THREE #2
Male, my brain finally decides, even if my instincts are in full disagreement. Not a loud disagreement, not clearly, but enough to make irritation prickle under my skin. This isn’t the time for my biology to become all philosophical and shit.
Two Biters are left between us, another three dragging themselves from the end of the street, drawn to the noise.
The stranger notices at the very same time, their gaze flicking over at the approaching dead, at the narrow alley, the rusted gate still at my back, my blood that paints the ground, my mockingly empty gun, and the blade in my hand.
I can visibly see them calculate faster than most people breathe, their brain working rapidly enough that I’m forced into feeling impressed all over again.
“Can you run?” the stranger suddenly asks.
I don’t actually know, but I nod anyway. “Yeah.”
As if they can hear the lie in that single word, the stranger’s eyes narrow. It’s not a total lie. I can run for a little while if I need to. Probably. I think. I hope.
A small sound leaves the stranger, not a scoff exactly, and not quite a sigh. “Of course.”
Pulling another knife from somewhere on their belt, the stranger flips it with practiced ease and throws it into the skull of the closest Biter. It’s a beautifully clean hit, and the body drops instantly.
That’s two knives gone and counting. I’m keeping track because anyone who survives six years of a zombie apocalypse will notice weapons. The stranger notices me noticing, and they point a warning finger at me. “Don’t steal my shit.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I rasp back, holding my free hand up while the other clamps tighter on my bleeding side. “I’m bleeding, though.”
“That’s not an excuse,” they counter.
Despite the pain I’m in, the dead, and the fact that I’m pretty sure my side is actively trying to split open further just out of pure spite because of my poor choices, a laugh still somehow manages to scrape its way up my throat.
The stranger glares at me. Or, at least, I think they do. The cap hides their face in a wash of shadow, while their bandana covers the rest. Yet, somehow, I can still feel the heavy disapproval. I mean, it’s loud enough that I can practically hear it, let alone see it with my own two eyes.
Thankfully, a distraction comes from the last Biter between us, the thing rushing toward me with a little more coordination than the others.
I step forward, proving I can still function on my own two legs, and catch it by the shoulder before driving my knife into its skull while the stranger slices through the tendons behind its knee.
The Biter collapses between us and, for the first time, we stand close enough that I can actually see their eyes.
Light hazel with a ring of gold wrapped around the pupil. Sharp. Afraid. Not of the Biters, I realize. But of me. I don’t know why that does something weird to my chest, but it does, and my eyebrows pinch with the strange feeling that comes with it.
The stranger takes a step back, knife raised and body angled away from me as if they’re preparing to bolt at any second. It doesn’t escape my notice that they’re not packed with the same knives they sacrificed, and I wonder if they picked those up while I was getting rid of the last Biter.
Inhaling, a faint trail of a scent slips through the smoke, and my Alpha suddenly grows silent in a way I have never felt before the moment I smell the sweetness sharpened by fear.
There’s nothing calm about it, nothing relaxed.
But my Alpha becomes focused. Alarmingly so, and the stranger’s eyes flare the moment they see my reaction as it shows on my face without my say-so.
They know. Not that I know who or what they are, because I don’t. Not fully. But this stranger definitely knows I smelled something I probably shouldn’t have. They know I know there’s something not quite right here.
More Biters suddenly groan from the end of the street, and the moment fades as the stranger uses the distraction without hesitation, turning away from me completely before falling into a full sprint toward the school wall.
“Whoa, wait up,” I call after them, slightly alarmed by how quickly they move. I mean, one second they’re there, the next they’re making like a bandit.
To no surprise, the stranger doesn’t wait. I shouldn't have expected anything less, but I never claimed that I was the smartest person to still exist in a zombie apocalypse. I’ve only survived this long on sheer willpower, stubbornness, and apparently the help of prickly strangers.
I catch up five steps later, which is absolutely terrible considering my side is still bleeding profusely and the stranger is moving like they were personally tasked with making my pursuit look embarrassing.
They vault the wall with one hand, effortlessly landing on the other side, right before they disappear into the overgrown playground.
And I, of course, follow after them because I’m apparently determined to make every questionable decision available to me today.
By the time I topple onto the other side, my wound screams at me with a battle cry that would make weaker men cry.
Thankfully, my tears remain teetering on my eyelashes, refusing to fall.
Doesn’t make me feel any better, but it’s a small mercy I cling to as I groan, watching the stranger who has already made it halfway across the playground.
“Hey, stop,” I call, keeping my voice low enough not to carry too far. I’m stupid, but not that stupid. I know better than to lure more Biters toward us. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The stranger glances back, and even with their face mostly hidden by their hat and bandana, it’s very clear the look they’re giving me is communicating an impressive amount of disbelief.
“Right,” they call back equally as low. “Because men always announce their evilly nefarious plans first. Because that’s definitely how danger works. Idiot.”
I ignore their little insult and the obnoxious amount of sarcasm, focusing instead on their accent and trying to figure out which part of America they’re from, if for no reason other than to understand how far this stranger has traveled to get to where they are now.
Their voice is softened slightly, likely from years of not speaking much.
And so I focus on that, because it’s better than focusing on the scent still trying to slip through the careful layers of blockers.
“I’m Kaito,” I introduce, trying my luck.
The stranger keeps moving. “Sucks to be you.”
“At least let me say thank you,” I plead, groaning in pain as I press harder against my wound.
“Do it silently,” they demand, and I’m shocked when I almost smile. Not quite, but almost.
Before I can lure any more out of them, they’re pulling themselves through a broken classroom window with a speed that tells me they’ve already picked this place as a temporary hideout.
By the time I finally reach it, blood spilling over my fingers like it can’t leave my body quick enough, a desk is shoved under the window from the inside, providing a very effective exit route.
Smart. I like it.
A cabinet scrapes against the classroom door a second later, creating a makeshift barricade.
That’s even smarter.
I stop outside the window and push my hand harder against my side, willing my blood to stop vacating my body as I peer through the jagged gap.
The stranger stands in the classroom with a knife in one hand and a gun in the other, both aimed directly at me with a level of steadiness I have literally no choice but to respect.
Reminding myself that this is just a small Beta boy, battling my instincts that don’t seem to be listening anymore, I pause where I stand.
The classroom behind the stranger is nothing more than a graveyard of everyone’s childhood.
Tiny chairs are tucked under small desks, faded drawings and posters still covering the walls, mold spreading over old storybooks placed in what once used to be a cozy corner with dust-coated beanbags and a damp carpet.
Sunlight spills through the broken window, catching on the specks of dust that float around the stranger, turning the air gold around them.
With their cap sitting crooked from the fight, the brim still low, I still can’t quite tell what the stranger looks like. The bandana still covers everything under their eyes, still masking them in mystery. One sleeve of their jacket is torn, and blood darkens the fabric around their upper arm.
I look at their wound, and the stranger’s grip on their gun tightens before they roughly command, “Eyes up, Alpha.”