A smile—simple to understand, yet strangely potent. Even a polite smile to a stranger often earns goodwill, lifting moods even when spirits are low. Why is that? For women, a smile can project allure, even those not conventionally attractive become captivating when they smile. For men, a smile can forge connections.
At exactly nine o'clock, Liam glanced at his watch once more, then stepped out of the bathroom, a smile playing on his lips as if genuinely pleased.
Knock, knock, knock.
He approached the lounge door and knocked. He wasn't Manila, barging in unannounced might earn him a bullet from Andrew.
Everyone in the living room watched Liam, his smile as he knocked seeming suspicious. Though deceptive, his smile fooled them all. What mindset allowed Liam to face Andrew with a smile, especially after his companion had been with him?
Inside the lounge, there was a thud, like something heavy falling—perhaps Andrew stumbled getting out of bed. Soon, the door opened. Andrew, gun in hand, looked out, his face flushed with excitement, eyes slightly unfocused, a bit dazed.
"What is it?" Andrew asked, grabbing Liam's shirt and pulling him close, their faces inches apart. "If you're bothering me for no reason, I'll break your legs," he snarled. Clearly, the drugs had taken hold. In this state, he was capable of anything.
"Well…" Liam feigned fear, raising his hands in a placating gesture, a slight, ingratiating smile on his face. "Andrew, don't be upset. I know where we can get some guns, easy pickings."
"Really?" Andrew blinked hard; the drugs blurred his vision, but he retained some awareness, his criminal instincts still alert.
"Yes… maybe we could discuss it inside?" Liam suggested, stepping sideways into the lounge, hands still raised to show he meant no harm, eyes fixed on Andrew, his smile humble.
Liam embodied the demeanor of someone seeking alliance, his deceptive smile convincing Andrew, who released his grip, rubbed his eyes, shook his head, and closed the lounge door behind them.
Outside, the moans of zombies continued, a chilling backdrop. The oppressive atmosphere in the living room intensified after Liam entered the lounge and the door shut.
Old Mike and Laura exchanged uneasy glances. If Liam truly allied with Andrew, life would become even harder for the rest, possibly reducing them to slaves.
"Oh, God…" Jack clasped his hands over his chest, gritting his teeth, then turned to Manila, sitting in the corner. "What's going on with him?"
Manila, slumped against the wall, removed the cigarette from her mouth, ran a hand through her disheveled hair, and, eyes vacant, shook her head. "I don't know."
Christine, sitting opposite Mike and Laura, suddenly stood, her face pale, and walked over to Manila, sitting beside her. She extended two fingers toward Manila's cigarette.
"Can I have a puff?" Christine asked, her eyes sorrowful. She knew her ordeal wasn't over and would soon resume. Manila couldn't protect her for long.
Without a word, Manila handed her the cigarette. Christine, likely smoking for the first time, coughed after a few puffs. Manila took the cigarette back, patting her back.
"I'm fine," Christine said, reclaiming the cigarette and taking another drag. Manila didn't stop her. In this world, who cared about age restrictions on smoking or drinking? Laura noticed but said nothing.
In this clothing store dubbed "Dream House," on the second floor, two people sat on the floor, leaning against the wall—a woman disheartened by constant disappointment and a girl saddened by a bleak future—sharing a cigarette in silence.
From the lounge came some noises, then silence. No one knew what was happening inside, perhaps they were discussing plans.
Inside the lounge.
The windows were tightly shut to keep out the stench from outside. The air was thick with the scent of bodily fluids. A small bed, a cabinet, a TV—that was all the room held. The floor was littered with food wrappers, used tissues, and condoms.
The bed creaked softly, movements barely audible beyond the room. Initially, there were muffled sounds, then silence.
Drip.
Bright red liquid dripped from the bed, splattering on the floor. Drip. Drip. More blood flowed, forming a growing puddle. The metallic scent of blood quickly permeated the air.
"Phew," Liam exhaled, sitting atop Andrew. Beneath him, Andrew lay motionless, eyes wide in terror, lifeless.
A deep gash, eight centimeters long, severed a quarter of Andrew's neck, cutting through the artery, blood gushing like a fountain.
Andrew's chest bore numerous deep, two-centimeter-wide wounds, his organs shredded. His tattered shirt soaked in blood. A fifteen-centimeter scalpel protruded from his left chest, only the seven-centimeter handle visible.
His right hand, resting on the bed's edge, had a clean puncture through the back—another precise strike from the scalpel. On the floor beside the bed lay the handgun he had once used to threaten and control others.
Liam's shirt was soaked, his face splattered, even his mouth tainted with Andrew's blood. His eyes remained steady. He slowly lifted his left hand from Andrew's slack jaw, spat out a mouthful of blood-mixed saliva, wiped his face, and then gripped the scalpel's handle. As he pulled it free, another narrow arc of blood sprayed into the air.
He stepped down from the bed, stumbled slightly before steadying himself. His body had pushed itself to the edge. Bending, he picked up Andrew's handgun, removed the magazine, checked it, reloaded, and tucked it into the back of his waistband.
With the scalpel still in hand, and drenched nearly head to toe in blood, Liam sniffed once and moved toward the door.
No one would've guessed this outcome—Andrew dead, and Liam the one who killed him. His reasons, on the surface, seemed clear enough: Christine's suffering, his own rage. But the truth went deeper. Liam had judged Andrew as a threat—unstable, selfish, dangerous. The kind of man who'd sell anyone out for his own survival. Liam couldn't afford that kind of liability, not while stuck here. If he hadn't been sure of killing Andrew in one move, he would've played along longer. But Andrew had handed him the opportunity, and Liam took it.
Still, buried beneath it all, there was something else—something Liam didn't want to name. And maybe it was that unspoken thing that had made him kill so mercilessly.
In the living room, the air was heavy, silent. Christine was on her second cigarette.
Click.
The lounge door creaked open, and slowly, the figure of a man drenched in blood appeared in the doorway. He stood there silently, looking out at the people in the living room, the scalpel still in his hand, his gaze calm and steady.