Harem in a zombie apocalypse

[39] Dog eat dog world

As we stood in the garage's soft, fluorescent glow, Andy leaned against a cluttered workbench, his weary eyes roaming over us. The atmosphere was solemn, charged with the weight of shared hardships and tales of survival. There was a lull in the conversation, a quiet moment that hung heavy in the air, punctuated by the distant hum of the city beyond.

"My supplies...I'm running low." Andy began, his voice barely a whisper above the ambient noise. He turned away, looking into the corner where a beat-up old refrigerator stood, its once glossy surface faded and scratched. "Food, water...almost out."

He sighed, a heavy, tired sound that filled the silent garage. His gaze returned to us, his eyes slightly glassy. It was clear he was struggling to maintain composure, the stress of the situation written plainly on his face.

"But I got parts. Enough to build a whole fleet of cars, if we had the time and the place to run 'em." He gestured around the garage, an array of mechanical parts scattered across various shelves, tables, and the concrete floor.

It was ironic, really. In a world where machinery had become nearly obsolete, Andy was drowning in mechanical components, bits and pieces of a civilization that was no more. Where food and medicine were gold, he had an abundance of rusted metal and greasy tools. A stark reminder of how the world had changed, how values had been turned upside down in this new, merciless reality.

His gaze dropped to the floor as he continued, his voice barely audible. "My abuela...she's sick." His eyes shimmered in the garage's cold light, the first hint of moisture threatening to spill over. "Arthritis. It's getting worse...needs her meds."

Arthritis. In a world infested by the undead, such a commonplace ailment seemed out of place, almost petty. But the lack of medical care and the hard lifestyle that survival necessitated could turn even the simplest of diseases into a debilitating condition. Every minor ailment was a major setback, and in the case of Andy's grandmother, arthritis was a life-altering hindrance.

The words hung heavy in the air, an unspoken plea for help. We all understood the desperation behind them, the feeling of helplessness when you're unable to provide for your loved ones. We knew what it felt like, to watch someone you care about suffer, and not be able to do anything to ease their pain.

The silence that filled the garage was deafening. We all looked at each other, each lost in our own thoughts. We were no strangers to hardship, to the fight for survival. But every new story, every new ally brought with them their own set of challenges, their own burdens. It was a grim reminder of the world we were living in, a stark contrast to the life we once knew.

Andy's gaze turned to a dusty, crumpled map of Salt Lake City spread across a rusty, metal table, its edges curled and torn. His fingers traced the worn lines, stopping at a marked location - the local supermarket. His voice echoed through the garage, carrying a depth of bitterness and anger that made the air turn cold.

"Raiders," he spat the word out like it left a bad taste in his mouth. The contempt and loathing in his tone were palpable, carving out a chilling silence in the room. "They've taken over the supermarket. They hoard the supplies, the medicine. They're living high and mighty while the rest of us are scraping by, just trying to survive."

His jaw clenched, the muscles along his jawline ticking. He began to share his past encounters with these marauders, his voice hard and unyielding, like the metal parts surrounding us.

"They tried to raid my shop once," he continued, his fingers curling into fists. "Bastards thought they could take what they wanted. Thought I was easy pickings because I was alone." His eyes held a sharp, predatory glint, a testament to his determination and survival instinct.

He paused, his gaze returning to the map, his finger tapping lightly against the supermarket's marked location. "But they didn't count on the traps." A smirk pulled at his lips, the first hint of triumph in his voice. The traps that we had seen earlier – elaborate and deadly – served as Andy's primary defense. In a world where brute force often prevailed, Andy had leveraged his skills and intellect to protect what was his.

"They didn't get far. The traps took care of them." Andy's voice held a note of satisfaction as he recounted his victory. "I made sure they regretted ever setting foot in my shop. But the supermarket..." He trailed off, the hint of a scowl darkening his features.

The supermarket was a different game. It was one thing to defend a garage filled with traps against a group of marauders; it was another thing entirely to try to infiltrate a fortified supermarket swarming with raiders. It was clear from his expression that this was a challenge that had tested his mettle and found him wanting.

Andy's tale was a grim reflection of the world we now inhabited. Raiders, desperate survivors turned predators, were becoming an all-too-common menace.

It was a dog-eat-dog world out there.

Q: Where would you head first in a zombie apocalypse?