The Fight with My Zombies

The gray, murky sky hung heavy with the stench of rot, a scent mingled with the fishy sharpness of rainwater that slithered in from the street corner. I clutched half a piece of hard, dry compressed biscuit, its edges blackened with mold. It was the third year of the apocalypse; humanity cowered among broken walls and rubble, and those who had activated their supernatural powers became the 'hope' in the eyes of the survivors. But I, Mike Carter, was a 'waste' who hadn't even activate a supernatural power. Behind me, the iron gate of the Scott family slammed shut with a heavy clang, shaking peeling plaster from the walls in shards. The door panel still bore deep scratches from the zombies—marks I left last month when I desperately held them back. Quincy's voice floated out, laced with coldness, like shards of ice striking my face. "Mike Carter, you can't even protect yourself. Following you is a death sentence; I refuse to starve to death alongside a loser." When I looked back, I saw Harry Clark holding her by the waist, the firefighter's axe in his hand still stained with the black blood of zombies. The notch on the blade was something I ground for him last time. Harry Clark was my childhood friend; when we were kids, we used to steal loquats from the neighbor's yard at the alley's entrance. A mocking curl tugged at his lips, his eyes cold as if staring at a heap of rubbish: "A loser belongs where a loser should stay. From now on, Quincy Scott stays with me; at least I can give her a warm can of food to eat." The wind whipped grit against my face, carrying the distant howls of zombies. I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into the old wounds on my palms. Blood oozed out, mixing with the mold spots on my biscuit. The Scott family drove me out, not because they lacked food—they still had three boxes of canned goods stacked in their warehouse. It was because I never activated a supernatural power. In this 'survival of the fittest' age, being 'waste' is an original sin; even old ties can be thrown away like garbage. I hid behind the shelves of an abandoned convenience store; a few boxes of expired chocolate still rested there. The wrappers were shredded by rats, and a rancid stench crawled in through the door crack, churning my stomach. I had eaten all the compressed biscuits. I patted my pockets—only half a bottle of murky rainwater remained. If I can't find food again, even without the zombies attacking, I'll starve to death behind these dust-covered shelves. The night's howling suddenly thickened, like countless broken gongs ringing out at once. I crawled to the cracks in the shelves and looked out; beneath the dim moonlight, a black, suffocating mass of zombies was advancing from the east. Their staggered ranks stretched to the end of the street; some zombies were missing a leg, crawling on all fours. Some had half a bone lodged in their throats, their howls broken and intermittent—it was a bunch of zombies. My heart was seized by an icy grip. I turned to run but was tripped by a can that had toppled from the shelf. My forehead slammed hard against the iron frame, vision instantly blackening, ears buzzing until even the footsteps of the zombies grew distant and blurred. By the time I barely managed to pull myself up, the zombie at the front, its face half gone, had already closed in. Its rotting hand reached for me, bits of flesh clinging between its cracked nails. Just as its nails were about to scrape my neck, a sharp, stabbing pain exploded in my mind, as if something inside was being violently torn apart. The thudding in my temples grew relentless, each breath turning into a struggle. A pale blue light drifted from my fingertips, like a soft ribbon, coiling around the zombie's skull. Its movements snapped to a halt, a trace of submission flickering in its clouded eyes, as a low whimper escaped its decayed throat. I froze, watching the zombie obediently retreat behind me like a well-trained dog. Then another, larger zombie lunged at me, its body sheathed in dark purple hard shells, claws flashing with a cold gleam—an evolved zombie. Before I could even react, the blue light at my fingertip flared once more. The zombie with hard shells (I called it Hardy) halted as well, slowly bowing its head as if awaiting my command—had I really activated a supernatural power that commands zombies? I twitched my finger, and the Faceless zombie stepped forward twice immediately. It stopped again the moment I clenched my fist. Faint purple veins traced beneath their skin—an uncommon marker of S-class zombies in the apocalypse. I had only heard of them from other survivors before; never did I expect they would become my 'guards'. The zombies surged relentlessly forward, their howls making the window glass vibrate with a low hum. I took a deep breath and silently issued a "block" command in my mind. Two S-class zombies charged out immediately, while a zombie with hard shells shattered the heads of three ordinary zombies with a single claw swipe.