
“No plan.” My voice rises despite my best efforts. “Just checking supplies.”
He’s too close, all heat and intensity. “You’re going out.”
“And if I am?”
“Alone?”
I cross my arms. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“It’s dark.”
“I would have gone in the morning.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“I have a ninja sword. Remember?”
We stare at each other, neither willing to back down.
“We need food,” I say. “You know we do.”
“We.” He catches the word I didn’t mean to use, his eyebrow arching.
“I—”
“I should go.”
My heart stops, then restarts with a painful jolt. “You’re not healed enough.”
“It’s my fault you’re out. I’ll get us some more.”
Oh. That’s what he meant. “I know where everything is. The best routes, the stashes. What if you need to run? And the stairs?”
“Paris—”
“We can survive a few more days with the vegetables.” I’ll go without him. It’s better that way. “Go together, then?”
“I can handle it alone by then.”
“Listen, your knight-in-tactical-gear act is cute, but I’ve survived without you.”
“It’s not just the biters you need to worry about.”
“Enlighten me, oh wise apocalypse guru.”
“Roof collapses. Rusty nails. Sabotaged fire escapes.” He ticks off each danger on his fingers. “And the worst… Other survivors who’ll gut you for a can of beans.”
“Funny how none of that’s happened to me.”
“Fuck. You’re stubborn. Together then.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking away. “Why would you risk your life for me?”
Why indeed? Because I’m sick of talking to kitchen appliances? “I would have gone out soon anyway.”
“By the way,” Knox says, “if we’re doing this together, I’d like my stuff back.”
“Fine.” I crawl fully under the bed, dragging out the backpack I’d stashed there. “Here’s your boring survival kit. Practical to a fault. Not even one candy bar.”
“And the rest?” He doesn’t reach for the bag and appraises me with those mesmerizing eyes.
“What makes you think there’s more?”
“Because I’m not an idiot.” He steps closer, his shadow falling over me. “My gun, Paris.”
My cheeks burn as I walk to my closet, reaching behind the stack of sweaters. The weight of his Glock feels wrong in my hand, too heavy with potential violence when I hand it over with the backpack.
He slings it over his shoulder and tucks the gun into his waistband. “You’ve had training?”
“Enough to know not to accidentally shoot myself. Unlike some people who fall off fire escapes.”
“You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Not until you do something even more stupid to replace it.”
“We leave in a few days.” His eyes drop to my lips for a fraction of a second. “And please don’t wear anything shiny when we go. We’re not trying to attract attention.”
“There goes my disco ball hat.” I turn away to hide my own smile, pretending to fuss with my pillows. “Party pooper.”
Dawn bleeds through my curtains, painting a thin stripe of gold across his face.
His chest rises and falls in the slow rhythm of deep sleep, one arm flung above his head.
I stand near the door, already dressed in black cargo pants, a dark tank top, and my gloves, studying the way his borrowed t-shirt rides up to reveal tan skin.
Better to go now, while he’s sleeping, and be back before he realizes I’ve gone.
I grab my backpack, keys, emergency knife, and a protein bar for the road. Please don’t leave while I’m gone.
The stairwell greets me with its familiar musty embrace, concrete steps spiraling down into darkness. My flashlight beam cuts through the gloom, illuminating dust motes that swirl like miniature galaxies with each breath. Twelve flights down is a long way, but my legs had had enough rest.
At the ground floor, I stop to listen for any noises. Nothing. I open the door and slip outside.
The street glistens with overnight rain, puddles reflecting the lightening sky.
Three zombies shuffle along the far sidewalk, heading away from me.
A businessman with his entrails dragging behind him like an obscene tail, a teenager with half her face missing, and something so decomposed I can’t tell what it once was.
The apartment with the Batman comics is one block over, above what used to be a bakery. Four guys who played Dungeons & Dragons, their dice still scattered across a battle map on their dining table.
The alley beside their building offers a fire escape far sturdier than the one Knox tested with his face. I jump, catching the lowest rung, and haul myself up with a grunt. Upper body strength: another apocalypse upgrade I never asked for.
Metal creaks beneath my boots as I climb to the fourth floor. The window facing the fire escape is still unlocked from my last visit. I slide it up, wincing at the squeal of wood against wood, and climb inside.
The apartment materializes around me as my eyes adjust to the dimness.
Dust blankets the gaming table, the row of action figures posed on a shelf, and the massive TV screen now forever dark.
Movie posters curl at the edges: Star Wars, Marvel, some anime I don’t recognize with girls with impossible body proportions.
Like, seriously, no one can look like that.
Four controllers rest on the coffee table beside empty energy drink cans, waiting for players who will never return.
“Hope you guys made it somewhere,” I whisper.
The kitchen is my target. Last time I was here, I discovered their stash of instant ramen tucked away in the back of a cabinet. College student food, perfect for apocalypse living: lightweight, calorie-dense, and requires minimal water to prepare.
Jackpot.
Thirteen packages of various flavors, some plain noodles, some with freeze-dried vegetables, are still left. I shove them into my backpack. Knox eats twice what I do, so this will last maybe a week if we’re careful. Two weeks if I skimp on my portions.
The thought of sharing my hard-won supplies would have been unthinkable two weeks ago. Now it feels… not terrible.
I move to the living room bookshelf.
The Batman comics are where I remember, a neat row of graphic novels and individual issues protected in plastic sleeves.
I select three I haven’t seen before. And add a fourth one.
I tuck the comics carefully into the back pocket of my backpack.
The weight feels good, solid. Proof I can still provide for myself, for us, without his help.
A collectible Batman figure catches my eye, posed mid-swing on a tiny gargoyle. I pick it up, brushing dust from its tiny cape. Knox would probably roll his eyes at it, all stoic seriousness, but something makes me slip it into my pocket anyway.
Maybe it makes him smile. A real one, not those tight-lipped, almost-smiles he gives when I say something he finds amusing but won’t admit to.
And he calls me stubborn.
The window slides shut behind me with a soft thunk as I get back outside. Dawn has given way to proper morning, sunlight warming the metal of the fire escape beneath my hands. Below, the street remains quiet except for a lone zombie pawing at something in the gutter.
Time to hit the delicacy shop.
Then home.
The delicacy shop sits on the corner of Elm and Third, its once-elegant awning a tattered flag surrendering to the elements.
A zombie-woman in hospital scrubs drags a broken leg, and a teenager whose face is more skull than skin, mill about on the street.
I walk among them, heart hammering against my ribs despite knowing they can’t sense me. It never gets easier. Dad’s experimental treatment made me invisible to them, but my brain still screams danger with every shuffling step they take near me.
The scrubs zombie turns her milky eyes in my direction. My breath catches, muscles tensing. Logic tells me I’m invisible to her, but my body hasn’t gotten the dm.
She sniffs the air once, twice, her jaw hanging slack to reveal blackened gums and a tongue mottled with decay. Was she a nurse? A doctor? Someone who tried to help before everything fell apart?
Don’t humanize them. Can’t afford to think that way.
Just keep walking. They can’t see you. Can’t smell you. Can’t hear you unless you’re loud.
I exhale slowly, the taste of copper flooding my mouth from where I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek. My skin crawls as I brush past the teenage zombie, close enough to count the maggots writhing in the cavern where his left cheek used to be.
The sweet-sick reek of rotting flesh coats the back of my throat like syrup. I’d give anything for a breath mint right now. Or a gas mask. Or a world where I don’t have to walk through a crowd of the dead to get delicious pasta.
I’ll never get used to this.
The first time I realized zombies couldn’t detect me was pure dumb luck and absolute fucking terror.
Three weeks into the apocalypse, I’d run out of Dad’s fancy imported chocolate.
Priorities, right? I decided to venture out.
Armed with nothing but kitchen knives and zero survival skills.
I crept down to the lobby, so focused on being silent that I didn’t notice that two zombies were there.
Mrs. Abernathy from 5B, still wearing her pink housecoat, and some delivery guy with his throat torn out.
I froze. Screamed in my head. Waited for death.
Nothing.
They… kept doing their zombie thing. Bumping into walls. Making those wet, clicking sounds. Not even a glance my way.
I walked right past them. Stepped over a severed arm. Left the building.
Outside, a whole herd of them shuffled along, but none turned to chase fresh meat—me.
It was like being a ghost.
Invisible.
Again.
That’s when it clicked. The BC-7 treatments. Dad’s miracle cure for my childhood illness. The same virus that turned everyone else into flesh-hungry monsters. Fucking convenient, I guess, if you ignore the years of needles and tests and pain that came before it.
The delicacy shop’s front window is shattered, glass crunching beneath my boots as I step through the empty frame.
Inside, the display cases lie broken and empty, their former treasures of imported cheeses and cured meats long gone.
Dust coats the marble countertop where sample trays once tempted wealthy customers.
The air smells stale, with undertones of mold and something faintly putrid from the back room.
I head straight for the rear storage area, turning on my flashlight.
My last visit revealed a treasure trove of imported ramen, udon, and artisanal pasta.
The door creaks open with a push, revealing shelves.
Most are picked clean by previous scavengers, but they missed the panel disguised as part of the shelving unit.
The owner’s private stash, hidden from employees and health inspectors alike.
I’m still not sure why.
I lift the panel aside and… YES!
Packages of noodles, vacuum-sealed and pristine. Premium stuff. I grab as many as I can fit in my backpack, careful not to crush the Batman comics.
“Knox is going to lose his mind when he tastes them.”
The distant rumble of an engine freezes me mid-reach. A car. Functioning cars mean people. Living, breathing, potentially dangerous people.