Milo had become restless about the time something moved. He turned his gun and glared through the scope. A can rattled. Nothing more. Possibly a reanimated corpse. Sometimes they were rather clumsy, but otherwise, easily outrun. Rotting flesh in late spring tended to be eaten away easily, and limbs didn’t quite stay where they were supposed to. But there was nothing else. Until he heard something else. Footsteps. That was strange. More than one pair of feet. Perhaps it was the group. But it was odd of them to move around without their bikes. They were custom, chrome and black metals one couldn’t really find anymore. That was the only way some people knew who they were, save their black clothing. Unless one was unfortunate enough to be confronted with them more than a few times and get away generally alive.

He took his eye off the scope and looked down the right way. Indeed, they were there. The young guns, the blade-wielding woman, the old man, the small tracker. They seemed to be arguing. Milo couldn’t quite understand what they were saying from his hidden place in the bookstore, but put his eye back on the scope’s lense and watched them approach. He could easily just let them be taken over by the dead, if they happened to wake at the right moment. But he couldn’t take any chances on those unreliable things. Besides, Milo’s knife wound was stinging at the sight of the woman. She’d not be the first to go, but she’d be the third. Best to take out the siblings, the weapon masters, the only ones that could shoot in a straight line, obviously. They were, anyway, the only ones to hold a gun for the most part.

As they approached the fire and searched around the decoy bags, Milo trained his crosshairs on the back of one of the gunned men. He’d shoot the gun and the man both. Hopefully his high-powered bullet would make it through both. He put his finger on the trigger, and pulled.

The shot was massive. It hit with a metallic clang and a pained howl echoed, but Milo turned right to the second one and shot. The bullet hit him square in the head, sending him back. The tracker, leader, and blade seemed rather paralyzed. The gunshots were loud, nearby, but echoed in the empty streets. They couldn’t place the location, so they couldn’t hide unless they knew where, at least, to focus their attention. Milo took out the blade next. Finally, that hand was useless, and her switchblade fell to the ground. Milo shot the smallest, the tracker, in the knee as he tried to run to find a place to hide, sending him down and rolling a few feet, and finally put a bullet in his back.

He leapt out from his hiding place and took up a metal pipe nearby. Stalking out from the shadows of the bookstore display window, he moved swiftly to the oldest man, the leader, with a determined glare in his eye. The older man’s expression was that of slight shock. “You!”

“YOU!” Milo raised the pipe and bashed the leader of the group in the head, hearing a pleasing, resounding crack as his skull caved in. However, Milo took out his anger a few more times, beating the fallen leader like a pinata. “Ha!” Milo tossed the pipe down and pointed. “Now who’s dead, eh!?” He yelled. “You! You’re dead! Bastards!” He backed away and sat in the middle of the road with a sigh, covering his face with his hands. At least a few were gone, anyway.