Chapter Five: I Am Not Doing This Zombie Business

"Gavin."

Madison called out while picking up fruit. "How about some grapes?"

"Not a chance. Just pack some fruit that's easy to carry, and stuff the bag with the cotton I pulled out of the cushions so it doesn't rattle around when we run," Gavin reminded him. Madison nodded, then tossed a grape to Gavin while packing oranges.

"Eat up, man. We can't stay in this manor anymore. Even if we make it out, who knows how long it’ll be before we get to taste fresh fruit again."

"Isn't that how it goes in Pete's movies? I’ve seen *The Walking Dead*, too—it’s miserable. I swear, I feel so sorry for what’s coming for us!" With that, Madison popped two grapes into his mouth.

As he chewed the skins, Gavin stood by the doorway, rolling a grape between his fingers, lost in thought. "I wonder if Leonard’s blood sprayed onto these grapes."

"Shit!"

Madison’s face stiffened as he swallowed the grape, then frantically spat out the skin. "Are you trying to kill me, man?"

"What's to be afraid of, Old Mac? Gigi worked on a big project with me right before she turned... Wait, did I even shower?"

The mere mention of it made Gavin feel nauseous. He cursed and made a gesture of prayer. "The Big Guy upstairs is watching over us. Madison, let’s do everything we can, and leave the rest to fate."

"That’s a fresh take. You’re right, Gavin."

By the time Madison replied, he had finished packing the fruit. He stuffed the bag with cotton and picked up his combat knife. Reaching the door, he seemed to have learned his lesson; contrary to his usual behavior, he gestured for Gavin to open the door, then signaled that he would lead the way.

Gavin nodded and opened the door. Madison stepped out, moving cautiously toward the room of the Mavericks' owner. The owner's suite was a bit of a trek; they moved along the hallway until they reached the central gallery.

A lavish chandelier hung from the third-floor ceiling all the way down to the grand lobby. The light was brilliant, but instead of feeling warm, it sent a chill down Madison’s spine. The loss of the dim, protective shadows felt terrible.

Gavin leaned against the balcony railing and glanced down at the lobby. The situation was grim. Spilled drinks were everywhere, yet there was no scent of blood. Was the lack of blood a bad sign? Absolutely. It meant the initial mutation rate among the crowd was so high that almost no one had a chance to run. Judging by the lack of resistance from survivors in the manor, at least ninety percent of the people must have turned simultaneously. With the virus spreading to this extent, did it even need to rely on bites to propagate further? Was there even any room for it to spread?

"Wait..."

Gavin, who had been staring at the lobby, suddenly reached out and grabbed the hem of Madison’s shirt.

Madison froze, crouching down, not daring to move. Gavin tapped his leg, signaling him to look at the service entrance in the corner of the lobby. Near the entrance, two food carts lay overturned, their frames pinning a zombie’s left leg firmly to the floor.

After finding the zombie, Madison crawled over to Gavin on his hands and knees, whispering anxiously, "He doesn't seem to see us."

As he spoke, he glanced at the zombie again and added with a hint of relief, "And he can't hear us talking, either."

"Maybe he’s distracted by the alarms outside," Gavin suggested. Most of the car alarms near the parking lot had stopped after a minute, but a few were still blaring. Gavin suspected those cars had been hit by the helicopter wreckage, damaging their alarm systems.

Madison nodded to show he understood and continued to move forward in small steps. One after the other, they soon reached the owner's door. The manor had three floors; the second was the entertainment level, filled with fitness and gaming equipment. The third was the living area, where the owner’s master bedroom was located.

Reaching the door, Madison pressed his ear against it for a few seconds, then shook his head. "Can't hear a thing."

He whispered, gripping the doorknob and testing it. Click. It opened easily; the owner clearly wasn't in the habit of locking his door during parties.

"We’re in luck." Madison smiled as he pushed the door open, but his expression soured instantly.

"Hiss... Groan..."

A low, guttural growl filled their ears the moment the door opened. The soundproofing was incredible! Though tense, Madison gripped his knife and stared at Gavin, waiting for instructions.

Gavin gestured to the side, signaling Madison to move out of the way. He would handle this. Madison hesitated for a moment before stepping aside. Gavin listened at the door gap for a moment. The growling wasn't loud; it sounded weak and aged. Could it be the owner himself? He hadn't crashed through the glass to the floor below like the others to chase the helicopter? Well, bosses never did like to follow the crowd.

Gavin braced himself, gripping his knife with both hands, and slowly pushed the door open with his shoulder. He peeked inside—no sign of the owner. The growling was coming from the left side of the foyer.

He moved along the corridor to the corner, took a look, and couldn't help but laugh. About forty feet away, inside the study, the owner was sitting in a bizarre-looking chair, tied up like a mummy.

"Impressive," Gavin remarked, patting Madison on the shoulder to let him see. Madison took a look and licked his lips in admiration. "That’s some serious rope work."

"Stop your damn joking and close the door." Gavin pointed at the door and then strode toward the study. The carpet was thick, and the room’s insulation had been tested, so he didn't mind moving quickly; he just wanted to put the owner out of his misery.

But as he burst into the study, he stopped dead in his tracks. In the corner opposite the owner, hidden from view earlier, a woman was hanging there, gagged.

Gavin instantly confirmed the female zombie couldn't make a sound, so he ignored her and plunged his knife into the owner’s eye socket. After knocking the owner and the chair to the floor, he stepped on the back of the chair and twisted the blade deep into the socket.

When Gavin was sure the owner wasn't moving, Madison followed him in and was startled by the sight of the gagged woman.

"Damn!" Madison exclaimed, looking at the motionless owner. "That’s it? It really is just like *The Walking Dead*?"

"Yeah, just hit the head. The way they die is the same," Gavin replied, wiping the blood off his blade onto the owner’s tight-fitting shirt. He pointed his knife at the gagged woman. "She's yours."

"She's mine? Holy shit! What kind of impression do you have of me? I don't do zombies!" Madison protested indignantly, looking like he wanted to fight Gavin. "Even if I were dying of thirst, even if I had to jump out that window, there is no way I’m sticking my lower half into that!"

Gavin stared at him in disbelief. "What the fuck? How did you connect that to your lower half? I meant kill her!"

"Kill her... damn, right, kill her. I knew what you meant." Madison’s eyes darted around, and he quickly turned to bury his knife in the woman's head.

One strike... two strikes... soon, her skull was cracked open. After finishing her off, Madison wiped his blade on her clothes and said without looking back, "I know what you were doing—trying to let me get some practice, right?"

"But you underestimated me, Gavin. I’m a kid from the streets of Chicago. When I was running the streets, you were still back on your farm milking cows."

"Fuck you, Old Mac. My head hurts from your bragging."

Gavin countered while moving toward the desk. A beautifully engraved, six-inch black Colt Python revolver sat gleaming on the desktop. Gavin’s eyes lit up. He picked it up and expertly swung out the cylinder. Seeing it was fully loaded, he snapped it back in and tucked the revolver into his waistband.