Page 26 of Glitter Rose
I froze. Screamed in my head. Waited for death.
Nothing.
They… kept doing their zombie thing. Bumping into walls. Making those wet, clicking sounds. Not even a glance my way.
I walked right past them. Stepped over a severed arm. Left the building.
Outside, a whole herd of them shuffled along, but none turned to chase fresh meat—me.
It was like being a ghost.
Invisible.
Again.
That’s when it clicked. The BC-7 treatments. Dad’s miracle cure for my childhood illness. The same virus that turned everyone else into flesh-hungry monsters. Fucking convenient, I guess, if you ignore the years of needles and tests and pain that came before it.
The delicacy shop’s front window is shattered, glass crunching beneath my boots as I step through the empty frame. Inside, the display cases lie broken and empty, their former treasures of imported cheeses and cured meats long gone. Dust coats the marble countertop where sample trays once tempted wealthy customers. The air smells stale, with undertones of mold and something faintly putrid from the back room.
I head straight for the rear storage area, turning on my flashlight. My last visit revealed a treasure trove of imported ramen, udon, and artisanal pasta. The door creaks open with a push, revealing shelves. Most are picked clean by previous scavengers, but they missed the panel disguised as part of the shelving unit. The owner’s private stash, hidden from employees and health inspectors alike.
I’m still not sure why.
I lift the panel aside and… YES!
Packages of noodles, vacuum-sealed and pristine. Premium stuff. I grab as many as I can fit in my backpack, careful not to crush the Batman comics.
“Knox is going to lose his mind when he tastes them.”
The distant rumble of an engine freezes me mid-reach. A car. Functioning cars mean people. Living, breathing, potentially dangerous people.
SEVEN
PARIS
I kill my flashlight, and the storage room plunges into darkness, broken only by thin slivers of light from around the door frame. The engine grows louder, then cuts off. Car doors slam. Voices. Male, at least two, drift through the broken front window.
“You sure this is the place?” The voice is deep, gravelly.
“Map said corner of Elm and Third.” This voice is higher, nasal.
“Got company,” says Gravelly Voice.
Heavy footsteps approach the shop front, followed by the distinctive sound of blade meeting flesh. A wet squelch, then a thud as something heavy hits pavement.
Like a watermelon splitting open.
More shuffling outside. Another squelch-thud, but this one’s different—a metallic ping follows it.
“Goddamn it, Alex, you’re gonna dull that machete,” Gravelly Voice says.
“Like it matters with these soft-headed fucks.” Nasal Voice—Alex, apparently—laughs.
Footsteps crunch on broken glass. They’re inside.I ease backward, deeper into the shadows, trying to mold myself into the wall.
“This ain’t no watch shop.” More glass crunches as Gravelly moves around the front area. “It’s some fancy food place.”
“Let me see… Shit. You’re right.”
