Zavier's Guide to Not Being Eaten

Chapter 3: A Quest for Canned Peaches

"Three! Four! Five! I’m coming for you, Optimizer!" Maine’s voice echoed off the rooftop vents, sounding far more athletic than Zavier felt.

"Wait! Wait! Truce! Tactical truce!" Zavier screamed, his boots skidding on the gravel as he reached the half-broken door of the Bistro. He didn't go inside. Instead, he spun around, holding his phone up like a white flag. "I have a mini-map! Maine, I have a literal HUD! You can’t kill the only guy with GPS!"

Maine skidded to a halt five feet away, her cleaver held in a professional low-guard. Her face was flushed, a bead of sweat tracing a path through the dried blood on her forehead. "A map? You expect me to believe your phone suddenly turned into a satellite array?"

"Look! Just look!" Zavier thrust the screen forward, keeping his arm fully extended so she couldn't reach his throat. "See those red dots? Those are the 'Shufflers' in the parking lot. See that blue blinking thing? That’s us! And look at the alleyway behind the Bistro—it’s clear. Mostly clear."

Maine squinted at the neon-green interface. A small, digitized map of the 'Quick-Stop & Bistro Complex' was pulsing on the screen. Small red triangles were clustered at the front entrance, but a thin green line highlighted a path through the kitchen and out toward the delivery docks.

"Why is the line sparkling?" Maine asked, her voice dropping from 'murderous' to 'deeply suspicious.'

"Because the app has flair?" Zavier suggested, his voice trembling. "And look, it’s labeled you as 'Party Member: Muscle.' It’s a promotion from Meat Shield! See? We’re a team!"

[ Correction: 'Muscle' is a sub-class of 'Meat Shield', ] the app chirped, its voice loud and clear in the morning air. [ Current status: Symbiotic Parasitism. Zavier provides the directions; Maine provides the survival. ]

Maine stared at the phone for a long, silent beat. Then she looked at Zavier. "It called you a parasite."

"It’s a very cynical app, Maine! It’s probably programmed by a disgruntled tech bro who hates his life!" Zavier shoved the phone into his pocket. "But it’s right about the path. If we stay on this roof, they’ll eventually find the ladder. We need to get to the warehouse district. More space, more supplies, fewer... well, fewer of those." He pointed vaguely toward the shambling crowd below.

Maine wiped her cleaver on her apron, a slow, deliberate motion. "Fine. You’re the GPS. But if that green line leads me into a dead end, I’m using your tactical backpack as a stepping stone. Do we understand each other?"

"Crystal. Loud and clear. I am the GPS. I am the way-finder," Zavier muttered, stepping into the dark interior of the Bistro’s upper storage room. "Just... stay close. The app says there are two 'Class-1 Anomalies' in the walk-in fridge downstairs."

"Class-1? You mean waiters?" Maine stepped past him, her boots silent on the linoleum.

"Probably. They were likely holding trays of mimosas when the world ended," Zavier whispered, following her down the narrow service stairs. "Do you think they still expect a tip?"

"If they bite you, that’s a hundred percent gratuity," Maine snapped. "Stay quiet. The kitchen is a maze of stainless steel. Everything echoes."

They reached the bottom of the stairs. The kitchen was a nightmare of half-prepped brunch. Smashed eggs coated the floor, and the smell of burnt bacon hung heavy in the air. At the far end of the prep line, a heavy metal door was thumping rhythmically. Thump. Thump. Thump.

"That the fridge?" Maine whispered, gripping her cleaver.

"Yeah. My map says they’re inside," Zavier checked his phone. "Wait. The app is giving me an 'Optional Objective'."

"Ignore it," Maine commanded.

"It says 'Creative Combat: The Chariot of Chaos'. Reward is thirty points and a 'Basic Loot Box'." Zavier’s eyes widened. "Maine, I need points! I can buy an 'Orbital Strike' at fifty thousand! We could end the apocalypse!"

"We’re not ending the apocalypse with thirty points and a box of mystery junk," Maine hissed, grabbing him by the collar. "We’re leaving. Through the back door."

"But look!" Zavier pointed to a line of heavy-duty plastic shopping carts near the delivery entrance, used for hauling bulk supplies. "The app wants us to use the 'Lace Protocol' with the cart. If we tie the cart to the delivery door handle and shove it down the ramp, it’ll create a distraction for the 'Shufflers' in the alley!"

Maine looked at the carts, then at the alley door. "That’s actually... not the worst idea you’ve had. It would draw them away from the warehouse path."

"Right? I’m a strategist! An optimizer!" Zavier scrambled over to the carts, his fingers flying as he unlaced his right boot again. "I’ll use the tactical nylon lace! It’s rated for five hundred pounds!"

"Why do you keep taking your shoes off in a zombie outbreak?" Maine groaned, keeping her eyes on the vibrating fridge door. "Just use the bungee cords on the rack, you idiot."

Zavier paused, his hand on his lace. "Oh. Right. Bungee cords. Very tactical."

He grabbed a set of cords and quickly rigged a shopping cart to the heavy internal handle of the delivery door. He loaded the cart with a stack of empty metal pans and a giant, gallon-sized jar of pickled peppers.

"On my signal," Zavier whispered, his heart drumming a frantic beat. "We open the door, shove the cart down the loading ramp, and run the opposite way toward the warehouse. The noise will pull every Shuffler within three blocks."

"And the ones in the fridge?" Maine asked, nodding toward the thumping door.

"The app says they’re 'Low Mobility'. We can outrun them," Zavier said, though his sweat suggested otherwise. "Okay. Three... two... one... LAUNCH!"

Maine threw the bolt on the delivery door. Zavier gave the cart a massive shove. The cart flew down the concrete ramp, its wheels screaming on the pavement. It hit the bottom with a deafening CLANG-CRASH, sending metal pans flying and the jar of peppers shattering like a spice-filled grenade.

Immediately, a chorus of guttural moans erupted from the shadows of the alley. The 'Shufflers'—a dozen figures in tattered clothing—turned as one and began stumbling toward the wreckage of the cart.

"It worked! Optimization complete!" Zavier cheered.

"Move, Optimizer!" Maine grabbed his arm, hauling him out the door and toward the opposite end of the alley.

They sprinted through the cool air, their shadows stretching long against the brick walls. The warehouse district loomed ahead—a forest of corrugated metal and loading bays. Zavier’s phone buzzed incessantly.

[ Objective Completed: The Chariot of Chaos. ]

[ Reward: 30 Survival Points. ]

[ Achievement Unlocked: 'Physics is My Only Friend'. ]

[ Loot Box Unlocked. Opening... ]

"Not now, app! Busy running!" Zavier panted.

"Into the warehouse! The side door is ajar!" Maine pointed toward a massive gray building labeled 'Sector 4 Distribution'.

They dove through the gap in the door, sliding across a dusty concrete floor. Maine immediately slammed the door shut and slid a heavy steel bar across the frame. Silence fell over them, thick and heavy, smelling of old grease and cardboard.

"We... we made it," Zavier wheezed, leaning his head against a stack of wooden pallets. "Map check. Map check."

He pulled out his phone. The green line had ended. They were in a massive, dark space filled with towering rows of industrial shelving.

"What does it say?" Maine asked, her voice echoing in the vast cavern of the warehouse. "Where’s the next 'safe zone'?"

Zavier frowned, tapping the screen. "The map is... it’s flickering. It says 'Data Corruption: High Density of Entities Detected'. Wait, why are there so many red dots?"

"How many?" Maine stepped closer, her eyes scanning the dark rafters above them.

"The screen is... it’s just turning red, Maine. It’s not dots anymore. It’s just a solid block of red," Zavier’s voice went thin. "App? Hey, App? Is this a glitch?"

[ Notification: Welcome to the 'End-of-Level Boss' Arena, ] the app chirped, its volume suddenly Maxed out. [ Warning: Noise levels have exceeded stealth thresholds. ]

"Zavier... what did you do?" Maine whispered, her grip tightening on the cleaver until her knuckles turned white.

"I didn't do anything! I just followed the sparkling line!" Zavier backed away, his backpack hitting a precarious tower of industrial-sized soup cans. "I was just—"

Creeeeeak.

Zavier froze. He looked up. The tower of cans was swaying.

"Don't move," Maine hissed. "Don't even breathe."

A single, tiny drop of sweat fell from Zavier’s nose. He twitched.

The tower gave way.

CLANG. CLANG. CRASH. BOOM.

The sound of five hundred cans of 'Hearty Beef Stew' hitting the concrete floor sounded like a series of explosions in the silent warehouse. The echoes bounced off the metal walls, amplifying the noise until it felt like the very ground was shaking.

Zavier stood in the middle of the carnage, a single can of soup rolling to a stop at his feet.

"Uh... tactical oops?" he squeaked.

Maine didn't answer. She was looking toward the back of the warehouse, where the shadows were thickest.

From the darkness came a sound. Not one groan. Not ten. It was a low, vibrating hum—the sound of a thousand dry throats catching air at the same time. It was a tidal wave of hunger, vibrating through the floorboards and up into Zavier’s teeth.

The app’s screen flashed bright, angry crimson.

[ New Objective: Don't Get Eaten in the Next Five Minutes. ]

[ Difficulty: Impossible. ]

[ Advice: I’d suggest praying, but I don't think God has a high enough Survival Rank to help you now. ]

"Maine?" Zavier whispered, his phone slipping from his numb fingers and clattering onto a fallen can.

"Zavier?" Maine’s voice was deathly calm.

"Yeah?"

"If we die," Maine said, stepping in front of him and raising her cleaver, "I’m going to spend the afterlife kicking your tactical ass."

The first row of eyes caught the light—hundreds of milky, glowing orbs emerging from the darkness of the loading bays. The groaning intensified, a wall of sound that drowned out the world.

"Fair," Zavier whispered. "Totally fair."