Chapter Text
That was never going to wash out
With a tired sigh, Nina studied her fingernails. Blood had crusted under them, the polish splintered and cracked. And to think she was supposed to have a manicure appointment right about now.
Shaking her head, Nina focused back on the door of the garden shed she was currently hiding in. Moaning sounded from outside; steps dragged past. She just had to stay silent. No use taking on all of those things without any ammunition. She cursed her father’s bodyguard. Why did that big oaf never pack spare mags?
A magnum was a great gun—provided you had the right caliber of ammo available. And, as anyone with half a brain knew, that kind of ammunition was definitely not stored in a random garden shed.
Think, she scolded herself. Where could she get supplies? Shelter?
Her stomach growled. Nina snorted silently and added food to the list of requirements. This fucking nightmare just would not end.
After shit went down, there had been a radio broadcast telling survivors to go to the police station—but fat chance. Not with that asshole as chief.
Even as someone born into the mob, she had no desire to get any closer to Chief Irons than strictly necessary. The rumor mill had spat out quite a lot of… curious information about the man’s eating habits. She wasn’t exactly inclined to find out whether she tasted better with chutney or chimichurri.
Another snarl outside her little hideout ripped her out of her thoughts.
Well. Wherever she was going to end up, it sure as fuck wouldn’t be here.
And besides—what harm could it do to go to the police station? If any place besides her family’s armory had magnum ammo, it would be there. And the chances that Irons had made it this long were basically zero. Someone who got out of breath walking to the toilet couldn’t outrun zombies—let alone survive if four of those things tackled him.
Nina took a single step forward, ready to open the door—just as something slammed against it from the outside.
She swallowed hard, spun around, and desperately scanned the room for another exit.
There.
Two of the planks, partially hidden behind a supply closet, looked loose.
Grabbing a crowbar from the workbench, she lunged forward, jamming the curved end between the planks and wrenching hard.
The wood tore free with a sickening crack.
Too loud.
Before the other zombies could react, she squeezed herself through the hole in the wall, gritting her teeth as a jagged splinter scraped across her arm. No time for that now.
Whirling around, Nina searched for a way out of the garden she now stood in. The gate was bent and jammed. Her crowbar would not be of much use here, but it low enough to climb.
No time to think.
She sprinted, vaulted the gate, and hit the ground hard on the other side, rolling to bleed off the impact.
She didn’t look back. Waiting had never worked out well when creepy things were trying to turn you into a family meal.
Luckily, the station wasn’t far.
She reached the nearest fire stairs, climbed fast, then hauled herself the rest of the way up until she stood on the roof of a three-story building.
The zombies were everywhere below—but not smart enough to reach her high ground.
Nina walked to the edge of the roof and forced herself to orient.
The street beneath her writhed with movement.
To the west stood the old museum, repurposed as a police station back in the forties.
Cracking her neck left and right, Nina scanned the buildings between her and her goal.
This was going to be fun.