Apocalypse: King of Zombies
Chapter 662 - 662: Of course they won’t

Lately, hordes of zombies had been pouring out of Solaris Citadel, wandering the wastelands with guttural, feral howls that echoed across the barren plains—each cry a desperate signal of hunger.

They were agitated, frenzied, driven by a gnawing need for flesh they couldn't find.

Days passed. Still nothing.

Even Dreadpaw himself had taken to the field, but it was no use.

Meanwhile, Ethan, Hank, and the rest of their crew had gone completely off the radar, hiding deep in the rugged mountains of the Exile Zone. They didn't react to the chaos outside at all. While the others starved and raged, they were happily sampling all kinds of meat they'd scavenged.

"No chickens?" Ethan frowned, rummaging through a pile of livestock remains. Not a single feather in sight. Not even anything close.

"Chickens? Uh… I don't think so…" Hank scratched his head, looking genuinely confused, like he'd never even heard of one.

"Maybe you'd find some in the center of the continent," he added after a beat. "The further in you go, the better the environment gets. I heard there are forests and rivers and everything."

Ethan raised an eyebrow. So the central region was richer in resources. Made sense. They were still stuck on the outer edge of the Exile Zone—dry, dead, and desolate.

"What's in the very center?" Ethan asked.

"No clue," Hank said with a sheepish shrug. "I'm just a fringe-zone zombie. Stuff like that's way above my pay grade."

But one thing was obvious: the deeper into the continent you went, the stronger the zombie hives got. How strong? No one really knew.

But that was a problem for later.

Right now, Ethan had his sights set on Dreadpaw. Step one: take him down, seize his hive, and establish a foothold.

He just had to wait a little longer—let them starve a few more days, let their strength drain away. Then he'd strike.

When the time came, he'd summon his old crew from Earth, call in a million-strong Zombie Horde, and wipe Dreadpaw off the map.

...

Seven days flew by.

Ethan and his crew stayed holed up in the Exile Zone, completely off the grid. Dreadpaw couldn't find them no matter how hard he looked.

Meanwhile, his own zombies were falling apart—literally.

Their howls grew more savage, more desperate. Some of the elite ones were starting to lose their minds.

Another week passed.

Their bodies began to rot. Chunks of flesh sloughed off, oozing thick, foul-smelling slime. Their energy reserves were gone.

Some of the lower-tier zombies couldn't even walk straight anymore. They'd stagger a few steps, then collapse and never get back up.

Then came the third week.

That's when the real horror started.

Some of the elite zombies snapped. They turned on their own, tackling fellow undead to the ground and tearing into their rotting flesh with wild, frenzied bites.

They'd lost all reason—completely feral now.

Dreadpaw's forces were crumbling. Over a hundred thousand zombies were gone, just like that.

Even some of the Zombie Kings were starting to crack.

"Seven days… seven days… and another seven days! Do you have any idea what this month has been like for me?!" one of the power-type Zombie Kings roared, his voice shaking with rage.

"Calm down! You have to stay focused!" another Zombie King tried to reason with him.

"But I can't find them! I've looked everywhere—I swear I've looked!" the first one shouted, practically tearing his own scalp out in frustration.

"Shut up!"

The voice came from the front—cold, sharp, and final.

Dreadpaw had been silent until now, but his growl cut through the chaos like a blade.

The Zombie Kings fell quiet immediately.

A female Zombie King stepped forward, her glowing eyes narrowing. "Boss, we can't keep going like this. The whole hive is on the verge of collapse."

"I know," Dreadpaw said, surprisingly calm for once. The usual fury in his voice was gone, replaced by something colder—more calculating.

It had been a month since they lost that meat. At this point, the chances of finding it were slim to none. Even if the others hadn't eaten it, the heat alone would've rotted it by now.

Dreadpaw's mind drifted to Hank's face. Damn, how he wanted to see that bastard again—figure out what the hell really happened.

"There's only one option left," he said finally. "We're gonna have to… 'borrow' from the other hives."

"Borrow?" one of the Zombie Kings echoed, eyes flashing.

They all knew what that meant.

"Borrow" was just a polite way of saying: take it by force.

They were in a full-blown crisis now. Life or death. If it meant going to war with the entire continent, so be it.

"Check the surrounding hives," Dreadpaw ordered. "See what their situation is. Maybe that 'Hank' is hiding in one of them."

"Yes, boss! We're on it!" the Zombie Kings responded in unison, ready to move out.

But just as they were about to leave—

Something unexpected happened.

Before Dreadpaw could make his move, the other hives made theirs.

Zombie Kings from neighboring hives were already on their way… heading straight for Solaris Citadel.

"Our livestock's gone missing! Was it you guys who stole it?!"

"And our—our Brutox and Razorback are gone too!"

"Wait, all of us lost our stock? What the hell is going on?"

"..."

A crowd of Zombie Kings had gathered outside Solaris Citadel, each one a brutal warlord in their own right. They'd risked their lives to come here, desperate for answers. Their hives were on the brink of collapse, and if they didn't act soon, they'd all be wiped out.

Dreadpaw stepped outside and scanned the group. A few of the faces were familiar—old rivals he'd clashed with before.

"You're saying your livestock disappeared too?"

"Damn right, Dreadpaw. Was this your doing?" one of them snapped, eyes glowing with suspicion.

Dreadpaw's rage flared instantly, but he held it back. Smashing this guy now wouldn't solve anything.

"Don't get it twisted. We lost ours too."

"What?" The Zombie Kings exchanged stunned looks. But thinking back to what they'd seen on the way here—Solaris Citadel's zombies, starving and half-mad—it checked out.

So the Zombie Kings started talking, trying to piece things together like a bunch of undead doctors at a plague conference.

"How much did you lose, Dreadpaw?"

"Nearly six hundred pigs… and…" Dreadpaw's voice trailed off, like each word was a stab to the heart.

"Oof…" one of the others nodded sympathetically. "That's a lot. We lost ten cows."

"We lost five hundred," Dreadpaw growled, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like his teeth might shatter.

"..." The other Zombie King broke into a cold sweat. Damn, that was brutal. He figured he should at least try to say something comforting.

"Hey, Dreadpaw, don't take it too hard. I heard some hives even lost their guard dogs."

Dreadpaw's brow furrowed deeper. His jaw twitched.

"That was me too."

"..."

The group fell silent. They'd come here thinking they were the ones suffering, but Dreadpaw? He was in a whole different league of screwed.

Dreadpaw looked around at them, his voice low but firm. "But I can tell you this—it's all connected to someone named Hank. If any of you find him, you might get to the bottom of this."

"Hank?"

"Him?!"

"..."

The name hit like a shockwave. Most of them had heard of Hank before. Now that they had a lead, they didn't hesitate.

This was life or death. No room for second-guessing.

And just like that, Hank became public enemy number one across the entire region. The search parties multiplied, and the hungry Zombie Hordes spread out even further.

Meanwhile, Hank and Ethan were still holed up in the mountains, lying low. But after a month, more and more zombies had started drifting in their direction.

"Boss, I don't think this place is safe anymore," Hank said nervously, glancing at the distant figures of wandering zombies. "Should we move somewhere else?"

"Nah, we're good," Ethan replied, totally unfazed.

"But… are you sure they won't find us?" Hank asked, his voice tight with worry.

Ethan just smirked. "Of course they won't. It's not like they even know what I look like…"

…