Star: A Zombie Story

9 - First Blood

The sound of heavy boots on the stairs breaks the uneasy quiet of the apartment. I glance up from the lantern I’m fiddling with just as Frankie shoulders his way through the door, his arms loaded with an assortment of bags and gear. He’s sweating slightly, his shirt damp at the collar, but his expression is focused, determined.

Oscar pushes himself up from the window, letting out a low whistle as he surveys the haul. "Damn, Frankie, you movin’ in or what?" he teases.

Frankie huffs, setting the bags down with a heavy thud. "Laugh all you want, but when shit goes south, y’all are gonna be real glad I thought ahead." He gestures toward the pile with a nod of his head. "Food, water, first-aid kit, batteries, more ammo, you name it. If it’s useful, it’s in there."

I lean forward, curiosity piqued, though the sheer amount of stuff Frankie’s brought makes my stomach churn with unease. He’s not just prepping for a rough night—this is long-term survival.

"Star, I brought you somethin'," he says, his voice steady as he crouches to rummage through one of his oversized military canvas bags. After a moment, he pulls out a baseball bat in one hand and a hefty pipe wrench in the other, holding them up with a grin. The sunlight catches his gold tooth, making it glint as he adds, "I know it ain't a gun, but...if shit gets hairy, I think these’ll do."

I can’t help but smile as I reach for the big wrench. Its weight surprises me, solid and heavy in my hands. "A big ass wrench, huh? What am I supposed to do with this?" I tease, turning it over with a curious grin.

Frankie chuckles, resting the bat on his shoulder. "Trust me, one good, well-placed swing with that? It'll drop anyone—or anything—real quick."

I study the wrench in my hands, the smooth, cold metal reassuring in its solidity. Then I nod, holding it up with a small smile. "Thank you," I say softly, the words genuine as I set it down carefully on the table.

"Aye, Frankie, come take a look," Oscar says, motioning toward the window with a flick of his chin. "That... thing’s vomit? Yo, it ate through the concrete like acid or some shit." He points down at the small, jagged hole in the street.

Frankie zips up his bag and strides over, his boots thudding against the floor. He peers out the window, his jaw tightening as he surveys the damage. "Mmm," he grunts, clicking his tongue like he’s filing the information away. "A'ight, noted. Rule number one: don’t let those things puke on you."

Oscar chuckles dryly, shaking his head. "Yeah, no shit, Einstein."

They stand at the window, shoulders squared, as if watching the street might reveal more answers. Suddenly, Oscar leans in, his nose nearly pressed to the glass. "Oh, shit—Marco!" he exclaims, his voice tinged with relief and excitement.

I pad over to join them just as Oscar hoists the window open, letting in a faint breeze that carries the eerie quiet of the street. Down below, a lanky figure moves cautiously, his shirt tucked into his waistband and a pistol shoved in the front of his jeans. His sharp eyes dart around the street as he walks.

"Aye, Marco!" Oscar calls out, leaning halfway out the window.

Startled, Marco’s gaze snaps upward, locking onto Oscar before shifting to me. I lift a hand in a small wave, offering a tentative smile.

"Yo, dog, whatchoo doin’ up there?" Marco shouts back, his voice a mix of caution and curiousity.

Oscar smirks, leaning further out the window. "Frankie and me are shacking up with Star," he calls. "Not takin’ no chances down there, you feel me!"

Marco stops just in front of the building, his eyes catching on the small hole in the asphalt. He points at it with a jerk of his chin. "That cracked-out bitch puked here too, huh?"