Furzombie - a gay furry zombie apocalypse

Room 326 - Sam

"326," the lady called from behind the reception desk. "Meeting room 4, around the corner on your right."

I glanced around, noticing the lights on inside the hotel. It felt surreal to be in a place like this after everything that had happened. The building still carried an air of normalcy, even if the world outside had crumbled. I'd been here before, years ago, with my sister. The western-themed town was just behind it, with the old bird sanctuary off to the left.

We made our way down the hallway. The meeting rooms lined a bland white wall, each door a pale, polished wood, labelled simply with numbers. It was so ordinary it felt out of place.

When we reached number 4, I hesitated before pulling the handle, not sure what to expect.

The room was functional but sparse, with a long table and a Perspex screen running down its centre. It looked like an ancient bank setup or an old post office, complete with a narrow slot at the bottom for passing items through. On the other side of the screen stood a black-furred man around our age, his piercing gaze fixed on us.

"I'm the Deacon," he said, his voice steady and direct. "I run the trades."

"I'm Sam, and this is Josh," I replied, barely holding back a smirk. The urge to introduce us as "Lord Sam the Third" and "Emperor Josh of the Mushroom Kingdom" was almost too strong to resist, but I bit my lip to stop myself.

The Deacon's sharp eyes flicked toward Josh, scrutinizing him in a way that made my stomach tighten. He didn't seem too interested in looking at me, which only added to my unease.

"Not seen you two before," he said, finally breaking the silence. "I guess you're not signed up for the credit scheme, then?"

"Well, no," Josh interjected, his voice steady despite the tension. "We're actually trying to find my mom, Linda."

The Deacon nodded but didn't seem particularly moved. "We can get to that," he said, gesturing to the table. "Let's see what you have to trade first."

I reached into my bag and pulled out the boxes of cartridges, placing them on the table. "Sixty rounds," I said, meeting his gaze head-on. "About 120 credits, according to your flyer. What will that get us?"

He eyed the ammunition, then flicked his gaze back to me. "That's a fair haul. Did you rob someone for these? Should we expect trouble to follow you here?"

I stiffened, my jaw tightening. "No," I said firmly. "They're mine. I'm a farmer. We all have this stuff lying around."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly sceptical, but didn't press the issue.

"Listen," he said, his tone shifting slightly. "We're a community here. We look for members from time to time, and we do allow exceptions to the 300-credit rule for certain people." He glanced at Josh again, his gaze lingering in a way that made me bristle.

"Are you two together?" the Deacon asked abruptly.

Josh looked at me, then back at him. "Not like that. We're just friends."

"Ah, okay," the Deacon said with a nod, his expression unreadable. "I'm surprised."

His tone made my stomach churn, but before I could say anything, he continued.

"Ok here's the deal," he said, gesturing to the cartridges. "Now not everyone gets this choice, but you have two options, you can trade these for 120 credits in either case, that'll cover whatever supplies you want to take with you—tins, food, fuel, you name it."

"But instead of leaving right away, why not stay and see what the sanctuary can offer, you can stay here as our guests. There's food, showers, clean beds. Think of it like a hotel from before the outbreak."