Chapter Twelve: Let's Get Some Fries (Bonus chapter for Alliance Leader Nanke Please Go to the Second Floor!)
“What’s next?”
Facing Madison’s question, Gavin turned off the music, rolled down the car window, and then took out a cigarette.
“Next, I’ll have a smoke, listen to the sounds around here, see if any zombies are drawn to our noise.”
With that, Gavin lit the cigarette and took a deep drag.
The first puff always made him cough a bit, but Gavin thought it was just right—the feeling of being alive was incredible!
Zombie apocalypse…
Damn it. He had crossed into this world not to suffer, but to enjoy the decadent life of America.
On one hand, he wielded vast wealth thanks to his prophetic knowledge; on the other, his physique made him a sports superstar.
When he got older and retired, he planned to join a comfortable political party, run for governor of Texas, and maybe even aim for the presidency.
As for zombies, they had never factored into Gavin’s life plan over the past twenty-five years.
Liked zombies?
He’d rather find some zombie games to play—wasn’t that far more enjoyable than a real apocalypse?
Gavin exhaled smoke, watching it mingle with his breath as it drifted off into the eerie night sky.
In the passenger seat, Madison looked at Gavin, immersed in his cigarette, and grinned admiringly.
“You’re a damn superman—how can you smoke and still perform like that in the game? Your lungs must be made of iron.”
“If I dared to smoke like you, my fitness coach would probably beat the crap out of me.”
“Cut back a bit, boss. After all, there won’t be as many cigarettes in the future for you to enjoy.”
“Unless you bring me some tobacco seeds, but I’d rather grow some pasture to raise cattle. Then I could milk cows and cook big steaks!”
With that, Madison idly fiddled with the safety on his shotgun.
Gavin glanced at him, raising a hand to tap the gear shift as a reminder.
“Don’t play with the gun’s safety out of boredom—go play on your phone!”
“I’m afraid the phone will die, man!”
“No worries. This is Texas. Every farm has a small generator, including mine.”
“Alright then. I wanted to check if my family has called back. You sure your place has reliable power? Does that generator run on gasoline or diesel? I’ve never used one!”
Madison asked and pulled out his phone, searching for videos online.
Nearly half an hour had passed since Gigi’s mutation, and finally, some new footage had appeared online.
Madison glanced at it, then widened his eyes and held the phone out to Gavin.
“Fuck, you’ve got to see this!”
He spoke in a flurry.
Gavin hung his cigarette out the window and leaned over to glance at the screen.
It showed a video of the New York Stock Exchange exploding.
However, the only useful part was the image—the audio was drowned out by the terrified screams of the woman filming.
“911! 911! Ahhhhh!”
The woman’s piercing voice kept shouting “911,” but it wasn’t a call for emergency services.
A plane had crashed into the New York Stock Exchange.
Not just the plane in the video—Gavin guessed that trains still moving on the tracks would soon collide and derail one after another.
The zombie outbreak was too widespread; this wasn’t just one zombie on a plane infecting others one by one.
There were hundreds of zombies on that plane, hunting down the last few survivors.
And it was happening at the sleep-heavy hour of three in the morning…
Thinking this through, Gavin pushed the phone back to Madison, then reversed the car to park about two meters from the convenience store entrance.
He flicked the cigarette butt out the window, got out, and stomped it out.
Then, he went to the backseat of the pickup and grabbed the military knife that had been used to kill zombies.
In the passenger seat, Madison looked at Gavin and asked,
“Do we still need a knife? Isn’t a gun better than a knife?”
“Heh.”
Gavin smiled at Madison’s question, swinging the knife twice.
“That’s not just a knife—that’s a zombie magnet. The sound of gunfire can attract zombies within at least a kilometer.”
“As for the knife, the noise it makes probably won’t draw zombies from even a hundred meters away.”
“Besides, if more than ten zombies rush at us, what good are a few guns?”
With that, Gavin tossed the knife to his left hand and skillfully drew his Colt Python revolver with the right.
He popped out the cylinder, glanced at it, then spun it back in, listening to the beautiful metallic sound.
“Ever played shooting games, Madison?”
“Of course. I’ve played Call of Duty.”
“Actually, I meant Counter-Strike, but it doesn’t matter. When you played Call of Duty, did you get headshots every time?”
“Uh, no. Aiming for the head is pretty hard.”
Hearing Madison’s answer, Gavin continued,
“Right, aiming for the head is tough. So do you think it’s easier to aim in a game or in real life?”
“Definitely the game. I’m not a newbie with guns—real aiming with a gun is way harder than with a mouse.”
“Shooting at moving targets with a real gun requires not just sight, but experience and instinct—a mysterious shooting intuition.”
“That’s right.”
Gavin said with finality.
“Imagine trying to aim at a dozen enemies sprinting at you in a game, and you can’t get a headshot every time.”
“Then how do you expect to precisely shoot the heads of at least ten or twenty zombies running at you at a hundred kilometers per hour in real life?”
“Losing in a game might cost you points or pride, but losing in real life costs you your life, buddy.”
“Besides, zombie numbers usually exceed ten or twenty, like that mansion just now.”
“Unless we have a lot of explosives set up in advance, or call in a Hellfire missile.”
“Otherwise, just the two of us? We’d die ten times over before killing them all once.”
Having said that, Gavin spun his revolver dramatically and slid the Colt Python back into its holster.
He patted the holster and said,
“Alright, don’t be scared just because I bragged a bit. You’ll have plenty of chances to practice your shooting in the future.”
“For now, come inside with me and grab some supplies. Hopefully this store has burgers—I like hearing the microwave’s ding.”
With that, Gavin strode toward the convenience store.
Under the gloomy lights, he and Madison chatted for a full six minutes without a single zombie approaching, which only proved that this area was clear of zombies.
If there were any, they were likely trapped behind doors they couldn’t break through or too far away to hear even whispered voices.
In such situations, the caution in exploration lies in opening every door carefully, not wasting time scaring yourself in relatively safe spaces.
Seeing Gavin walk decisively, Madison hurried to catch up and said,
“We definitely need some fries, Gavin.”
“No problem. Fill all the portable fuel cans in the gas station—separate the gasoline and diesel—and put them on both sides of the pickup bed.”
“Also grab plenty of water, canned food, cigarettes, duct tape, and toiletries. And if we find some nails, even better.”
“If there’s emergency medicine, don’t pass on it. Damn, there’s so much stuff worth taking.”
With that, Gavin pushed open the glass door of the convenience store and approached the tilted shelf.
The crooked shelf stood between the counter and the shattered glass wall.
On the floor nearby were two black shoe prints, deeply pressed from force, and the only shoe prints in the whole store.
Clearly, this gas station convenience store had only one night employee.
After turning into a zombie, he had been attracted by a passing car and jumped out from behind the counter.
On landing, he sprinted toward the noise until stopped by the glass wall.
Unable to open the door, he smashed the glass, leaving a trail of blood that extended far beyond, then disappeared.
After confirming the zombie clerk’s path, Gavin approached the counter and focused on the fry container, burger display, and soda machine.
Though he’d never done this kind of work before, taking a burger from the cooler, zapping it, grabbing a cup of cold cola, and adding ice from the freezer was simple enough.
Soon, Gavin picked up the steaming burger and stuffed it into his mouth.