Don't Be Scared

S2 E1 : 🔹 The Murphy 🔹 (Ch. 131)

"Ho-oly shit." I muttered to myself as I attempted to take a step forward.

I was doing good until I got on the third step. I was veering too far to the left without even knowing it. No one even bothered to correct me! Due to the simple fact I was like a drunk bird, I fell off of the stage and straight onto my face.

Ouchy.

"(Y/N)!" Mack shouted into the once quiet room, rushing to my side despite there being an intruder holding some kind of weapon.

Intruders always have weapons; always.

"Is this a private show, or can anybody watch?" The stranger teased at the scene, ceasing his loud clapping when he got our full attention.

He traded the echoing clap for a deep, husky voice that could've made anyone sit up a bit straighter. Hot damn.

I lifted my head up from the floor, watching as all for of my teammates--but it seemed like they had doubles at their sides--sought out for their holstered weapons, but the man was a lot faster. Military, maybe?

"Ah, ah, ah. Leave your weapons right where they are."

Finally, my sight began to combine the eight into four individuals with no doubles. The world was no longer visibly spinning in my clearing vision, thank God.

"Private!" I managed to shout towards him, turning over to sit up on my butt.

My legs were bent and spread some while my arms were stretched out behind me, keeping the top part of my body stable. My neck was leaned back, arching some as I tried to calm the pulsing pain from my nose.

Yet, with the stranger's presence the pain in my nose seemed a lot less important. When I straightened out my head and moved to get up, the stranger shot the barrel of his automatic my way.

Something told me that he was a lot faster than anyone on my team when it came to pulling a trigger. Meaning, I was fucked if he wanted me dead where I stood.

"Too bad." He had no facial expression with his words as he leaned his cheek against the weapon to get a better aim on my head, "Don't make me shoot you."

"Over my dead body." Mack had his hand resting above his own weapon, but made sure not to move it an inch.

He wasn't only risking his life, but mine as well if he pulled out that weapon.

"There's already enough zombies in this world." The guy commented, his sharp jaw moving with his slender cheeks as he spoke.

He had the skin of a Spanish man, but he had the body structure of a French assassin in a movie. The guy already gave us a weak spot, though: he didn't want to have any unnecessary deaths on his already stained hands.

"What do you want?" Murphy asked grimly, staring at the man who now held all the power in the room.

The stranger wore a bulletproof vest across his torso and down to his stomach with a dirty short sleeve shirt underneath it. The vest no doubt belonged to a--now--dead police officer; he just had to rip off the label.

The cargo pants around his hips more than likely held extra rounds of ammo for his in-hand weapon, or a different kind of weapon in his pockets. On the belt part of the cargo pants, there was a holstered pistol.

A strap that went around his thigh not only assisted in keeping up his pants, but also strapped throwing knives around the muscle. Wow. When we killed him, I'm definitely taking those from his corpse.

"Your name wouldn't happened to be Murphy, would it?"

Come on, Murphy, use that Zombie Charm of yours on that guy. Then, we can get out of here!