Zombie survivor

[87] Prep

The following morning, the teens gathered outside the scavenger office, the cold morning air biting at their exposed skin. Most of them were still half-asleep, their movements sluggish, but Garrett showed no signs of sympathy. He stood with his arms crossed, the rugged lines of his face set in a scowl as he waited for them to quiet down.

"Alright, listen up," he barked, his gravelly voice cutting through the chatter. "You signed up for this shit, so now you're gonna learn how not to get your dumb asses killed. Today's all about basics—gear, tactics, and how to not blow your fucking foot off with a gun."

"Great pep talk, as usual," Brad muttered, earning a glare from Garrett.

"Keep running that mouth, meathead, and I'll make you the bait tomorrow," Garrett snapped. Brad wisely kept quiet after that.

Garrett motioned for the group to follow him to a small clearing behind the office, where several pieces of scavenged equipment had been laid out on a battered tarp. There were a handful of basic weapons—pistols, shotguns, and a couple of rusty crowbars—alongside backpacks, flashlights, and other essentials like duct tape and rope.

"This," Garrett said, gesturing to the spread, "is your gear. It ain't pretty, but it'll get the job done if you don't fuck around."

Jordan crouched down next to the tarp, picking up a crowbar and spinning it in his hands. "Yo, this is, like, straight outta Half-Life. Do I get a hazmat suit, too?"

"Yeah, sure," Garrett said dryly. "Right after I give you a unicorn and a golden toilet. Now shut up and listen."

Jean stepped forward, his gaze serious as he looked over the weapons. "What's the plan? Are we using these tomorrow, or is this just practice?"

"You'll use these tomorrow," Garrett replied. "But first, you need to know how to handle them without shooting each other—or me."

He picked up a pistol and held it up for everyone to see. "Rule number one: don't point this at anything unless you're ready to kill it. That includes your friends, your own foot, and me, unless you want me to end you first."

"Noted," Tyler said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "No shooting the boss."

"Rule number two," Garrett continued, ignoring him. "Every bullet you fire costs you. Make it count. Aim for the head if it's a zombie. Aim for the chest if it's a raider. Don't spray and pray. This ain't Call of Duty."

Evan picked up a pistol, his hands trembling slightly as he examined it. "Uh... what if we miss?"

"Then you're dead," Garrett said bluntly. "Next question."

Evan gulped, putting the pistol back down with shaky hands. Chloe rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath, "God, you're hopeless."

"Chloe, if you've got something to say, say it louder," Garrett said, fixing her with a hard stare. "Or better yet, pick up a gun and show us how it's done."

Chloe scowled but didn't back down. She grabbed a shotgun off the tarp, holding it awkwardly as she looked down the barrel. "Fine. How hard can it be?"

"Harder than you think," Garrett said, stepping forward to adjust her grip. "Your stance is trash. If you fire like that, the recoil's gonna knock you on your ass."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Chloe muttered, repositioning herself under his instruction.

"Confidence won't keep you alive," Garrett said. "Skill will."

The rest of the group began picking up their weapons, testing their weight and balance. Brad gravitated toward a heavy shotgun, grinning as he cocked it with exaggerated flair.

"Hell yeah," he said, holding it like he was posing for a movie poster. "Now we're talking."

"Stop playing with it like it's a toy," Garrett snapped. "You wanna blow your face off?"

"Relax," Brad said, rolling his eyes. "I know what I'm doing."

"Sure you do," Garrett said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Next rule: don't let your ego get you killed. The minute you think you've got this shit figured out, you're fucked."

"Got it, boss," Brad muttered, his grin fading slightly.

"Alright," Garrett said, stepping back and motioning toward a row of makeshift targets—empty cans and bottles balanced precariously on a wooden beam. "Let's see what you've got. Pistols first. Line up."

The teens shuffled into position, each holding a pistol with varying degrees of confidence. Garrett stood behind them, barking instructions as they took turns firing at the targets.

"Evan, stop shaking like a leaf and focus. You're aiming at the can, not your goddamn nightmares."

"Chloe, don't close your eyes when you shoot. You're not wishing on a star."

"Jordan, stop trying to look cool. Just shoot the fucking thing."

The sound of gunfire echoed through the clearing, some shots hitting their marks, others going wide. Jean managed to hit his target on the second try, his grip steadying as he adjusted to the recoil. Akira, surprisingly, was a natural—her shots were precise, each one finding its mark with eerie accuracy.

"Damn," Tyler muttered, watching her. "Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"

"I didn't," Akira said quietly, reloading her pistol with calm efficiency. "I just... don't want to miss."

Chloe groaned as her third shot went wide, the kick of the shotgun throwing her slightly off balance. "This is impossible," she muttered, lowering the gun.

"Stop whining and try again," Garrett said. "You think the zombies are gonna give you a break if you miss?"

Chloe glared at him but raised the shotgun again, her jaw set with determination. Her next shot hit the target, knocking the bottle off the beam with a satisfying crash.

"There you go," Garrett said with a nod. "Keep that up, and you might survive tomorrow."

The training continued for the next few hours, moving from shooting practice to basic survival tactics. Garrett demonstrated how to create makeshift barricades, use distractions to draw zombies away, and communicate without shouting in dangerous situations.

"Zombies aren't your only problem out there," he said, pacing in front of the group as they sat in the dirt. "Raiders, rival scavengers, wild animals—all of them are waiting to fuck you over. Keep your head on a swivel, trust your team, and don't take stupid risks."

By the time the training session ended, the teens were exhausted, their hands blistered from handling the weapons and their minds spinning with everything they'd learned. Garrett stood at the edge of the clearing, watching as they packed up their gear.

"You're rough," he said bluntly, "but you've got potential. Just don't let your egos or your fear get in the way. Out there, you've got one job: survive. Everything else is secondary."

Jean nodded, his face serious. "We'll be ready."

Garrett smirked faintly, lighting another cigarette. "We'll see."

The teens filed out of the clearing, their weapons slung over their shoulders and their nerves frayed. Tomorrow, the real test would begin.

Q: Do you know how to shoot a gun?