The sky hung heavy with storm clouds, but at least the rain held off. When it rained, the stench of rotting zombie flesh became unbearable. Trent leaned against the cracked concrete wall beneath the rusted overhang of a long-dead gas station. The rifle in his hands was military issue—an old M4 with a trigger that had seen too much action. He'd stopped trusting people months ago. Half the ones he'd trusted had put bullets in his back, and the other half were feeding worms six feet under.

This ain't living anymore. Just... surviving day by day.

He muttered under his breath, sliding an unlit cigarette between his lips. No lighter, no matches—just the familiar weight and taste of tobacco that reminded him he was still breathing. That's when the sound cut through the silence. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate scraping against cracked asphalt from the far end of the road. Someone—or something—dragging themselves closer. Trent's grip shifted on his rifle in one fluid motion, muscle memory taking over. Sight picture. Center mass. Whether zombie or human, in this world, hesitation gets you killed.