"If you think I'm insane in the streets," Rhysl laughed, his grin ear to ear, hands on the wheel and eyes on the road, "you should see me in the sheets. Ya know, I think I'll start calling you Drevor... And here's why."
He swerved the Hummer slightly to hit a zombie and smeared red and green behind them. "I knew a guy named Trevor once."
His jaw twitched. He clicked his tongue and let out a warning sound, a kind of sigh. "He wound up dead."
The interior of the Hummer grew tight and small. Rhysl did not embellish whether it had happened before or after the apocalypse. The Hummer was not a quiet vehicle.
"Shit. It's luring a lot out, huh?"
A swarm piled up behind them.
"Drevor," Rhysl said, having decided on the name. He reached across, his wingspan deceptively wide, for the glove compartment on the passenger side. Keeping his eyes on the road, he patted around. His fingers brushed Trevor's thigh — his brows bounced at the younger man — "Sorry 'bout tha—" before he found the handle and popped it open.
Inside were a flask, smokes, a lighter, and Black Cat firecrackers.
"Light those up for 'em, will ya? And toss 'em out the window. Bonus points if you can land 'em in a trash can or on one of those creepy fuckers."
Trevor's brain did that thing where it tried to process three threats at once and buffered on the least useful one.
Drevor. He was renaming him. After a dead guy. He let out a short, breathless laugh that sounded more like a cough.
"Drevor. Bold choice. Real creative. I'm sure the last Trevor would've been thrilled to know his name got recycled like a gas-station cup." He glanced at Rhysl's profile — the grin, the easy hands on the wheel, the way he had turned a corpse into a streak without blinking. "And for the record, if you're trying to scare me with the 'he wound up dead' line, it's working. Mildly. Like, six out of ten. Maybe seven if you keep smiling like that."
The swarm behind them grew thicker. The engine was loud enough to pull every walker in a three-block radius, and they were coming. Trevor could see them in the side mirror — staggering, sprinting, falling over each other to catch the noise.
When Rhysl reached across, the brush of fingers against his thigh landed like a static charge. Trevor didn't flinch. He just raised an eyebrow at the little stash: flask, smokes, lighter, and a half-crushed pack of Black Cats.
Firecrackers. Of course the terrifyingly competent silver fox kept novelty explosives in the glove box.
"Bonus points for landing them on a creepy fucker. Got it. Adding it to my performance review."
His hands were still a little shaky from almost being used as a human shield, but he kept talking because silence would have meant thinking about the arm that had been across his throat thirty seconds before.
"You know, most people bond over coffee. Or trauma. You're bonding over explosives and the ghost of a dead namesake. I'm choosing to find that charming instead of deeply concerning."
He flicked the lighter, got a flame on the second try, and lit the fuse on a small cluster. The spark raced. Trevor leaned out the window just far enough, wind whipping his hair, and lobbed them hard toward a knot of infected near an overturned trash can.
They hit pavement, skittered, then popped in a bright, angry string of noise and smoke. Several walkers changed direction at once, drawn like moths. One face-planted into the trash can hard enough to knock it over.
Trevor pulled back inside and reached for another cluster.
"One for the home team," he said, lighting the next fuse. "And just so we're clear — if I die doing your fireworks show, I'm haunting your ass. Specifically your ass."
He threw the second set farther back into the denser part of the swarm. More pops. More confusion. The pack behind the Hummer fractured just enough for Rhysl to put distance between them and the dead.
"Alright, Drevor's official report: firecrackers deployed, creepy fuckers distracted, bonus points pending. What's next on the 'keep the college dropout alive' itinerary?"
Rhysl watched the handiwork in the mirrors and made a loud, low sound of excitement. "Booya, baby! That's what I'm talking about!" Under cover of the explosions, he sped up, whipped around an old brick building, and reversed into an alleyway.
The space was too tight to open the doors. He killed the engine, licked his bottom lip, and kept his eyes on the street.
Trevor wondered if the dead were locked out or if he was locked in with the ever-so-slightly crazy silver fox. Engine quiet, Rhysl waited. A few zombies walked past from the direction they had been headed, giving them distance from the chaos. Another minute passed. A few more dead. Nothing living.
"Let's give it a few more minutes." Rhysl grabbed the cigarettes and curled two fingers for Trevor to hand over the lighter. He breathed in a huge gulp of nicotine. "Good work out there, kid — Drevor." He corrected himself. "Nah, just the one Trevor... as far as I know..." He smirked. "And I'm sure you have a fuck ton of questions now."
It was clear the Hummer was Rhysl's, formerly or not. He would have had to think Trevor was stupid to lie about it. The speed with which he had gotten the gassed vehicle and his knowledge of the glove box were evidence enough.
"Fire away."
The sudden quiet after the engine died felt louder than the chaos. Trevor sat very still, listening to dead feet scrape somewhere beyond the mouth of the alley. He was locked in with a man who had just executed a moving headshot, renamed him after a corpse, and kept fireworks next to his cigarettes like that was normal.
He watched the flare of the lighter illuminate the sharp lines of Rhysl's face. The older man looked almost relaxed.
When Rhysl told him to fire away, Trevor let out a slow breath through his nose and turned as much as the confined space allowed.
"Alright. Questions. I've got a whole PowerPoint prepared, but I'll keep it to the highlights."
"Great, you're one of those," Rhysl groaned around his cigarette.
Trevor held up a finger. "One. The Hummer. It's yours. Or it is now. You knew exactly where the stash was, you drive this thing like it owes you money. How long have you had it, and should I be worried about the previous owner coming back with friends?"
A second finger. "Two. The dead Trevor. You said 'as far as I know.' That's not 'no.' If there's a pattern of Trevors ending up horizontal, I'd like a heads-up."
A third finger. "Three. You. Who the hell are you, Rhysl Justus? Most people I meet are crying, shooting, or already dead. You're orchestrating zombie traffic and flirting mid-bloodbath like it's a sport. What's your deal?"
He dropped his hand and studied Rhysl's profile in the dim light. "And four — bonus round — where are we going after hide-and-seek? Because I've been winging it since this morning and it nearly got me turned into a human shield."
Under the jokes, he was running the same calculation he had run since he woke up alone: Was this person going to get him killed, or was this person the reason he didn't?
Rhysl let out a winded sigh. "Jiminy Fuckin' Christmas, kid."
Smoke billowed from his nostrils. He rested his left elbow on the steering wheel and mimicked the counting, starting with his left thumb.
"One: never knew the owners and I don't care; so no, don't be worried." He adjusted the cig with his right hand. "Two: I've met a lot of Trevors. No one named Drevor."
Thumb, index and middle finger up. "Three: I'm just a man who loves to gamble. And fuckin' good at it." He tilted his head. "Blackhawk's been my home for a looong time. No dead POS is gonna take that away from me. And four: my goal today was to catch some damn breakfast, cook it, and get what I'm owed. Trucks spooked the hordes and I got caught up in it. I think you and I know who revved those engines nice and awful loud this mornin'. At 5 A.M."
Something dark and hostile flickered in his eyes and jaw. He leaned toward Trevor for a brief second, then the aura dissipated as fast as it had surfaced. "So now, once it's clear — I roll us outta here, stash this beaut' and continue on foot to get fishing gear. And, please, do us both the favor and don't ask why on foot." He said the last four words in a mock-whiny voice. His grin returned as another zombie passed by.
"Wait... did you say... I was flirtin'?" A different twinkle sparked in his eye. It was scary for different reasons.
Trevor caught the flash of hostility at the mention of the 5 A.M. engines and filed it away. His old group had taken the trucks. Loudly.
Note to self: the silver fox has a grudge and excellent hearing. Do not advertise former affiliations.
He didn't look away. He let a slow, crooked smile pull at his mouth.
"Yeah. I did say that. Because you were. The 'good boy,' the looking at my mouth, the 'wet your whistle later,' the whole... whatever that was back there against the wall. If that wasn't flirting, then I failed Social Studies even harder than I thought."
The confined space made every shift feel closer than it should.
"And for the record, I'm not complaining. Just establishing the rules. You're a gambler. I'm a guy who talks too much when he's nervous and notices when a terrifyingly competent man keeps looking at him like he's deciding whether to keep him or eat him."
He glanced toward the mouth of the alley as another walker shuffled past. "So. Fishing gear. On foot. After we stash the murder-Hummer. Got it. I'm not gonna ask why on foot — even though every fiber of my being wants to, because you did the voice. Respecting the boundary. Growth."
He studied Rhysl through the haze. "But when you say 'get what I'm owed,' are we talking shot-at, or just extremely awkward? I've had a full day of almost dying and I'd like to budget responsibly."
When Trevor so blatantly said 'you were,' Rhysl raised both brows. He didn't have to say "you ballsy fucker." It was written plain as day on his face.
The silver fox grinned with his mouth and eyes. "Not complaining, huh? You saying that because you're trying to stay on my good side? Or... you feeling lonely, Miami Boy?"
He let it hang, then laughed, slugged Trevor in the bicep, and fired the ignition. "Just shittin' ya. And you certainly do talk too much." There was no real malice in it. He licked his bottom lip and rested his top teeth on it. "Keep you or eat you, huh? I thought we already established this isn't the Donner party?"
"Haha, murder-hummer? I like that." He twisted to look out the rear and guided the vehicle out as slowly and quietly as he could. "Yuuup. Teach a man to fish and all."
The Hummer moved through the tiny old streets, catching some attention but nothing they couldn't outdrive or lose around a corner. Rhysl spoke in intervals so he could focus. "In today's world? Always expect to get shot at. But, you stay on my good side, chances are you won't die by bullets."
He squeezed into a tight spot in a parking garage and killed the engine. He leaned in, towering over Trevor, faces inches apart, and looked him over once again. He grabbed his cigs, the lighter, and the flask. "Things will only get awkward if you make 'em." He slid back, got out, and pocketed the goods and the keys.
Trevor's pulse jumped. Rhysl filled the space like he owned it — smoke, heat, the faint scent of his clothes. For a second Trevor could only hear the cooling engine and his own heartbeat.
He didn't pull back.
"Lonely?" His voice came out rougher than he meant. He cleared his throat and forced the grin back. "I've been alone for nine hours and I've already been abandoned, almost eaten, used as a human shield, and renamed after a dead guy. Lonely doesn't begin to cover it. I'm operating on spite and unfinished trauma."
He winced theatrically at the slug to his arm, rubbing the spot. "Ow. Affectionate violence. My favorite love language."
Rhysl did a very slow eye-roll. "And I'm the philanderer?"
Trevor steadied himself with a hand on the dash as Rhysl backed out, because the alternative was sitting in charged silence. He watched the streets slide past. Rhysl drove like the town was a memory he refused to give up.
Local. Territorial. Gambling man. Possibly flirting. Definitely dangerous. And I'm still in the passenger seat. Progress?
When the engine died in the garage, Rhysl leaned in again — really leaned, close enough that Trevor could see the silver in his hair — and the air went thin.
Trevor held still and let himself be looked at.
"Awkward is my natural state," he murmured, eyes flicking from Rhysl's mouth to his eyes. "I once spent twenty minutes explaining color theory to a man deciding whether to shoot me. I can handle awkward. What I can't handle is not knowing the rules."
Rhysl pulled back and stepped out. The door shut with a solid thunk. Trevor exhaled hard through his nose, then shoved his own door open into the cool, oil-and-dust air. He slung his pack higher and looked at Rhysl over the hood.
"Alright, Justus. Lead the way. Teach me to fish. Keep me on your good side. Try not to rename me after more corpses. I make no promises about the talking."
His grin was crooked, a little too bright, but his eyes were steady. "And for the record? Yeah. Maybe I am a little lonely. Don't let it go to your head."
Rhysl didn't reply verbally, only glanced his way with oddly emotionless eyes. Once Trevor had his things, Rhysl manually locked the doors — no beeper horn.
"You said 'rules' again. Kid — Drevor —" He stepped around the Hummer with controlled footwork, trapping Trevor between the Hummer and the garage corner. "How about first rule is, stop being so easy to corner?"
He slammed one hand above Trevor's shoulder and looked him up and down slowly. "You would be so easy to kill right now. I could gut you. Right here." Heat sizzled between them. He held his keys and play-gutted the space between them. "Rule two? It's on you to stay on my good side." His breath was all tobacco and coffee — coffee Trevor hadn't enjoyed in a while.
His mahogany eyes twinkled. He laughed suddenly. It wasn't cruel. It was bells and velvet. He patted Trevor on the cheek, then checked the passenger lock — his actual mission all along.
"Okay, Miami-Boy, let's go." They navigated the streets cautiously. The air was crisp, leaves mostly orange and red aside from the green pines. "So, you never been fishing? Man... before this shit," he gestured around, "I would have owned a boat and been fly-fishing every hot-damn day and fuckin' under the stars."
Trevor's back had met cold concrete. He hadn't flinched. He had tipped his chin up instead, meeting those eyes even though every instinct screamed this man could follow through.
"Rule one: stop being easy to corner. Noted. I'll add it under 'don't get abandoned' and 'avoid becoming a human shield.'"
When Rhysl laughed and patted his cheek, something in Trevor's chest unclenched enough to let the grin return — crooked, defiant.
"Rule two: stay on your good side. Also noted. I'll limit sarcasm to survivable levels. No promises."
He pushed off the wall and fell into step. "Never been fishing. Not real fishing. I watched people do it. Judged their technique. Ate the results. Classic Florida contribution. And a boat? Under the stars? That's disgustingly wholesome. I was busy failing classes and arguing whether graphic design counted as a real major."
He kicked gravel, scanning corners the way Rhysl did. "So. Fly-fishing. That's the fancy kind with whipping the line around, right? Looks like you're trying to start a fight with the water. You think you can teach a Miami dropout without me hooking my own face?"
Under the lightness was a real question: Are you actually going to teach me, or just keep the entertaining idiot around until he's not useful?
Rhysl snickered and shot him a side-eye. "You've made it abundantly clear you got 'human shield' perfected, but let's work on changing that, shall we?" He lit another cigarette and pocketed the carton, watching the streets with vigilant ease.
"When I said 'fuckin' under the stars', I meant fuckin'." He rolled his hips forward, one hand pulling at the air as if holding an invisible hip, flashing a filthy half-grin.
"Really is crazy to me you never went fishing. I'm gonna—" A torso crawled toward them and Rhysl stomped its head. Grey matter splattered. "—pop that cherry of yours." He threw his head back laughing at his own joke.
Trevor's brain stuttered on the hip-roll. Then the crawler arrived, and Rhysl didn't break stride. The wet crunch was almost casual.
"Pop that cherry," Trevor echoed dryly, stepping around the ruined crawler. "You're really committed to the bit. I respect the hustle."
Rhysl doesn't hesitate. Doesn't waste motion. Laughs like the world hasn't ended.
Ahead, the sign for Basin and Bend came into view. It was closed.
"What the... fuck?" For the first time, Rhysl sounded genuinely pissed. He stopped dead. "Since when did that happen?"
He stalked forward, teeth grinding, hands wrapping around the back of his head. The notice said closed permanently in December 2025. It was now early October 2027.
Trevor slowed. December 2025. Almost two years ago. And he's lived here a long time. But he didn't know? The red flags were neon. He kept his voice light, not accusing. Not yet. "December 2025. That's a while. You really didn't know?"
He peered through the glass, hand cupped. Racks toppled. A few rods hung like skeletons. "Looks picked clean anyway. Could still be something in back. Or... you got a backup plan? Because 'walk in and politely request a starter kit' feels off the table."
Internally the questions stacked: How does a local not know? Where has he been? What else does he not know — or not want me to know?
He stayed loose, hands visible. "So... We try the back, find another place, or stand here until something with no pulse finds us interesting. I'm flexible. Mildly concerned. But flexible."
"Yeah, well, shit... Shit!" Rhysl spat and scratched his chin. "What a bust. The fire department is north of here, but I'm sure it's picked over."
Suddenly gunfire erupted around them. Rhysl ducked and rounded the corner toward the back of the building. Attached was an antique store, or they could chance the church.
Trevor started to separate, but Rhysl grabbed him by the back of the shirt and yanked him the other way. "This way. Southwest of here, less than a handful of minutes away, is a fire and hose museum. Long shot, but we might find weapons, axes? Guns? Who knows?"
He never got to explain how he didn't know about the store. He finally asked, "You got anything you can protect yourself with?"
Staying crouched, he moved to the Golden Rose Antique Store. The windows were boarded, the door wide open.
Trevor dropped on instinct. "Jesus — okay, I'm coming—" He ran crouched beside Rhysl. "Knife. And a 9mm with seven rounds I've been treating like solid gold. Prefer not to use the gun unless we're out of options — noise discipline."
They reached the doorway. Muzzle flashes lit a side street two blocks away. Living people shooting — at what, he couldn't tell. Don't get separated. Stay with the guy who hasn't decided if I'm worth keeping.
Inside, it was dim and dusty. Old wood, mothballs, time. Shadows stretched between toppled cases and sheet-draped furniture. Trevor kept his voice low, knife already in hand. "Fire and hose museum after this? Axes I can work with. A coffee maker would be a miracle, but I'm trying to stay realistic. Lead the way, Justus. I'll watch our six. And if whatever's shooting follows us in, I'm open to creative solutions that don't end with me as the human shield again."
Talk of video games as D-Day prep earned an unapologetic grimace from Rhysl. He gave Trevor a briefer once-over — good feet, running mouth. Running too much right now. He shot out a hand and cupped it over Trevor's mouth, the blade of his hand under Trevor's nose. His eyes spoke for him. Listening. Trevor's lips moved under his palm before he forced himself quiet. Rhysl narrowed his eyes, a wry half-smile tugging at his mouth. The vein in his neck pulsed under what could only have been a burn scar or a hideous birthmark.
The gunfire ceased. Shouts — orders — took its place. Despite being encroached on, Rhysl's shoulders sagged and he rolled his eyes. He whispered, "Kill me now... not a fuckin' monologue."
The leader's voice grew distinct every few seconds, traveling from the south, yelling about four men stealing from his group.
"Three crates of goods. Water. Jerky. Cans. Toilet paper. And we want it back!"
Rhysl curled into himself, stifling a laugh into the back of his free hand. His shoulders shook. With pinched brows and a wide grin, he battled the fit. "Toilet paper? That's what he's complaining about? Like it's fuckin' Covid all over again."
They were clearly not friends of the four Trevor and Rhysl had met earlier. They were caught in the dispute, and the newcomers shot first and asked later.
Trevor went still under the warm, rough palm that smelled of tobacco and gun oil. Breathing took effort. Message received. Mouth closed. Listening. He gave the tiniest nod. When Rhysl finally dropped his hand, Trevor kept his voice to a whisper.'
"Toilet paper. The great equalizer. These guys sound like they shoot first and inventory later. And we're in a building with an open door and zero exits that don't put us in their path." He shifted his grip on the knife. "Options? Stay quiet and hope they pass? Find a back way before they clear buildings? And if we do another moving-vehicle gunfight, I'm requesting hazard pay. Payable in coffee. Or actual toilet paper."
Rhysl straightened, glimpsed around, then hunkered back down. He grinned, tongue between his teeth. "Nah, Murder-hummer can stay put for this one. Let's lay low and see how close they get. Terrain is against them. They made a scene with that spray."
He took in the little store. "Shit... I remember coming here when I was a kid. Tst. I hated these kinda places. Old stuff creeps me out." He said it despite his own salt-and-pepper hair. He sat, back against a counter, one leg propped and the other stretched long, and pulled a weathered charcoal-black box with gold-tinted words from his back pocket: BLACK HAWK COLORADO. Cards.
"Okay, if I win... you have to do my laundry for a week." He laughed at his own wager. "If you win, I'll make you the best gosh-damned coffee the end-of-the-world has to offer."
He looked far too relaxed, and he noticed it made Trevor uneasy. He licked his bottom lip. "Chill. They'll grow tired or bored or both or have the dead to deal with." He paused mid-shuffle, suddenly serious. "Please... tell me you at least know Texas Hold 'em." He grimaced at the sheepish look on Trevor's face. "That look tells me you only know Go Fish." Sadly, he had hit the nail on the head.
Trevor stayed crouched a second longer, listening. The voices weren't coming straight at them. Yet.
He's too comfortable. Either he knows something I don't, or he's the kind of crazy that doesn't care.
He eased down opposite Rhysl, back against a toppled case, knife still in hand, eyes flicking to the doorway. "You came here as a kid and hated it. Makes sense. Feels like it's waiting to judge you. Old stuff creeps me out too. Mostly because someone used to care about it and now it's just... leftover."
He huffed a quiet laugh at the bet. "Laundry versus end-of-the-world coffee. High stakes. If we both die, does the debt transfer?"
Then the sheepish look was real. "...I know Go Fish," he confessed. "And War. And that one where you slap the pile on a jack, but I always got yelled at for slapping too hard."
He eyed the deck like it might bite. "So if the plan is cards until the angry supply-chain guys get bored or eaten, you'll have to teach me. Deal the cards, Justus. And keep your voice down. If they hear us betting laundry rights, the humiliation will kill me before the bullets do."
"Really twisting my arm here, ya know that? War it is." They played a few matches. Rhysl listened mostly. Anytime Trevor talked too much, he lifted an index finger, snapped, or — when Trevor really ranted — leaned over the cards and pushed his palm against Trevor's mouth. Whenever Trevor allowed it, Rhysl looked up from under stern brows. The look was caution, time-to-hush, and heat. Unapologetic was everything with Rhysl.
He would sit back, adjust his jeans, and return to the cards. Around them they heard scuffling, a few gunshots, grunts, and plenty of moans. By the third game, Rhysl paused and glanced at the broken grandfather clock. "Okay... it's been... what? Ten minutes? Five? They finally shut up."
His stomach growled, which made him actually growl. It sounded almost inhuman. "I'm starving. Next time, when we don't have psychos shooting at us, I'll teach you Texas Hold 'em. I think you'd be good at it."
In one motion he stood — not swiftly, with a creak from knee or ankle. "Ahhh, shiiit." He held his lumbar and leaned back. "What did that kid in that Zombieland movie always say about stretching?"
Suddenly, almost in slow motion, Trevor saw movement behind Rhysl. Dull, hot white pain shot through his skull. Spots covered his vision before he was swallowed into darkness.
Chapter 02 - END