Artie Candless knew that he was a solitary island in a sea of the damned. The world, vibrant and bustling just months prior, now groaned under the weight of the Change, a virus that had painted the streets red with the blood of the living turned undead. They were everywhere, the Changed, their vacant eyes burning with a hunger that only human flesh could sate. Everyone, it seemed, had succumbed to the plague of mindless, murderous rage, everyone except Artie, his wife Cherry, and their son Mickey. They were the anomalies, the immune, adrift in a world gone mad.

His existence had narrowed, his universe shrinking to the four walls of their barricaded home and the perilous forays beyond. His days were a relentless cycle of care, vigilance, and brutal, necessary violence. There was no reasoning with the Changed, no cure, only the cold, swift severing of the head. That was the only silence they understood. His arsenal, grim necessities in this new reality, consisted of a gleaming katana, liberated from a hushed museum exhibit, and a collection of wickedly sharp machetes, scavenged from the dusty shelves of a long-shuttered pawn shop. Zombie Exterminator – the title tasted like ash in his mouth, but it was the truth.

He pushed the overloaded shopping cart down the deserted main street, the plastic wheels rattling against the cracked asphalt. Canned goods clinked against boxed cereals, a mundane symphony in an unmundane world. The local superstore, once a beacon of consumerism, had been an eerie, silent treasure trove, its shelves still stocked, untouched by the gnashing teeth and grasping hands. But the ease of acquisition was a deceptive calm before the storm. Artie felt it in the air, a subtle shift in the oppressive silence, a prickling on the back of his neck. The attack was coming. It always did. They were drawn to sound, to the scent of the living, and he was a walking, breathing beacon in their dead world, a mobile feast on wheels.

He gripped the handle of the katana, its familiar weight a small comfort. The sun beat down on the empty streets, amplifying the silence, a silence that felt pregnant with menace. A flicker of movement in a darkened storefront. Artie’s senses sharpened. He scanned the shadows, his eyes missing nothing. A low moan, guttural and hungry, drifted on the stagnant air. The hunt had begun.

Rounding a corner, he saw them – a shambling trio emerging from an alleyway, their movements jerky and uncoordinated, their eyes fixed on the cart, on him. One wore the tattered remains of a police uniform, another a stained hospital gown, the third a child’s bright yellow raincoat, now smeared with grime. No trace of the people they once were remained, only the insatiable hunger.

“Not today, you devils,” Artie growled under his breath, his grip tightening on the katana. The cart became his shield, a temporary barrier against their decaying forms. He shifted his weight, preparing to move, to strike. The katana hissed as he drew it from its scabbard, the polished steel gleaming in the harsh sunlight.

The closest zombie lunged, its arms outstretched, its jaw snapping. Artie sidestepped with a practiced ease that belied the terror of their situation. The katana flashed in a swift arc, a whisper of steel through the air, as if it remembered the hands of the original samurai who once held it. The zombie’s head lolled, detached, before hitting the ground with a sickening thud. The body continued its momentum for a step, then crumpled.

The other two surged forward, their moans rising in pitch. Artie used the momentum of the cart to his advantage, shoving it forward into the stumbling form of the hospital-gowned zombie, sending it sprawling. He turned his attention to the one in the yellow raincoat, smaller but no less deadly. It scrabbled at the cart, its tiny, bloodied hands reaching. Artie brought the machete, which he had drawn with his free hand, down in a precise, brutal chop. Another head rolled.

The hospital zombie was struggling to rise. Artie didn’t hesitate. He kicked the cart aside and moved with a speed born of desperation and practice. The katana sang again, a deadly melody in the deserted street. Another clean decapitation.

He stood for a moment, panting, the silence returning, broken only by his ragged breaths and the soft thud of the severed heads. The cart had tipped in the chaos. He righted it, his gaze sweeping the surrounding buildings, ensuring no more of the cans rolled into the gutter. He retrieved them carefully, checking each label, brushing off grime.

The adrenaline began to recede, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. This was his life now – a constant fight for survival, a desperate trek to bring home the meager comforts that kept Cherry and Mickey alive. He thought of their faces, Cherry’s worried smile, Mickey’s innocent eyes, and a fresh wave of determination surged through him. He had to get these groceries home. They were counting on him.

He pushed the cart again, the weight now feeling heavier, the journey longer. Every shadow held a potential threat, every silence a pregnant pause before the next attack. He knew they would come again. They always did. But he would be ready. For Cherry. For Mickey. He was Artie Candless, and in this broken world, he was their protector, their provider, their Zombie Exterminator, one decapitation at a time. His fighting trek continued, the rattling cart a small beacon of hope in the desolate landscape.

He turned the corner, only a half a block to go, a five-story building with steel grates covering the windows. They had chosen the basement apartment as it was the most easily defended.

Cherry stood there, at the top of the stairs that descended to their home, shotgun in hand, flannel sleeves rolled up. Her face broke into a smile when she saw him.

Behind her, Mickey darted out, wearing his dad’s old baseball cap and wielding a Nerf sword wrapped in duct tape.

“DAD! You made it!”

Artie grinned, sweat dripping down his face.

“I told you,” he said, dragging the cart up the steps, “just a walk to the store and back.”

Cherry rolled her eyes. “Covered in blood again, huh?”

“Comes with the job.”

Mickey peeked into the cart and gasped. “Is that mac and cheese?! With the cheese powder?!”

Artie tousled his hair. “Only the finest gourmet.”

They pulled the cart inside and bolted the door.

Another day survived.

Another dinner earned.

***

Two figures in white lab coats watched Artie’s progress on their array of screens. They then turned their attention to the still form of Arthur Candless, who lay prone on the sterile hospital bed, a network of tubes and wires connecting him to humming machines.

“We’ve finally mapped the delusion that drove his violent outburst,” the man said quietly. “We now have a clearer understanding of the aberration that propelled him into that violent assault.”

The woman nodded, her gaze fixed on the monitors. “The positive aspect is that the two individuals he attacked and injured are expected to make a full recovery,” she stated. A note of concern entered her voice as she added, “However, I am far less certain about his prognosis.”