THREE
KAITO
There’s no doubt I’ve made some questionable choices in my life.
Walking into a half-collapsed apartment building because I thought I saw supplies through a second-floor window is apparently going to be one of the choices that earns a pretty spot quite close to the top of that list.
Pressing my back harder against the rusted gate that blocks the end of the alley, I clamp my hand tighter around the wound in my side while the other grips my blade like it’s my lifeline.
It is, and I’m not stupid enough to convince myself otherwise.
Especially not when warm blood drips steadily from between my fingers, slick enough that I know the cut runs much deeper than I’d prefer.
My only comfort is knowing the cut isn’t deep enough to be considered fatal.
Not if I deal with it sooner rather than later.
Unfortunately, sooner will have to wait, because there are nine dead things trying to turn me into an afternoon snack.
One of them drags itself closer, ruined sneakers scraping over the concrete with its mouth opening and closing with nauseatingly wet, eager clacks.
The sound grates my nerves just as much as it sickens me, hungry and much too similar to the clicking noise my empty gun made seconds ago after I aimed at its head and pulled the trigger.
Another questionable choice on my part. Not checking how many bullets I had left before running into this alley? Oh, yeah. Pretty sure that one is hitting high on the list, too.
“Come on then,” I grit through clenched teeth, raising my blade higher despite the pain that slices hotly through my side. “Let’s make this embarrassing for us all, yeah?”
As though it understands me, the first Biter lunges for me, and I drive my blade up beneath its jaw.
I feel the resistance of rotting flesh and brittle bone before the tip of the blade pierces through what’s left of the Biter’s brain.
The body collapses into me, heavy and gross, and I shove it away with a grunt.
The movement tears at the wound in my side, and I clench my teeth through the pain that pierces through me.
Another Biter comes at me too quickly after, grabbing my shoulder with broken fingers.
I try to twist away, ignoring the pain, but I’m not fast enough.
Its nails catch my jacket and drag me sideways, tearing both fabric and skin at the same time.
More pain bursts down my arm, only doubling when I slam my elbow into its face.
I follow it with a kick, my boot colliding with its knee hard enough that the fucker buckles under its own weight.
It drops with a nasty snarl, but three more push in from behind it, lured in by blood, noise, and the seemingly irresistible scent of my rapidly declining luck.
The gate digs into my back as I press further into the rusted heap of shit. I glance left, then right, looking for anything useful I can use to get me out of this little snag I’ve found myself in.
A trash can without a lid.
A rusted pipe that is way too far away for me to reach.
The empty gun at my feet that feels very mocking right now.
For the briefest second, I think of my father.
Not in a cute, sentimental way. More like in a way a person thinks about someone who used to tell them they’d die because they never listened properly.
Since my father was born in Japan and raised me with a mixture of sharp patience and the lingering sense of quiet disappointment, I used to think that kind of survival advice was a little dramatic.
That was before the dead started walking and biting chunks out of the living.
He would have hated knowing that he was right.
No, that’s actually a lie. That bastard would have loved being right.
I can picture it now. He would have leaned against whatever wall survived the apocalypse, crossed his arms all judgmental-like, and told me this is what happens when instinct outruns patience.
I hate that I can almost hear his voice uttering those words.
I hate even more that he wouldn’t even be wrong.
Another Biter lurches toward me, distracting me from my thoughts enough to realize how close my throat comes to becoming a Biter’s new chew toy.
I drag my blade free just in time to slash across its face, peeling its skin from the bone in a way that would have turned me violently sick before the world gave up on itself.
The Biter stumbles, but it doesn’t fall. They never fall when I need them to. The world ended six years ago and yet, somehow, inconvenience continues to thrive. That shit remains alive and well, even in a world where most alive and well things have long since died.
Just as I think this is it for me, something whistles through the air.
The Biter nearest my throat suddenly jerks violently as a knife finds a new home embedded into its skull.
Cloudy eyes roll, its jaw snaps once more, and then it drops at my feet like the strings of a puppet have been cut with freshly sharpened scissors.
My head snaps up, my eyes widening slightly, and I spot the culprit across the street, half-hidden by the low brick wall of an old elementary school playground.
The lone, small figure stands in black tactical gear, a ball cap pulled low, and a bandana that covers the lower half of their face.
Despite the oversized layers, it’s very clear how slight the body beneath is.
Narrow shoulders look tense, with one hand still lifted from the throw that landed a deadly blow with such perfect precision that I can’t help but feel a little impressed.
And for one weird, stilted breath, the world seems to grow quiet.
Not because the Biters stop snarling, because they absolutely don’t. Not because the smoke stops drifting through the street, or because the ache in my side disappears, or because I suddenly become a whole lot less trapped between shitty choices and worse outcomes.
It’s because something about that small figure suddenly grips the animal inside me with a chokehold, demanding it pay attention.
The scent reaches me a second later, faint under the smoke, mud, old fabric, and something chemically bitter. I know what that is instantly. Blockers. Whoever this stranger is, they’re using blockers.
Just like that, my Alpha stills. Not enough to really understand, but enough that the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Enough that my chest tightens around the breath I almost forget to actually release.
The stranger freezes too, as if something in them recognizes the danger that surrounds us. And, with perfect timing that feels eerie as hell, three Biters turn toward the lone figure.
“Of course. Fucking universe,” the figure mutters, the words muffled behind the bandana but edged with enough irritation that, for one crazy second, I almost laugh.
Then they vault over the wall and run straight into the chaos, and I barely have any time to process the wild stupidity of this entire situation before they move like a shadow.
They’re fast, low, and efficient. Not loud, frantic, or inexperienced, and it makes me realize this stranger has survived too long to waste movement.
The first Biter reaches for them, and they drop beneath its arm, slicing the back of its knee as they pass.
The Biter buckles, and the stranger pivots before driving their knife up under the Biter’s jaw.
They rip the blade free before the body is even finished falling, dodging another Biter that comes from the side.
The stranger ducks behind a beat-up car, using the open door to slam it backward and trap the Biter’s arm.
It snarls, jaw snapping like a vicious beast, until the stranger stabs through its temple with a brutal little twist.
Small.
Quick.
Quiet.
Kind of terrifying.
A Beta, maybe? The slight frame and lack of scent point toward a little Beta.
They look like one. They smell like one.
Well, almost, though I do wonder how much work the blockers are doing.
It could also be the smoke distorting my senses, or the fact that they’re half-drowned by rot and blood.
Their voice is low enough to pass as male, their small figure buried in layers, hair hidden beneath a ball cap.
Maybe a boy, but there’s something about the way they move that makes that assumption feel fundamentally wrong in my head.
Another Biter lunges for my left side, reminding me that I’m still very much standing in the middle of a clusterfuck, and so I shove all other thoughts away before driving my own blade into its eye.
I yank it out with a grunt, the sickening squelch almost too loud to my ears as I tear its eye straight from the socket.
Pain tears through my side again, brutal enough that my vision blurs around the edges, and I grit my teeth as I force myself upright.
It’s by pure will and devotion that I keep myself from completely collapsing, my side pulsing with agony.
All the while, the stranger is clearing a path between us with an alarming competence.
Sadly, competence doesn’t change the fact that there are way too many Biters in a narrow alley and I’m bleeding everywhere like I’m offering them an invitation to take a bite.
“Behind you,” I yell, voice filled with alarm.
The stranger doesn’t look back. They don’t need to, because the Biter reaching for them takes one more step before the stranger spins, knife flashing only briefly as they split open the Biter’s throat.
That cut alone won’t stop it, but the follow-up blade through the ear certainly will.
And, sure enough, the Biter drops hard, dropping to the ground with a meaty thud before it twitches once and then grows still.
“Little busy here,” the stranger bites out, voice rough and deliberately low, muffled by the fabric of their bandana.