Apocalypse: After Reanimation, I Became The Queen-Chapter 67: _ Payback?

"Where is it?"

"Bottom floors. I don’t keep my hoard near where we hide. Too obvious." I reply.

They exchange looks. They think I’m scared. That I’m just a cornered rat showing them the way to my nest.

God, I’m gonna enjoy this.

The building creaks as we move. The paint’s peeling from the walls, the air tastes like dried piss, and something’s definitely dead in the vents. But the real party’s one floor down.

See, I spent the last two days clearing out this building—floor by floor as I work on protecting my friends and meeting up with the system’s requirements.

Took out most of the rotters with a pipe and my last nerve. But the third floor? I have not really been there and I know it has quite a lot of zombies, alright.

Oh, I always know what I’m doing because I always like to have an ace up my sleeve.

We hit the fourth floor landing. The air here is heavier and more quieter.

Torres tightens her grip on my arm. "How much farther?"

"Just one more down."

We reach the next staircase, and I pause. "You guys hear that?"

They tilt their heads.

There’s a soft moan echoing below. Then a dragging sound. It’s the usual wet and Familiar one.

Jules snorts. "That’s just one or two. We’ll take care of it."

"Right," I say, smiling to myself. "Just one or two."

We creep down, boots creaking, fingers tight on triggers. My heart thumps in rhythm with the moans, the dread, the anticipation. I count the seconds.

And then we hit the hallway.

It’s dark. Smells like rot and sewage. The light links overhead like a horror movie cliché.

I nod to the far door. "In there. That’s where I keep my stash."

Jules shoulders his way forward, already panting from the stairs. Torres hangs back, keeping her eyes sharp. She’s not buying it either.

She shouldn’t.

Because that moan? It’s closer now. And it’s not one. Not even two. It’s a chorus.

The door creaks open and that’s when the smell hits them; thick and gagging, like meat left out in the sun for a week. Jules freezes. His flashlight beam catches the first set of eyes.

Then the next. And the next.

"Shit," he breathes.

Yeah. That’s the right reaction. 𝒻𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝘯𝘰𝑣ℯ𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝘮

The zombies pour out like they’ve been waiting for this moment. Like I’m the master of ceremonies and this is their grand entrance. Half-rotted arms, jawless mouths, bodies bloated and bursting with the stink of death. At least twenty of them. Maybe more.

Torres tries to raise her gun but she’s too slow. The first rotter jumps at Jules and sinks its teeth into his arm. He screams. Blood sprays. Torres shoots—but it’s messy and panicked.

I duck low, and grab the fallen pistol from Jules’ flailing hands while the zombie gnaws through his jacket. My fingers wrap around the grip like I’m shaking hands with destiny.

"Oops," I say sweetly, and fire.

The bullet hits Torres in the thigh. She goes down with a shriek, the knife skittering away. Two zombies pounce on Jules, and another turns to Torres.

She kicks wildly, snarling, but I’m already up, already moving. I plant a boot on her stomach and push her back.

"Bad day for you," I mutter.

Then I raise the pistol and put a bullet in her head.

The zombies keep coming, mouths snapping like wind-up toys gone feral. I shoot two more, one in the eye, another through the neck.

The system begins the countdown yet again.

[Kill confirmed. Countdown: 31]

[30]

Then I bolt, ducking under a clawed hand and sliding down the hall like a baseball player going for home before they step on me.

I need to get to the others before their friends decide to exact revenge on mine.

Behind me, Jules’ screams go wet.

"Enjoy lunch," I call over my shoulder.

Back at the top of the stairwell, I lean against the wall to catch my breath. I can still hear Yara’s voice in my head.

They’re going to kill us anyway.

Yeah, well. Not today.

I head back up. The pistol’s warm in my hand. My steps are lighter. I’m tired, sure which means I might need to feed soon.

It sucks that I just wasted three foods. Gosh, I might be bruised, bloodied, breathless. But I’m also pissed. And when I’m pissed, I’m resourceful.

When I burst through the door, the first thing I see is Bea sitting on her knees, her hands shaking. Yara is barely upright in her chair, her face is pale but blazing with anger.

The others turn as one.

"You’re back early," Scar-Lip says, frowning. "Where are Torres and Jules?"

"Dinner," I say, lifting the pistol.

They blink. "What?"

"Dinner," I repeat. "Zombies. Big ones. With teeth. They ate well."

He starts to reach for his gun, but I’m already aiming.

The first shot hits the ceiling. I did that deliberately and loudly. Everyone flinches.

"Move," I bark. "Hands up. Drop your weapons."

Nobody moves.

For a second, we’re caught in a silent standoff. My breath rasps in my throat, the pistol firmly in my grip. Scar-Lip’s eyes flick to his men, calculating and probably wondering if I’m bluffing.

I’m not. I’ve already killed today, and I’ll do it again. My finger tightens on the trigger.

"Did I stutter?" I ask, my voice icy. "Weapons. Down. Now."

Bea lets out a shaky sob. I don’t even look at her. I’ll deal with the bitch later.

Scar-Lip finally raises a hand, palm out. "Do as she says."

Three rifles hit the ground, followed by two handguns and a machete. Someone tries to be slick, sliding a knife down their sleeve, but I see the motion and fire another shot—this one splinters the floor an inch from their boot.

"Try that again and you’ll be missing toes," I growl. "Or worse, I feed you to your friends downstairs."

The man freezes, his knife clattering to the floor.

I cross the room slowly, my boots crunching glass and blood. I kick their weapons to the far corner. One of them twitches like they might go for it, but I tilt my head.

"Don’t. It’ll be the last thing you ever do." I warn.

I’m fucking serious.