He inhaled a sharp, aggressive gasp of air, filling his lungs and snapping his eyes wide open—all in a single fraction of a second.

Dizziness hit him immediately, though he couldn’t say why. What he did know, with absolute certainty, was that he had never woken up feeling this disoriented in his entire life. And that was saying something, given the risky situations he’d survived since the world had fallen apart.

Junior found himself sprawled in the hallway of his caravan, his face pressed against the bathroom door. It took a monumental effort to push himself up, and even more to get to his feet, his legs trembling uncontrollably beneath him.

A metallic creaking sound filled the air, deeply unsettling. It wasn’t just one sound but a dreadful chorus of snapping and pounding noises, overlaid with sharp, high-pitched screeches.

The noise seemed to be coming from outside—or maybe inside. It echoed painfully in his ears. Whatever its source, Junior knew it couldn’t mean anything good.

His brain issued a command: Move. A simple enough task. Just take a step forward.

But instead of complying, his body betrayed him. His shoulder collided with the edge of the bathroom doorframe, and he tumbled forward, sprawling face-first onto the floor. As if that weren’t enough, his head grazed the opposite wall for good measure.

He groaned in pain, his hands gripping the oddly textured floor of the caravan to push himself up again. His wide, unsteady eyes scanned his surroundings until they landed on the hatch above his head.

“Hold up…” Junior mumbled, his foggy mind clinging to a phrase he rarely used but found oddly fitting. “This isn’t right.”

The realization came slowly, sluggishly, like his thoughts were wading through quicksand.

“I’m upside down!” he finally blurted, the memories crashing into him all at once.

The girl in his caravan. The newly discovered location of the Golden Nation. The escape from the Reaper zombie. The collision with that demonic tree—something he mentally vowed to name later. And finally, his blackout.

How much time had passed? Hours? Days? Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds? How could he possibly know?

Another metallic crunch snapped him back to the present, a grim reminder that things weren’t just bad—they were getting worse.

Through the window, he could see enormous, sinewy branches wrapping themselves around the caravan, squeezing and contorting it as though trying to crush it into scrap metal.

He needed to get out. Fast.

Carefully, he inched toward the door, but when he tried to peek outside, something blocked his way, forcing him to retreat.

Like the probing tentacles of a predatory octopus, the branches of the demonic tree began to invade the caravan. First, they coiled around any solid surface they could find. Then, new sprouts extended further, exploring untouched spaces with menacing intent.

Junior stole another glance outside—just a second—but it was enough to make his stomach drop.

“Is the caravan suspended in the air?”

Turning swiftly, he surveyed the interior. The bunk beds were toppled against the right wall, a mountain of belongings scattered chaotically across the floor. Fortunately, it didn’t take long for him to locate a small box of ammunition for his Beretta, which he shoved into the largest front pocket of his pants.

Adjusting the holster straps around his thigh, he glanced upward, searching for the hatch.

No luck.

“Of course!” he thought, the answer hitting him like a hammer. He wasn’t looking for the hatch in the floor, which was now above his head—the one he’d used to enter the caravan while escaping the Reaper. No, he needed the original hatch, the one installed by the manufacturer.

It should’ve been near a small ladder built into the wall by his bedroom. But since the caravan was upside down, it clearly wouldn’t be “up” anymore.

He looked down.

There it was.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Junior reached for the hatch’s handle and twisted it. Nothing happened. It barely budged.

“Couldn’t one thing go right today?”

He gritted his teeth and tried again. And again. And again.

Finally—

Clank!

The handle gave way, spinning wildly as all the effort he’d poured into it released at once. The hatch swung open with a resounding crash.

And without warning, Junior fell through.

Fortunately, the void he plunged into was only half a meter deep.

*****

"What’s this?" asked the young man in the wool cap, eyeing the sheet his companion had handed him.

"The winning lottery numbers. What do you think, Sheep? They’re coordinates."

Perhaps "Sheep" wasn’t the best nickname for a member of a ragtag quartet of wandering motorcyclists in a zombie apocalypse, but unfortunately, he wasn’t great at coming up with names for himself. He’d grown used to it over time.

Sheep shook his head in disbelief.

"Coordinates for what? And why are you giving them to me?"

"You know why, kid," replied the older man, his silhouette framed against the warm orange glow of a setting sun behind him.

The two sat on tree stumps, sharing what could be one of their last conversations. The warmth of a campfire flickered between them. Sheep, the young, inexperienced, and fearful disciple, faced Vanisher, his older, wiser, and enigmatic mentor.

"It cost us a good 'currency' to get this information," Vanisher continued. For motorcyclists like them, the only currency that truly mattered was fuel. "So, don’t even think about wasting it."

"You paid for this?" Sheep asked, stunned. "We agreed we wouldn’t go to any nation. You were the one who said it was an obvious trap."

"I’m getting old, kid. Opinions change. Besides, I have it from a reliable source that all those promises the Golden Nation broadcasts on the radio… might actually be true."

"Might?"

"It’s what we’ve got. And I trust my source."

"You mean the girl at the station? Who the hell is she? How does she know you?"

"You’re full of questions, aren’t you, kid? Has anyone ever told you that?"

Sheep huffed and looked away. The sadness, pain, and frustration pooling in his blue eyes were impossible to hide.

"This place is less than a week’s ride from here, maybe," Vanisher said. "Seems like you think we’re trying to get rid of you."

"Not at all, Sheep. You’re part of this little group, and you always will be, my friend. Don’t ever doubt that," Vanisher replied, his tone gentle but firm. "But you need to understand that, right now, you need help. That problem you’ve got… we can’t do anything more for you. We’re no experts in delicate matters like this. Maybe the Golden Nation has what you need to move forward."

Sheep let out a mix of a sigh and an ironic laugh.

"So, this is how it ends?"

"Who said anything about it ending? We’ve still got plenty of road ahead! You know where to find us. Once you’ve healed, you can come back whenever you want." Vanisher grinned. "Of course, that’s assuming you want to come back. Maybe you’ll find love in that nation and never touch a road again."

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

"I doubt it," Sheep muttered. "If I go, it’ll only be…" He stared at his hands, almost in disgust. "To get better. Nothing more, nothing less. Then I’ll come back."

"Well, then, we’ll be waiting," Vanisher said. "But listen, Sheep—if you don’t want a rain of kicks to the ass when you see us again, I’ve got two pieces of advice. First, take care of that damn bike like it’s your damn life…"

His tone shifted. He wasn’t joking.

"And second, take care of your damn life like it’s your damn bike. Got it?"

Sheep smirked.

"Crystal clear, Vanisher."

*****

Something made a loud clank against the body of his motorcycle as he sped over the pothole. The curse he muttered internally was automatic.

It was impossible. No matter how much he pushed the bike to its maximum speed, his four-legged pursuers were just as fast, with no intention of giving up the chase. The old rivalry between bikers and dogs should have been left behind after the infection claimed so many lives. But instead, it had only grown sharper—and deadlier.

As sharp and deadly as the teeth of an infected hound, which sank into the side of his rear wheel. The motorcycle wobbled, but Sheep kept it steady, skillfully maintaining his course. He revved the throttle and managed to lose the killer canine for the moment.

Even so, he knew he needed a new strategy to shake them off for good. The road was perfect for traction and maintaining speed and control, but the highway loomed on the horizon. If he entered it without losing the pack, they’d catch up to him sooner or later.

He yanked the handlebars sharply to the right, veering into a side street. The neighborhood would have to be his escape route. Narrow streets, twisting paths, and tight alleyways would be his allies against his pursuers.

The darkness of the night didn’t help much when it came to picking his turns. The bike’s headlight illuminated a strong, narrow cone, showing him what lay directly ahead—but so far, all he’d done was dodge corpses, vehicles, signs, trash bins, and random obstacles, turning at corners without any clear plan.

His pursuers were four in total—fast, aggressive, and relentless. The virus that had devastated the planet hadn’t just affected humans but also animals, altering their physical and genetic traits in small or dramatic ways.

In humans, the effects were clear. Some became skeletal, emaciated figures, weak but terrifying in their gauntness. Others, known as "the big ones" among Sheep’s group, grew unnaturally tall, their bodies covered in a tough, bark-like skin, their strength far surpassing that of a normal human.

Animals, too, had undergone changes. Their fur fell out, leaving behind dark brown or blackened skin that looked almost leathery. Their jaws became wider and more prominent, their teeth more ferocious. The veins coursing with infection were most visible on their chests, where their “black hearts” were typically located.

A bark sounded dangerously close to Sheep’s left, so loud and severe it left a sharp ringing in his ears. He turned right at the next corner, desperate to put distance between himself and the pack. If he remembered correctly, he’d turned left twice, then right, then left again, and now ducked into an alley on his right.

The hound that had barked earlier reappeared beside him, snapping its jaws wildly. Sheep stayed calm, keeping the handlebars steady and aligning himself closer to the creature to leave it no room to maneuver.

Seconds later, he sped past a dumpster. The third second brought the sickening crunch of a canine skull against metal.

Glancing over his shoulder, Sheep couldn’t help but smirk. He hadn’t expected to take one out so easily, but there was no time to celebrate. The rest of the pack was still hot on his heels.

The alley opened into a park filled with trees, and an idea sparked in his mind: Jon’s maneuver.

Jon, or Jonathan, was one of his crew—an energetic and hilariously reckless member, the kind every group seemed to have. Always riding his bike, always scavenging oddities, Jon had a knack for landing himself in the most absurdly dangerous situations.

One of his many tales involved a technique he’d invented, one he’d proudly named after himself. The maneuver was designed specifically for nighttime chases involving up to ten zombies. More could be handled, Jon had claimed, but that depended on the rider’s skill.

In this case, Sheep only had three infected hounds left. The odds were in his favor.

Accelerating into the park, he kept his speed steady, luring the dogs after him. Then he began to ride in circles—not perfect ones, but a pattern he could replicate and memorize on the fly. This was crucial because the next step was the hardest.

He switched off the headlight.

Riding blind in the dark, Sheep repeated the same pattern, maintaining his speed and navigating by instinct. He weaved around trees, dodged potholes, and carved a path through the park one last time.

Then he slowed, aimed the bike toward a straight stretch, and leaped off.

The motorcycle roared ahead without him, disappearing into the distance as Sheep ducked behind a thick tree for cover. The hounds, focused on the noise, followed the bike, oblivious to the missing rider—until the machine came to a crashing halt against a bush.

Sacrificing his bike wasn’t ideal, which was why he’d chosen a softer landing spot.

Now, it was time.

Sheep dropped his travel backpack to the ground and equipped himself with a sturdy compound bow, its shorter frame designed for quick, medium-range shots in high-risk situations.

He couldn’t use firearms. Not with that condition. That’s why he stuck to bows and arrows. He didn’t fully understand why it worked for him, but this journey was about finding out. Maybe the Golden Nation held the answers.

He drew an arrow, aimed at the infected dog’s chest, and loosed it. The arrow flew true, sinking into its target. Moving swiftly among the trees, Sheep relied on his knowledge of the terrain. He had memorized the layout, ensuring he could move with purpose. Another arrow sailed, its whistle marking the death of his second target.

The final dog noticed him and charged, but the tables had turned. With the numbers no longer in its favor, the predator became prey.

Sheep dove to the side, rolling to avoid its snapping jaws. Springing to his feet, he stretched his bow arm forward and pulled back the string—not even to full draw; it wasn’t necessary.

A small green dot appeared on the creature’s back. One of the best features of his bow was the laser sight.

He released his fingers, and the arrow plunged into the creature’s black heart.

*****

According to Vanisher, “dead time” was sacred for any motorcyclist worth their salt. It was the time used to check the bike’s condition, fuel reserves, tire pressure, and to grab a bite of food and rest weary legs.

For Sheep, super-crunchy cereal bars with a strawberry coating were his go-to snack. The sugar helped him stay alert, but in this case, he just wanted to recharge his energy for the road ahead. The city lay sprawled at his feet, and the Golden Nation was only a few kilometers away.

Based on the coordinates and the map his crew had given him, the Nation had to be somewhere in the city’s northern sector. He figured it wouldn’t take long to find the exact location. He had no idea what it looked like—no clear mental image—but he hoped for some sort of sign: a marker, a guard, or even a flag to guide him.

Sheep kept his spirits up, confident that he’d spot something to break the monotony of ruined cars, desolate streets, and corpses—the usual sights in the towns and small cities he’d passed through.

Finishing his break, Sheep secured his bow on a special hook attached to the rear frame of his motorcycle. He always triple-checked it to make sure it wouldn’t fall during the ride—it was the only long-range weapon he could use.

As obsessive as he was—painfully aware of this quirk—Sheep loved inspecting everything four times. Twice wasn’t enough. Three might be, but four was the number of perfection, the number of failure’s impossibility.

He hummed a little phrase his father, a renowned mechanic, used to say: “Always check everything four times.” It didn’t rhyme at all, but his dad’s delivery made it stick. Whether it was fixing a machine, repairing a bike, or, like now, counting the arrows in his quiver, Sheep always did it four times.

Unfortunately, he never finished that fourth count.

A growl erupted behind him, followed by the pounding of four enraged paws against the earth. Before he could fully register it, the infected dog was on him.

It lunged without hesitation, and Sheep reacted on instinct. His hand shot to his backpack, where a small hatchet hung from a strap. Grabbing it just in time, he wedged the handle between his face and the creature’s gnashing jaws.

The beast snarled and drooled, thrashing violently as it tried to bite him at any cost. Sheep struggled, bracing himself, and managed to shift into a kneeling position. With a burst of strength, he shoved the dog back, the hatchet slicing its jaw and forcing it to retreat.

He didn’t hesitate. Aiming wasn’t necessary. He swung the hatchet diagonally, embedding it in the creature’s snout.

The monster let out a pained howl, a sound disturbingly reminiscent of a normal dog. But Sheep knew better. There was no room for pity.

He struck again but missed, the blade sinking into the creature’s front leg instead. For better or worse, it bought him time. The infected hound limped toward him, fury burning in its eyes.

Seizing the moment, Sheep vaulted onto his motorcycle, revved the engine, and sped away.

He raced through the park, his pulse pounding in his ears, and reentered the neighborhood. His chest heaved as he tried to calm his racing heart.

But as he reached the highway, his breath caught in his throat.

The road ahead was teeming with monsters. But they were nothing compared to the massive horde advancing from the south. If the total number didn’t exceed a million, it came terrifyingly close.

"What the hell…?" Sheep whispered, staring in disbelief. He’d never seen such a sea of heads—not even at a concert. They moved with terrifying speed and urgency, piling over one another in a relentless wave.

Those nearest to him turned and began to run.

"No… this can’t be."

Sheep gunned the throttle, weaving through the chaos and merging onto the highway at full speed.

"Are these the ones that broke through the wire…?"

Abandoned cars, corpses, and countless bloodthirsty zombies littered the road. For Sheep, they were just obstacles to swerve around as his motorcycle roared faster and faster.

"Is this my fault?"

His wrist twisted the throttle to its limit, anxiety and adrenaline fueling his every move.

"I can’t lead them to the Nation—not this many. But what do I do? Run? Hide? Where do I—"

He lifted his gaze.

"Shit!"

Instinct, reflex, and sheer terror took over. Sheep slammed both brakes at once.

The tires screeched, the handlebars tilted, and the bike’s frame leaned dangerously. He threw his weight back, fighting the force of gravity as his gear and the bike’s momentum pushed him forward.

His foot scraped against the asphalt, the friction setting his sole ablaze. He braced himself, yanking the handlebars with every ounce of strength. Finally, the motorcycle came to a stop.

Standing before him was a young man with disheveled black hair, dirty and drenched in sweat.

Both turned to glance behind them, urgency etched into their expressions. Then their eyes locked again.

"I need help!" they shouted in unison.