2 days passed on the road.

The truck rumbled endlessly eastward, tires eating up cracked asphalt as the landscape slowly changed—cities thinning into long stretches of broken highway, then back into scattered ruins. Sleep came in pieces. Conversation faded into quiet murmurs. The road became routine.

Shimon and Rokuro rotated driving duties without complaint.

Shimon drove with steady patience, hands light on the wheel, eyes always scanning ahead. Rokuro drove like the road owed him something—confident, slightly reckless, but surprisingly attentive. Whenever one grew tired, the other took over.

Johnny stayed in the passenger seat every time.

Always awake. Always watching. Always guiding.

The others rested in the back—heads against metal walls, knees tucked close, bodies swaying gently with the truck’s movement. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was safe enough.

Until morning came.

The sun was already climbing when Shimon noticed the needle.

Fuel: low.

Not critical. But close enough to matter.
He frowned slightly, calculating distance, then glanced sideways.

Johnny was asleep.

His head had tipped back against the seat, jaw relaxed, arms folded loosely over his chest. Dark circles shadowed his eyes—proof of how little rest he’d actually taken despite insisting everyone else sleep.

Shimon hesitated.

Then—

“Johnny,” he said calmly. “Wake up.”

Johnny stirred immediately, eyes opening halfway as instinct kicked in before awareness.

“…Mmm,” he muttered. “What is it?”

Shimon shifted gears smoothly. “Gas won’t last much longer. We’ll run dry in a few hours.”

Johnny blinked, then rubbed his face with one hand, exhaustion finally catching up.

“…Okay,” he said, voice still rough with sleep. He stretched his arms above his head, joints popping quietly.

“Stop wherever you see a gas station.”

Shimon glanced at him again—really looked at him this time—and smiled faintly.

“Yes, Captain.”

Johnny snorted softly and leaned his head back again.

A few hours later, the truck slowed.
A gas station appeared ahead—what was left of one.

The roof over the pumps had partially collapsed, one side sagging like a broken wing. Windows were shattered, signage burned and unreadable. Vines crept along cracked concrete, and debris littered the forecourt.

Shimon pulled the truck in carefully, parking near the pumps.

The engine cut off.

Silence followed.

Johnny stirred again, then stood and stepped into the back of the truck, tapping the metal wall lightly.

“Alright,” he said, voice calm but firm.

“Wake up. We refuel here. Need eyes open.”

Shu woke immediately, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

“…Okay, big brother,” he said sleepily, already alert despite the fatigue.

Chisato groaned, rolling onto her side.

“I don’t wanna—” she muttered, face buried against her arm.

She promptly fell back asleep.

Aria remained curled in the corner, breathing slow and even, completely unaware—peaceful in a way that almost looked unreal in a broken world.

Takina stirred next.

She sat up slowly, blinking against the light, hair completely disheveled—strands sticking out in every direction.

“…Good morning,” she said flatly.

Then—

Rokuro.

He shifted, smacked his lips, and wiped a thin line of drool from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Damn,” he muttered. “What’s with all the noise…”

He turned his head.

Takina was staring at him.

Silent. Unblinking. Hair sticking out in every direction, eyes still half-lidded from sleep but somehow painfully sharp.

She hadn’t fully woken up yet—and that made it worse.

Rokuro screamed.

“ZOMBIE—! STAY AWAY FROM ME, FREAK!”

Takina’s eye twitched.

Her cheeks flushed red instantly. “You idiot! What the hell did you just call me?!”

Rokuro scrambled backward, panic draining into realization as his brain finally caught up.

“…Oh.”

He squinted.

“…It’s just Takina.”

Her glare sharpened.

“Just?” she repeated.

Rokuro scratched the back of his head nervously. “I mean—just as in—you’re alive. Not a zombie. Which is good.”

Johnny sighed deeply from behind them.

“Both of you,” he said, “it’s too early for this.”

Chisato stirred half-awake, mumbling, “Five more minutes…” before turning over again.

Johnny glanced at her, then at Aria.

“…Let them sleep,” he decided. “Takina. Rokuro. Shu—you’re with me. We refuel. You watch the perimeter.”

Shu nodded instantly. “Yes.”

Takina stood and began fixing her hair with practiced efficiency, expression neutral again.

Rokuro stretched dramatically as he hopped down from the truck, arms raised high.

“Ahhh,” he groaned. “Nothing like waking up at a haunted gas station to remind you you’re alive.”

Takina walked past him.

“If you scream again,” she said calmly, “I’ll leave you for the ghosts.”

Rokuro laughed. “You say that like you wouldn’t enjoy it.”

They stepped out together.

The air was quiet. Too quiet.

Johnny moved toward the pumps, eyes scanning shadows and broken windows while Shu stood close, shotgun in his hand, alert despite the sleep still clinging to him.

Shimon had just started refueling when the faint glug-glug of diesel echoed against the broken station walls.

The smell of fuel hung heavy in the air.
Shu stood a few steps away, shotgun held tight against his chest, eyes scanning the surroundings the way Johnny had taught him—slow, deliberate, never lingering too long on one place.

Then he saw it.

Movement.

Not the twitchy, broken kind.

Something deliberate.

His breath caught.

“B–Big brother,” Shu whispered urgently, lifting the barrel slightly.

“I see someone. Over there. In that house."

Johnny followed his gaze instantly.
Across the road stood a half-collapsed house—one wall caved in, roof sagging, curtains fluttering weakly through shattered windows. From the outside, it looked dead.

Johnny narrowed his eyes.

“Good work,” he said quietly. “Could be trouble… or maybe just a few zombies inside.”

He glanced back toward the station. Rokuro and Takina were farther away, half-awake, half-bored.

Rokuro and Takina watched from a distance, their figures half-lost in shadow.

Rokuro squinted. “What are those two even doing?”

Takina stifled a yawn, rubbing at one eye.

“Beats me.” Her voice was flat, heavy with exhaustion. “At this point, as long as they’re not attracting attention, I don’t care.”

Rokuro huffed softly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Fair enough.”

Johnny looked back at Shu and said quietly.

“Let’s check it out. Keep it quiet. If it’s infected, we deal with it.”

Shu swallowed and nodded. “…Okay.”

Johnny adjusted his grip on his rifle.

“Stay behind me. No matter what.”

They crossed the road slowly, boots crunching softly over broken glass and scattered debris. Every sound felt too loud. Too final. The closer they got, the more the house seemed to loom over them—its windows black and empty, its doorway yawning open like a mouth that had already swallowed something alive.

Inside, the air was stale and heavy, thick with dust and rot.

A thin beam of light cut through the darkness, revealing furniture overturned as if the house itself had been shaken in panic. A couch lay on its side. A dining chair was snapped clean in half. Broken picture frames littered the floor, their glass shattered, faces beneath scratched and unrecognizable.

This had been a family home once.

Now it felt hollow. Stripped. Wrong.

Johnny raised a fist.

They stopped instantly.

He swept the first room with his rifle, slow and methodical, breath controlled.

Empty.

They moved on.

The kitchen was worse. Cabinets hung open, ripped from their hinges. Plates lay smashed across the tiles, mixed with something darker that had long since dried. The sink was rusted brown, water stains clawing down the wall like fingers.

Nothing moved.

Then Shu froze.

On the far wall, above what used to be the dining table, a family portrait hung crooked.

Someone had taken their time with it.
Four smiling faces—mother, father, two children—had been smeared over with dried blood. Thick strokes crossed their eyes. Their mouths were carved into long, dripping lines, as if forced into screaming grins. Handprints stained the frame, small ones overlapping larger ones, dragged downward like someone had tried to pull themselves free.

The blood was old.

Up the narrow hallway—

Shu’s heartbeat thundered in his ears.

“I don’t hear anything,” Shu whispered.
Johnny frowned slightly. “Doesn’t mean we’re alone.”

They checked the last room.

Nothing.

Johnny exhaled slowly and let out a small, relieved smile.

“False alarm,” he said. “Glad we didn’t run into any zombies. You did the right thing—”

Something slammed into Shu.

Hard.

Shu gasped as he was thrown backward, the shotgun nearly slipping from his hands. A blond guy crashed into him, knocking them both to the floor.

“HEY—!” Shu shouted, panic surging as hands grabbed at his jacket.

They rolled, struggling. Shu tried to shove him off, heart racing, muscles burning.

“I’m not infected!” the blond guy snapped breathlessly. “Relax, kid!”

Before Johnny could even turn—
Pain exploded in his stomach.

A sharp impact knocked the air from his lungs as a girl tackled him from the side, driving the butt of a sniper rifle straight into his abdomen.

Johnny dropped to one knee with a grunt, rifle slipping from his grip.

The girl pressed the barrel toward him, breathing hard. “Don’t move, we don’t want trouble.”

Johnny clenched his jaw, forcing himself upright—

She lost her footing.

The floorboards gave way slightly, and she tumbled forward.

Right onto him.

They hit the ground together.

For a split second, everything froze.

The girl blinked down at him, blonde hair falling loose from under her hood. Their faces were way too close. Her cheeks flushed despite herself.

“…Uh,” she muttered.

Johnny stared back at her, stunned more by the absurdity than the pain. “…Get off me!”

Outside—

Rokuro squinted toward the house. “Why do I feel like something stupid just happened?”

Takina yawned again. “If you jinx it—”

A shout echoed from inside.

Rokuro’s eyes widened. “Yep. Stupid.”

They sprinted.

Rokuro burst through the doorway just in time to see Shu struggling beneath the blond guy.

“Nope,” Rokuro said cheerfully.

He kicked the blond guy square in the ribs.

The guy yelped and rolled away, coughing. “OW—WHAT THE HELL?!”

Rokuro grabbed Shu’s arm and hauled him up. “You okay, kid?”

Shu nodded shakily. “…I think so.”

Meanwhile—

Takina reached Johnny just as the girl scrambled up, raising her sniper again in a panic.

Takina didn’t hesitate.

She stepped in and punched her—clean, controlled, straight to the jaw.

The girl hit the floor with a surprised grunt, weapon clattering away.

Silence crashed down.

Everyone froze.

The blond guy slowly raised his hands, coughing.

“Okay! Okay! Time out! No biting! No shooting! No—whatever that was!”

Shu stared at them, still shaking. “You… you’re not zombies.”

Johnny pushed himself up, rubbing his stomach with a wince.

“No,” he said dryly. “They’re not.”

The girl groaned from the floor, holding her jaw. “You didn’t have to hit me that hard…”

Takina looked down at her. “You tackled him.”

"Fair.."

Rokuro looked between them all, a crooked grin tugging at his face despite the tension still hanging in the air.

“Hold on…”

Shu took a shaky breath and stepped forward, eyes flicking between the blond guy and the black-haired girl. His voice wavered, but he pushed through it.

“Are you two… surviving too?”

The blond guy winced as he shifted, one hand still pressed to his side. “Yeah. Barely,” he said with a weak laugh.

“We’ve been watching you for a while—ever since you showed up to fuel the truck.”

He glanced at the weapons, then back at them.

“Honestly, we were relieved to see other people. Just… scared. You all had guns.”

Shu’s shoulders eased a little.

“It’s okay,” he said quickly. “We’re good guys. Just trying to stay alive like everyone else.”

Rokuro stepped forward without hesitation and held out his hand to the blond guy.

“Hey—yeah, uh… sorry about kicking you there.”

The blond guy hesitated, then took it, gripping tightly as Rokuro helped him steady himself.

Takina moved next, offering her hand to the girl. Her tone was calm, sincere.

“Me too. We thought you might be… trouble.”

The girl blinked, then let out a quiet breath she’d clearly been holding.

“Can’t blame you,” she said softly, taking Takina’s hand. “We thought the same.”

Johnny studied them for a moment, then gave a small nod toward the open space outside.

“Why don’t we talk out there,” he said evenly. “You can come with us.”

The blond guy nodded immediately. The girl followed, hesitating only a second before stepping into the open.

Outside, the truck idled softly. Shimon stood near it, wiping his hands on his jacket—his job done. The diesel tank was full, and several fuel cans sat lined up beside the truck, heavy and precious.

When he looked up and saw the two strangers, he froze.

“…I can’t believe it,” Shimon said quietly. His eyes moved over them as if afraid they might vanish.

“Other people. Surviving.” He swallowed. “You’re the first ones I’ve seen. Besides us.”

No one rushed him. The moment deserved space.

They climbed into the truck and sat there together for a while, letting the engine’s low rumble settle their nerves. Takina gently shook Chisato awake, who blinked in confusion before noticing the unfamiliar faces. Aria stirred too, pulling her jacket tighter around herself.

They formed a loose circle on the truck bed, moonlight spilling over them like a fragile shield.

The blond guy cleared his throat.

“I’m Garfiel,” he said. “And… this is my sister. Rebecca.”

He glanced at her. "I call her by nickname Delta.”

Chisato tilted her head, curiosity bright in her eyes. “Delta? Why Delta?”

Garfiel chuckled softly.

“Oh, it’s nothing special,” he said, waving it off. “She uses a sniper, never misses. One clean shot every time. I just started calling her that—and it kind of stuck.”

Delta raised her hand and gave a small, awkward wave, her fingers barely lifting. A shy smile tugged at her lips as she glanced around the circle, not quite used to the attention yet.

For a moment, she said nothing.

Then she took a breath—and began.

“It happened fast,” Delta said quietly.

“Too fast for anyone to understand what was going on.”

She folded her arms, fingers digging into her sleeves.

“At first, it was just the news. Riots. Sick people. Attacks. Our parents told us not to panic. Dad said it’d blow over. Mom stocked food anyway. Just in case.”
Her lips twitched at the memory. “She was always like that.”

Garfiel lowered his head, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Then one night,” Delta continued, voice thinning, “the screaming started. Down the street. Then closer.”

She swallowed. “Dad went outside to help someone. He didn’t even make it past the gate.”

No one interrupted.

“We heard him yell our names,” she said. “Just once.”

Her voice broke—but she kept going.

“Mom told us to run. She pushed us toward the back door, grabbed a kitchen knife like it could actually do something.”

Delta’s hands trembled now. “She told us not to look back.”

Garfiel squeezed his eyes shut.

“We did anyway,” Delta whispered. “I saw them pull her down. I saw—” She stopped, breath hitching. “I don’t remember anything after that. Not clearly.”

Silence pressed in.

“When I came back to myself,” she said, “we were hiding in a storage shed two streets away. Garfiel was shaking. He wouldn’t stop apologizing. He kept saying he should’ve been stronger.”

She reached over and rested a hand on his shoulder. “He is just a kid.”

Garfiel wiped his face with his sleeve.

“We stayed there for days,” he muttered.

“No food. No water. Just listening. We learned how to survive the hard way. We went out at dawn—early mornings, when things were calmer. Looked for food, water… anything. We figured out which sounds meant trouble and which ones meant run. Sometimes we had to stay completely still for hours. Not breathing. Not blinking. Just listening to them shuffle past.”

His voice dropped. “We slept in shifts. Ate less. Told ourselves hunger was better than being heard.”

“We lost count of how many times we almost didn’t make it,” Delta said. “But somehow… we kept going.”

Her gaze lifted, meeting the group’s eyes one by one.

“We didn’t survive because we were strong. We survived because we didn’t give up on each other.”

No one spoke.

Even the truck seemed quieter.

Aria reached out without thinking, gently rubbing her hand along Delta’s arm. The touch was light, careful—an offer, not a demand.

“You’re not alone anymore,” she said softly.

Delta’s breath hitched, and she nodded, blinking hard.

Garfiel cleared his throat, nerves written all over his face. “We were actually… wondering,” he said, glancing at his sister before looking back at the group, “if we could go with you. It’s been really hard—just the two of us.”

For a moment, no one answered.

Then Shu smiled, easy and genuine. “Of course. Why not?”

Delta’s eyes widened. “You really wouldn’t mind?”

Chisato grinned, stretching her arms as if the decision were the simplest thing in the world.

“We won’t. Honestly, the more the merrier.”

Relief washed over Delta’s face, her shoulders sagging as the tension finally drained out of her. Garfiel let out a shaky laugh, pressing his forehead briefly against his hands.

Johnny smiled at them, a real one this time—soft, reassuring.

“You two are safe now.”

The words settled in, quiet but powerful.
Johnny climbed into the passenger seat like he always did, settling in with practiced ease.

Shimon took the wheel, hands steady as he shifted gears. The truck rumbled forward, tires crunching over broken pavement before merging onto the highway once more—Tokyo waiting somewhere ahead, unseen but finally within reach.

Inside the truck, the tension slowly loosened.

Shu rummaged through her backpack and pulled out an old shirt and a pair of jeans, folded with care despite the wear. She hesitated for a second, then held them out.

“Garfiel… here. You can have these.”

Garfiel stared at the clothes like they were something precious. “You sure?” he asked quietly.

Shu nodded, smiling. “Yeah. They’ll fit you better than me anyway.”

Takina followed suit, opening her own pack and taking out a simple dress. She offered it to Delta with a small, almost shy smile.

“Here. I think you’d look cute in this.”

Delta’s hands trembled as she took it. “Really?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Takina nodded. “Really.”

Garfiel and Delta exchanged a look, then both smiled—wide, genuine, the kind that came from relief rather than happiness alone.

The truck rolled on beneath the moonlight, carrying more than just survivors now.

It carried hope.