CHAPTER 4 — Alexiy
The date had been a mistake from the start.
Alexiy realized it somewhere between her third polite nod and the tenth time he brought up his car. She tried to smile in the right places, tried to look like she wasn't counting the minutes, but the guy talked in a straight, unbroken line—about his job, his car, baseball, his car again. He wasn't cruel, just… loud. Loud in personality, loud in ego, loud in the way he assumed she cared.
She didn't. But it was easier to sit there and sip her tea than make a scene. She'd swiped because his messages had been witty, borderline charming. That person wasn't this person.
"Okay, okay—now this," he said, shoving his phone toward her again. "This is the pickup I'm restoring. Beast, right? I tuned the engine myself—hand-tuned. Most guys my age couldn't handle torque like this."
Alexiy hummed noncommittally. She let her pink hair fall a little around her face, pretending she was studying the picture. She wasn't. She was watching his jaw, the way it clenched when he exaggerated. The tremor in his hands when he talked about "fixing" things himself. The little cracks that gave people away when they thought no one was looking.
The afternoon air was warm, sunlight melting the edges of the café patio into something soft. A dog chased a ball. Someone laughed. A kid on a scooter zipped past the tables.
Nothing looked like the world was about to end.
Until—
Then the man across from her went still. His eyes seemed go unfocused and drool leaked out his mouth.
"Justin?" she asked lightly, lowering her cup. "Hey—Justin? Are you—"
A wet choke cut her off. His head jerked forward. His eyes crying blood as his face twisted into a furious expression. Then his chair screeched across the pavement as he lunged at her.
She didn't think. She slammed the metal café table into him with both hands. Heard the crash. And she ran. As she turned Justin lunged again and his nails tore a slash on her thigh. She threw a punch right at nose and felt something brake upon contact. Justin's head snapped back as he let out a guttural cry. Alexiy didn't look back and turned to runaway from her crazy date.
But It wasn't just her date that went crazy.
The world had gone insane.
People running, pushing each other over. She saw a car crash into the cafe she was just sitting at as the car burst into flames. She felt tears in her eyes as she didn't understand what was happening. But she wanted to go home so she ran.
She didn't stop running.
Minutes. Maybe an hour. It felt like both and neither. The city blurred into smoke, screams, and the metallic sting of fear coating her tongue.
At some point a zombie—God, she still wasn't ready to call them that—burst through a shattered storefront window and clamped onto her left arm. His fingers dug in hard enough to bruise deep and dark. Something in her forearm gave with a crack she refused to think about.
She tore free anyway. cradling her broken arm.
She ran wishing she was home with her mom. Her younger sister Lily. Her little brother Aaron.
Please be alive. Please, please—
She limped through alleyways, hid behind dumpsters slick with old oil, crawled through a broken fence. Every car alarm made her flinch. Every shadow made her swallow a cry. But she was determined to make it home.
She didn't know how long she wandered like that.
Then she messed up.
Her foot came down on broken glass. Just a whisper of sound—crunch. But it was loud enough.
Two zombies snapped their heads toward her in the same, horrifying motion.
"No—no, please—!"
They shrieked. And sprinted.
She tried to run, but her limp sent her stumbling, clumsy. The downed streetlight across the walkway caught her foot and she fell hard, palms burning. Pain shot up her leg like fire.
They were too close.
"Help!" she screamed, voice cracking. "Someone—anyone—PLEASE!"
A heartbeat passed. And a shadow fell over her. She closed her eyes crying that she wouldn't see her family again. waiting for the a pain, but...
A sound like bones snapping in the air.
She forced her eyes open.
Two bodies lay twisted on the pavement. The two zombies lay there. Broken.
And standing between her and them was—
…him.
A boy. Eighteen? Nineteen? Hard to tell with the blood streaked across his cheek and the eerie calm in his posture.
But his eyes—Silver. Cold, bright, reflective like moonlight on steel.
His messy black hair looked like it had streaks of deep purple running through it, wind-tossed in a way that somehow looked intentional. He turned toward her, unreadable, terrifyingly composed in a world tearing itself apart.
He spoke, voice steady:
"Come with me if you want to live."
For a moment she couldn't breathe.
Then relief—real, crushing relief—hit her so hard she could barely nod. But she did.
She reached for his hand.
**************************
Man, I'd always wanted to say that.
I shouldn't admit that—not even to myself—but holy hell, it felt good.
Like something I'd rehearsed in a mirror when I was ten, swinging a broom handle like a sword, pretending I was the cool, mysterious protagonist who showed up at the last second.
I thought I'd grown out of that phase of wanting to be a hero.
Apparently not. I was born to be a Badass.
Because there she was.
Pink hair. Pink eyes. Shirt torn at the shoulder. Breathing like she'd swallowed broken glass.
Blood smeared down her thigh where something had caught her.
And she was looking at me.
Actually looking. Like I was the first stable thing she'd seen in hours.
Yeah—no pressure.
Well, I know I said I wasn't going to be a hero.
And I'm not. I'm really not.
Heroes die young in any story worth a damn, and I'd like to make it past eighteen. I'm no hero, I only acted cuz I knew I could handle 2 low level zombies. I just cited on instinct when I heard her scream but looking at I had one thought...
She's… beautiful.
Not that that has anything to do with anything.
Definitely not. I'm not risking my life because she's pretty.
…But it would be a shame if someone who looked like her turned into one of those gross, twitching, undead things outside.
Anyone would agree with that.Pure logic.
Yeah. That's fair.
Plus, I need more info about this whole situation. Maybe she saw something I didn't. Maybe she knows something. Maybe she's useful.And if she's not?
I can always kick her out later. No big deal. I'll be nice and give her some food but the gas station— that was my base. I wasn't going to risk my safety over some random stranger, no matter how beautiful she was.
"Can you walk?" I ask holding my hand out.
She nods and reaches out to grasp my hand. I pull her up and gesture down the street. "I know a safe place, where we can rest and eat."
She just nodded and followed behind me as I made the back to the gas station.
I glanced at her from the corner of my eye, she was beautiful, with long pink hair and her eyes seemed to shine like a a gem. She was undoubtedly a 10/10.
But I didn't let those thoughts show on my face. Now wasn't the time for relationships. Survival came first.
We eventually made it back to the gas station. only 1 zombie was in the way. I took care of it easily enough. I wanted to rest for a bit and look at my stats again. while I picked up a few more orbs from the zombie drops I haven't used any of them or distributed my stats yet.
I arrived in front of the gas station. the neon sign that said "Nation's FuelStop" was out. it looked like the power was now off. As I opened the door I held it open for the girl to walk in.
She hadn't said a a word as we walked. She looked around as she walked into the gas station. with the lights off and the sun starting to set there was still enough light to see.
"Rest," I said. My voice sounded calmer than I felt. "Sit and catch your breath. Nothing's coming for you in here right now."
She hesitated, her whole body tensed like a stray cat deciding whether It was safe enough to let down her guard. Then she lowered herself onto the floor—slow, careful, controlled, even though I could tell it hurt.
Her face tightened around the pain, but her eyes… her eyes didn't stop moving.
She scanned everything: the shadows between the aisles, the flicker of the broken ceiling light, the smear of blood near the freezer door, and the dead zombie body. She wasn't the kind of person who panicked blindly. She noticed.
I watched her as I made my was around the store picking some stuff. She was observant. Cautious. Shy, but in a way that hid something steadier underneath. Not weak—just quiet in a world too loud.
And that thigh wound she tried to pretend wasn't bothering her? The bruise on her arm? The limp she tried to hide? She was strong.
They didn't make her look fragile. They made her look like she'd refused to die even when the world tried its best to chew on her.
I respected that more than I expected to. After I grabbed the rest of the things I made my way back to her.
I crouched beside her, hand hovering over the supplies she hadn't made a move toward—water bottles, a first aid kit, a bag of chips and a couple candy bars.
After a moment, she looked up at me—pink eyes luminous despite everything.
"Name?" I asked, softer this time. Less… interrogative. More human.
"Alexiy," she said.
I nodded. "I'm Elion. Or Eli. Depends on how formal you want this."
Her brows lifted just barely. "'Ellie'? isn't that a girls name?" she blurted out.
"My old man calls me 'Bastard' so call me whatever helps you sleep at night," I said, letting the corner of my mouth pull up in a smirk. I rested my blood-slick bat on the counter beside us. "For now, just focus on surviving. We'll figure out the rest later."
She didn't smile. But something in her eased—just a fraction, like she'd unclenched a muscle she didn't know she was holding. she reached for the water bottle and drank half the bottle before she came up for air.
Her gaze drifted around the gas station again—the scattered snack wrappers, the toppled shelves, the overturned mop bucket leaking dirty water across the tile. She studied everything like she was trying to piece the world back together using environmental clues.
Quietly, it hit me: She wasn't just scared. She was thinking. Planning. Waiting for the next hit of chaos so she'd be ready for it this time.
Then her voice—soft, almost swallowed by the flicker-buzz of the dying ceiling light:
"Will you… be with me?"
Her voice was small. Honest. The kind of question that came from someone who'd been alone long enough to feel the edges of the world closing in.
I didn't answer.
Not yet. I mean what do I say? I'm no hero. Hell, on the way here, I was even thinking of kicking her out of here if she was going be a burden
Instead, I watched her.
Really watched her.
This girl who'd survived—barely, maybe, but survived anyway—staring at me like I was the first safe decision she'd had in hours.
And I realized something quiet and unsettling:
If I said yes, she would believe me. Completely and fully. Like someone drowning reaching for a rope.
And I wasn't sure yet if I deserved that kind of trust.
So I just looked at her. And she looked at me. And for that moment—for that breath—we just existed in the ruined quiet of a flickering gas station.