Cutting Losses

Chapter 1

Bill knew it was coming—something in his gut always told him. He had survived wars before this, seen too many people cut down in the middle of battle, but nothing prepared him for the sight before him now.

Louis and Zoey were gone.

They’d survived so much together. The dark tunnels, the streets swarming with infected, the waves of Hunters, Boomers, and goddamn Tanks. But it wasn’t enough. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Francis stood beside him, his knuckles white around the handle of his shotgun, blood splattered across his jacket. His face was a mask of rage, but underneath that, Bill could see something else—pain, the kind that made Francis grip the weapon tighter as though it was the only thing keeping him standing.

The air reeked of death. Louis had been torn apart by a Tank that blindsided them. Zoey... goddammit, Zoey didn’t even have a chance to scream. A Witch had found her, slicing her down before they could react, before Bill or Francis could fire a single shot.

They were too late. Always too damn late.

---

The safe room door slammed shut behind them, its heavy steel barrier doing little to drown out the roars of infected outside. Inside, silence hung between the two remaining survivors like a thick, suffocating cloud. Bill leaned against the wall, dragging a hand across his grizzled face, sweat mixing with dirt and blood. He couldn’t let it show, not in front of Francis, but the grief gnawed at him like an open wound.

Francis kicked over an empty crate, sending it crashing into the wall. “Goddamn it! We should’ve—”

“Shut your mouth,” Bill snapped, his voice rough and low. “Ain’t nothing we could’ve done.”

“You really think that?” Francis’s voice cracked with anger, a rare thing for a guy who prided himself on being tough as nails. He paced like a caged animal, hands clenched into fists. “Louis... Zoey... They didn’t deserve that, Bill. Not like that.”

Bill exhaled slowly, eyes trained on the ground. He didn’t have any words of comfort. There were none left. He’d lost soldiers before, friends who didn’t make it out of firefights, but Louis and Zoey had been more than that. They’d been like family. Bill lit a cigarette, the flickering flame of his lighter illuminating the hard lines of his face.

“They’re dead. And we’re still here. So we keep moving.” His tone was cold, mechanical, but he didn’t know how else to handle the weight of it. If he let the grief in now, it’d swallow him whole.

Francis’s jaw tightened, his body rigid with anger, but he didn’t argue. They both knew the truth. In this world, grief was a luxury they couldn’t afford. Still, the absence of Zoey’s sharp wit, Louis’s optimism, gnawed at the edges of their already fragile hope.

The silence between them stretched until it became unbearable. Francis finally collapsed onto a rusted chair, running a hand through his hair.

“I hated this damn apocalypse... but I didn’t hate it when they were with us, y’know?” Francis muttered, his voice low. “We could make jokes... laugh at the stupid stuff. And now... it’s just me and you. What the hell do we do now, Bill?”

Bill took a long drag on his cigarette, the ember glowing in the dim light. He met Francis’s eyes, hard as steel. “We keep going. We owe it to them.”

---

The next day, the two survivors moved on, their footsteps echoing through the abandoned city. The streets felt emptier now, devoid of the voices that once cracked jokes, argued, and kept them sane. The infected were still out there, lurking, waiting. But Bill and Francis had grown used to the constant threat. What they weren’t used to was the silence that followed them everywhere.

They reached an old gas station on the outskirts of the city. It was as good a place as any to stop, to regroup and plan their next move. Bill set up a makeshift camp, while Francis scouted the perimeter.

It wasn’t long before Francis came back, his face unreadable. “Found something you might want to see, Bill.”

Bill followed him to the side of the gas station where a pile of abandoned cars sat. In one of them, a lone shotgun was slung across the seat, along with a few cans of food and some half-filled water bottles. But what caught Bill’s eye was a small piece of paper wedged in the glove compartment.

It was a note, scrawled hastily in messy handwriting. “Don’t stop. Keep moving. It’s all we can do now.”

Bill handed the note to Francis, who looked it over before crumpling it in his fist. “Great advice, huh?”

“Yeah,” Bill muttered, his eyes scanning the horizon. “Guess we ain’t the only ones.”

As night fell, they barricaded themselves inside the station, using whatever supplies they could scrounge up. Francis sat in silence, staring at the flickering flames of their campfire. Bill leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his mind heavy with thoughts of Louis and Zoey.

“You think they’re watchin’ us?” Francis asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

Bill didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, the weight of the question too much to brush aside. “I dunno. Maybe. If they are... we’d better make it worth it.”

For a long while, neither of them said anything. The only sounds were the crackling fire and the distant, haunting cries of the infected. Whatever came next, they knew it wouldn’t be easy. But Bill and Francis had faced death more times than they could count, and as long as they were still breathing, they’d keep fighting.

For Louis. For Zoey. For everyone who hadn’t made it.