Rom-Com Zombie Apocalypse
Chapter 23: Not Getting Shot: A Survival Guide

Chapter 23: Not Getting Shot: A Survival Guide

The sniper’s bullet had left a jagged scar in the asphalt inches from my front tire. I could still feel the phantom heat of it searing my nerves. Behind us, the Jeep’s engine growled like a cornered animal, and Clara’s voice cut through the dust-choked air.

"We can’t sit here forever! The horde’s gonna catch up, and I’d rather not be zombie chow and target practice!"

Max squinted up at the billboard looming above us, its faded ad for a pre-apocalypse soda now peppered with bullet holes. "Sniper’s got the high ground. But if we can get closer, maybe we can—"

"Maybe we can get our heads blown off," Clara snapped. "Got a Plan B?"

"I’ve got a plan," I announced, slamming my hands on the Jeep’s hood like a general rallying troops. "And it’s brilliant. Trust me, you’ll love it."

The group exchanged glances. Clara tilted her cracked sunglasses. "Define ’love it.’"

"Love it as in not dead," I said, grinning. "We’re gonna negotiate."

Max snorted. "With the sniper? The one currently using us for target practice?"

"Exactly!" I whipped out a crumpled map. "They’re human, right? Humans love... uh... diplomacy!"

Everyone looked at me with expectation.

I swallowed.

Yeah. No pressure.

****

Five minutes later...

We stood in the open road, hands raised, my makeshift "white flag" flapping limply. It was a sad excuse for a truce offering—just Max’s white T-shirt tied to a broomstick.

Crickets chirped in the distance.

Clara sighed. "Remind me which part of this plan we’re supposed to love?"

"The not getting shot part," I hissed, grinning nervously at the billboard. "See? They’ve stopped firing! Progress!"

A whistle cut through the silence—sharp, mocking. Two figures emerged from the rubble, rifles slung casually over their shoulders. The taller one had a buzzcut and a leather jacket covered in ironic cartoon patches (Bite Me beside a zombie unicorn). His partner, leaner and smirking, wore a scarf that matched his partner’s jacket and sleeves rolled to show tattoos of interlocking gears. They moved in sync, shoulders brushing, eyes narrowed but amused.

"State your names," Buzzcut ordered, voice smooth. "And your purpose."

Elliot crossed his arms. "You first. We’re the ones with the flag."

Scarf Guy raised his rifle and fired at Elliot’s feet. Elliot yelped, jumping back into Lila, who shoved him upright. "We ask," Scarf Guy said, blowing imaginary smoke from the barrel. "You answer. Got it, princess?"

Buzzcut smirked, thumb hooking into his partner’s belt loop. "Play nice, Jax. They’ve got spunk."

I cleared my throat. "We’re just passing through! No raiding, no looting, definitely no burning camps. We’re more of a... zombie-whacking hobby group."

Jax’s gaze flicked to Alex’s crowbar, Jake’s bent sword, and Lila’s zombie-gunk-coated wiper. "Cute. Why’s the bike girl sweating like she’s hiding a grenade?"

"That’s just her face," Max said cheerfully.

I elbowed him. "We’re looking for supplies! And maybe a safe route north. That’s it."

The two men shared a look—lingering, loaded—before Buzzcut stepped forward. "Name’s Cole. This is Jax. You’re in our zone. Rules are simple: hand over your weapons, and maybe we don’t feed you to the horde."

Alex, who had been quietly studying them, tilted her head. Her eyes flickered between Cole’s grip on Jax’s belt loop, the matching gear patches, the way Jax’s thumb absently brushed Cole’s wrist as he reloaded.

A slow smirk spread across her face. "You two aren’t just partners," she said, voice dripping with deliberate casualness. "You’re partners. Like, anniversary-gifts-and-shared-toothbrushes partners."

The air went still. Jax’s finger froze on his rifle’s trigger. Cole’s stern mask slipped—just for a heartbeat—into something startled, almost boyish.

Then he barked a laugh, rough but genuine, and slung his gun over his shoulder. "Damn. Three years running, and nobody’s ever called us out mid-ambush."

Jax’s smirk softened into something real. He leaned into Cole’s space, shoulder nudging his partner’s. "What gave us away? The matching scarves? The fact he’s still wearing my dog tags?"

He hooked a finger under Cole’s collar, flashing a chain of military IDs—one stamped JAXON VALE, the other COLE RIGGS

My jaw dropped. Elliot mouthed dog tags?! behind Lila’s back.

Alex shrugged, but her grin was razor-sharp. "Nah. The way you both literally just mirrored each other’s eyebrow raises. It’s... adorable."

Cole snorted, but his posture relaxed, the tension bleeding out of him. "Alright, hotshot. You’ve stroked our egos. What’s the play here?"

I stammered, still recovering from the sudden shift in tone. "Uh... safe passage? Maybe some supplies?"

Jax waved a hand. "Sorry about the whole shooting-at-you thing. We got raided last night, and, well... you can’t be too careful these days."

Cole nodded, his voice softer now. "Yeah, we’ve been on edge. But you guys seem... harmless enough."

Elliot scoffed. "Harmless? We just took down a zombie wrestler."

Cole snapped his head toward us. "Wrestler? Wait..." His eyes widened. "By any chance, do you guys mean Big Tony?"

Jax let out a low whistle. "No way. You’re the ones who took out Big Tony?" His tone was somewhere between shock and admiration. "That guy was a legendary class zombie."

"More like a nightmare," Clara muttered, adjusting her cracked sunglasses.

Cole clapped his hands. "Alright, enough chit-chat. Let’s get you to camp. We’ve got some supplies you can have—consider it an apology for the whole ’almost killing you’ thing."

As we followed Cole and Jax, I leaned over to Max and whispered, "That was surprisingly easy. Alex is a genius."

Max grinned. "Yeah, who knew flirting with the scary guys would work?"

"It’s not flirting," Alex snapped, though she looked pleased with herself.

The path to their camp wound through a canyon of collapsed storefronts, Jax and Cole leading the way with the ease of men who’d memorized every crack in the pavement.

"Step where I step," Jax called over his shoulder, kicking a rusted hubcap aside. "Unless you wanna lose a foot to Cole’s party favors."

"They’re tripwires, not favors," Cole grumbled, but there was pride in the way he gestured to a nearly invisible filament stretched across the road. "Pressure-sensitive. Triggers a noise grenade two blocks east—lures biters away from the camp. Genius, right?"

"My design," Jax stage-whispered, winking at Lila.

The group fell into an uneasy rhythm. Clara lingered at the rear, hand never leaving her holstered wrench, while Max pestered Cole with questions about the traps. By the third "How’d you jury-rig the detonator?", even Jax was laughing.

"You’re worse than the newbies we had last spring," Jax said, swatting Cole’s arm. "Remember that kid who tried to pet the zombified raccoon?"

"’It looked friendly!’" Cole pitched his voice high, clutching his chest in mock anguish. The story unraveled from there—a tale of chaos, a ruined supply run, and Jax hauling Cole to safety by his belt loops.

Jax even offered Lila his scarf when she complained about the cold. "Here," he said, unwinding it from his neck. "Don’t say I never gave you anything."

"So," I said, trying to keep up with their rapid banter, "you guys been together long?"

"Three years," Cole said proudly. "Met in a pre-apocalypse coffee shop. He spilled his latte on my jacket, and I knew he was the one."

Jax rolled his eyes. "You wish it was that romantic. You tripped over my dog."

"Same thing," Cole said, grinning.

By the time we reached the camp, we were all laughing along with them. The camp itself was a surprisingly cozy setup, with string lights, a makeshift barricade, and even a small garden.

"Welcome to Fort Caffeine," Jax said, gesturing grandly. "We’ve got food, water, and the best zombie traps this side of the apocalypse."

I looked around, impressed. "This is... actually kind of nice."

Cole handed me a can of energy drink. "Here. Consider it a peace offering."

I popped it open, taking a sip. "Thanks. And, uh, sorry about the whole ’standing in the middle of the road with a flag’ thing."

Jax waved it off. "Eh, it was cute. Now, let’s get you guys settled. And don’t touch the traps—they’re my babies."

As the group relaxed, I leaned back, watching Cole and Jax bicker over who got to show off their latest zombie trap design. Mid-argument, Jax suddenly paused, squinting at Max and Clara.

"Hold up," he said, tilting his head. "You two look... off. Like, really pale. And Clara, your eye’s kinda... poppin’ out?"

Cole snapped his fingers. "Right! I thought it was the lighting earlier. You guys sick or something?"

Max and Clara exchanged a glance. Clara shrugged, her left eye twitching unnaturally. "It’s a long story," Max said, scratching the back of his neck. "Actually... we’re zombies. But, like, smart ones. Don’t worry, we don’t eat brains. Just... a lot of canned tuna."

Jax blinked. "Zombies. Smart zombies."

"Yep," Clara said, her voice dry. "Woke up like this last Tuesday. No idea why. One minute we’re normal, the next we’re undead geniuses."

Cole stared, then burst out laughing. "Of course. Apocalypse bingo just got weirder."

Jax shook his head, grinning. "Alright, smart zombies. Just don’t set off the traps. They’re calibrated for the dumb kind."

Max saluted. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

As the group settled back into their banter, I turned to Max, lowering my voice. "Well," I said, "this turned out better than expected."

Max raised his energy drink can, his pale fingers curling around the tab. "To not getting shot or exorcised."

"To not getting shot," I echoed, clinking my can against his.