Zombie survivor

[58] The save

The presidential suite in Caesar's Palace was an opulent prison. The wide windows overlooked the chaos outside—a burning city crawling with the undead and ruled by lawlessness—but inside, the room was eerily calm. The plush carpet muffled footsteps, and the dim lighting gave the space a sinister glow.

Brad stood awkwardly near the bed, his shirt already discarded and his athletic build on full display. The raider leader, an older woman with a cold, calculating demeanor, lounged on a leather chair near the corner. She held a glass of amber liquid in one hand, her sharp eyes raking over him with an air of clinical disinterest.

"Strip," she ordered, her voice smooth but commanding.

Brad hesitated, his usual cocky demeanor replaced by something bordering on fear. "Uh, can we, like, talk about this?"

The woman arched an eyebrow, swirling the liquid in her glass. "You don't get to negotiate, boy. Strip, or I'll have the guards come in and do it for you."

Brad swallowed hard, his pride warring with his survival instincts. Finally, he complied, unbuckling his belt and sliding his jeans off, leaving him in his boxers. He hesitated again, but the woman's sharp glare prompted him to tug those off as well, leaving him completely exposed.

Her eyes traveled down, and her lips curled into a smirk of disdain. "Well, isn't that underwhelming?" she said dryly, taking a sip of her drink. "You strut around like you're God's gift, and this is what you've got to show for it?"

Brad flushed a deep red, his hands instinctively moving to cover himself. "Hey, it's not—uh, it's cold in here, okay?"

The woman let out a low, mocking laugh, setting her glass down on the table beside her. "Cold, sure. That's what they all say."

Before Brad could stammer out another defense, the door to the suite slammed open with a thunderous crack. Morgan strode in, her pistol raised and aimed directly at the raider leader. Her presence was a stark contrast to the room's controlled atmosphere—chaotic, sharp, and brimming with lethal intent.

The raider leader didn't flinch, though her eyes narrowed. "Well, well," she drawled, leaning back in her chair as if unbothered. "And how did you get past my guards?"

Morgan's lips curved into a faint smirk, though her eyes remained locked on her target. "Your boys at the front desk were very helpful," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Once they stopped screaming."

The older woman huffed, standing slowly and smoothing her tailored jacket. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. But what makes you think you can just walk in here and take what's mine?"

Morgan tilted her head slightly, her pistol unwavering. "I don't think," she said evenly. "I know."

The raider leader's gaze shifted briefly to Brad, who was now scrambling to grab his clothes. "Him?" she scoffed, letting out a bitter laugh. "You're risking your life for that? Honey, he's not worth the effort. I've seen better in middle school gym showers."

Morgan's smirk widened, and she let out a quiet chuckle. "Can't argue with you there."

"Hey!" Brad protested, his face flushing as he yanked on his jeans. "I'm right here, you know!"

The older woman ignored him, her focus still on Morgan. "You're not leaving here alive, you know that, right? My men—"

Morgan cut her off with a single shot, the bullet slamming into the wall just inches from the raider leader's head. The sound echoed through the suite, and the woman flinched, her confident façade cracking ever so slightly.

"Your men are either dead or wish they were," Morgan said coldly, her voice steady as steel. "Now, unless you want me to finish the job, I suggest you let us walk out of here. No fuss."