The second floor of the pharmacy smelled of mildew and something rotten Leon preferred not to identify. He climbed through the broken window carefully, testing his weight on the ceramic tile floor before trusting his whole body. The water outside slapped against the wall just below, a constant reminder that any mistake meant going back into that toxic soup.
Daylight entered weakly through the dirty windows, revealing toppled shelves and medicine boxes scattered across the floor. Someone had already been through here. Several times, by the looks of it. The drawers were yanked out, the glass cabinets broken, and there were boot prints stomping on empty packaging.
Leon held the crowbar in his left hand and walked slowly through the debris. His eyes scanned every corner. The silence was deafening.
He stopped near a fallen counter and crouched. There were recent footprints in the dust. Several people. At least four or five different sole patterns. And the tracks led to the emergency stairs at the back of the corridor.
Leon frowned. If there were survivors here, they knew he was entering. The broken window was visible from several angles. And the light on the third floor probably wasn't a coincidence.
Either it was a trap, or it was an invitation.
Neither option was good.
He considered turning back. Searching for another pharmacy. But how many would be in better condition? And how many were within a distance he could reach with that raft before nightfall?
Leon looked at the stairs. He took a deep breath. He checked the Glock in its holster, confirming it was unlocked.
"Terrible idea," he murmured to himself, but he started climbing anyway.
The stairs were narrow, and the steps creaked. Leon climbed slowly, one at a time, keeping his back near the wall and his eyes on the flight above. The natural light faded as he ascended, replaced by a greenish gloom coming from somewhere on the third floor.
When he reached the top of the stairs, he saw the source of the light. It was a kerosene lamp, one of those old camping ones, hanging from the ceiling of a wide corridor. The flame flickered, creating dancing shadows on the peeling walls.
The corridor was different from the second floor. Organized. Clean. The doors to the side rooms were closed, and boxes were stacked methodically against the right wall. Supplies. Canned food, water jugs, folded blankets.
Leon took three more steps into the corridor.
That's when he heard the metallic click behind his head.
"Freeze."
The voice was male and came from so close he could feel the bad breath.
He stopped.
"Drop the tool."
Leon slowly opened his fingers. The crowbar fell to the floor with a metallic clang that echoed down the silent corridor.
"Now the gun. Two fingers. Slowly."
Leon moved his right hand toward the holster, very slowly, using only his thumb and forefinger to pull out the Glock. He held it by the grip, away from the trigger, and raised it in the air beside his body.
"Toss it aside."
He tossed it. The Glock slid across the ceramic floor and stopped about three meters away.
"Turn around. Slowly."
Leon turned.
That's when he saw the man behind him was about forty-five, bald, with a scraggly gray beard covering a broad face marked by old scars. He wore a worn leather jacket and held a 12-gauge shotgun pointed directly at Leon's chest. The distance was less than two meters. It was impossible to miss.
But he wasn't alone.
Four more people emerged from the side doors.
To the left, a skinny young man, about twenty-something, with long hair in a ponytail and a revolver in his hands, watched him. His hands trembled slightly. Leon would bet it was his first time pointing a gun at someone.
To the right, two older men. One was short and fat, wearing a grease-stained button-down shirt, holding a baseball bat studded with rusty nails. The other was tall and thin, with cracked glasses, unarmed, but with his eyes fixed on Leon as if calculating something.
From the back of the corridor, coming out of the last door, was a woman. She had short dark hair, a hard face, and wore a tactical vest. She held a semi-automatic pistol with the posture of someone who knew how to use it.
Leon observed them all in silence, processing.
"Who are you?" the bald man with the shotgun asked.
"Nobody," Leon answered, his voice calm. "I was just looking for medicine."
"Medicine," the bald man repeated, as if the word were a joke. He spat on the floor. "And you thought you could just walk in here and take it?"
"I saw the white flag," Leon said. "I thought it meant something."
"It means we're here," said the woman from the back of the corridor, stepping forward. She passed the skinny young man and stopped beside the bald man, her gun still aimed at Leon. "It doesn't mean you're welcome."
The bald man looked at her quickly, as if he didn't like being interrupted, but said nothing.
Leon noted the group's unstable hierarchy, with two leaders silently competing for control.
"Is he armed?" asked the man with glasses, still not approaching.
"He was," the bald man said. "He had a gun and a piece of iron, nothing else."
"Search him," the woman ordered.
The skinny young man hesitated, looking between her and the bald man.
"I said," the woman repeated, firmer, "search him."
The bald man frowned but nodded to the kid. "Do what she said."
The young man approached Leon with the revolver still pointed, but clearly uncomfortable. He began patting down the pockets of Leon's tactical jacket, checking for hidden weapons.
Leon allowed it. There was nothing to find. Everything else was in the dimensional inventory.
"He's clean," the young man said, quickly stepping back.
"Where's your backpack?" the fat man asked, his voice slurred. "Everyone has a backpack. You have nothing?"
"Lost it in the water," Leon lied without hesitation. "A wave swept me away. Only what I'm wearing is left."
"How convenient," the woman commented, her eyes narrowed.
Leon stared at her. "It's not. I lost food, clean water, extra ammo. I don't think that qualifies as convenient."
"So you're completely screwed," the fat man said, laughing. "No supplies, no backpack, nothing. And you still thought you could just walk in here and take our stuff?"
"I was going to ask first," Leon responded, keeping his tone neutral. "Negotiate."
"Negotiate with what?" the bald man asked skeptically. "You have nothing."
Leon was silent for two seconds, his eyes scanning the group again. Then he spoke.
"I have information."
The bald man laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "Information. Everyone has information. 'The infected are fast during the day.' 'The water is contaminated.' 'Don't drink the rain.' What else?"
"I have a boat," Leon said.
That made the laughter stop.
A heavy silence fell over the corridor. The five exchanged quick glances.
"What kind of boat?" the woman asked, her tone cold, but unable to hide the interest.
"Bering 65," Leon answered. "Expedition yacht. Steel hull. Capacity for eight people comfortably."
"Lies," the fat man said immediately. "A boat like that costs millions. You don't look like someone with millions."
"It's not mine," Leon said. "I found it. Original owner is dead. It was shipwrecked at the marina. I repaired it."
"Repaired it," repeated the man with glasses, skeptical. "By yourself. A shipwrecked Bering 65. You."
"Yes."
"How?"
"I know how to work with engines," Leon lied again. "And I had time."
The bald man and the woman exchanged a long look. Something unspoken passed between them.
"Where is this boat now?" she asked.
"Stuck," Leon said. "In a building. Third floor. The wave threw me there. Hull wedged in debris. I need tools and time to get it out."
"Third floor," the skinny young man repeated, incredulous. "How did a boat that big get to the third floor?"
"Did you see the size of the wave that passed?" Leon responded, turning his head slightly to look at him. "It threw buses on top of buildings. A boat is nothing."
The young man didn't argue.
"Which building?" the woman asked.
Leon hesitated. If he gave too many details, they could simply kill him and go check. If he gave too few, they wouldn't believe him.
"Five blocks north," he said. "Commercial building. Ten stories. Blue glass facade. The boat is stuck on the side."
"You're lying," the fat man said, spitting on the floor. "There's no boat."
"There is," Leon answered firmly.
"Prove it."
"How am I supposed to prove it? You want me to draw it?"
"You could have photos on your phone," the man with glasses suggested.
"Lost my phone," Leon said. "At the same time I lost my backpack."
"Convenient again," the woman commented sarcastically.
"No, it's bad luck," Leon countered, his patience beginning to fray. "Pure bad luck. But the boat exists. And if you help me get it out of there, I'll take you wherever you want to go."
"Wherever we want," the bald man repeated, his voice drawn out. He smiled, but it wasn't a friendly smile. "How generous of you."
"It's a fair trade," Leon said. "You have supplies. I have transportation. We work together, everyone wins."
"Or," the fat man said, taking a step forward, "we kill you, take your stuff, and go verify if this boat exists. If it does, it's ours. If it doesn't, we lose nothing."
Leon looked at him. "You won't find the boat without me."
"Why not?"
"Because there are infected in the building. A lot of them. And you don't know the safe route."
"Lies," the fat man said again.
"Believe what you want," Leon responded, shrugging slightly. "But when you get there and a horde falls on you, it'll be too late."
The bald man and the woman exchanged another look.
"Gustavo," the woman called, without taking her eyes off Leon. "What do you think?"
The man with glasses, Gustavo, adjusted the cracked frames on his nose and crossed his arms. "I think he's lying."
"About the boat or about the infected?" she asked.
"About everything," Gustavo said. "He appears out of nowhere, no backpack, no supplies, and suddenly has a luxury yacht stuck in a building? It doesn't make sense."
"It does if the wave was strong enough," the skinny young man argued, hesitantly.
"Shut up, Pedro," the fat man growled. "No one asked you."
Pedro frowned, clearly annoyed, but even so spoke up again.
"But what if it's true?" Pedro insisted, his voice lower. "What if he really has a boat? We could get out of the city. Go to an island, or"
"Or he's making it all up so we don't kill him," the fat man interrupted. "Use your head."
"Killing him doesn't solve anything," Gustavo said.
"If he has useful information, we lose by killing him." He looked at Rogério. "And if he doesn't... we lose nothing by waiting a night."
"Waiting for what?" the bald man asked impatiently.
"Until tomorrow," Gustavo answered. "Tie him up. Lock him in a room. Tomorrow morning, we decide if it's worth investigating the boat story or if we get rid of him."
The woman considered this for a long moment. Then nodded. "Makes sense."
"It makes sense to you," the bald man grumbled. "I still think we should just put a bullet in his head and be done with it."
"You always think that, Rogério," the woman said, tired. "And if you'd done that with the last guy who showed up, we wouldn't have found out about the food depot in the market."
Rogério gritted his teeth but didn't respond.
"Tie him up," the woman ordered, looking at Pedro. "Use rope. Tight. Hands behind his back."
Pedro hesitated again, looking at Rogério.
"Do what she said," Rogério said, his voice hard.
Pedro lowered the revolver and went to one of the boxes leaning against the wall. He pulled out a roll of nylon rope and returned to Leon.
"Turn around," Pedro said, his voice trembling. "And put your hands behind you."
Leon obeyed. There was no choice. Five against one, all armed, on terrain they knew and he didn't. Fighting now would be suicide.
He turned his back and put his wrists together behind his body.
Pedro began tying him. The rope was thick and rough, tightening firmly around his wrists. Leon subtly tested the knot's tension. It was tight; it seemed the kid at least knew how to tie knots.
"Tighter," the fat man said. "He looks strong. If it's loose, he'll get free."
Pedro pulled harder. Leon felt the circulation beginning to be compromised.
"Done," Pedro said, stepping back.
"Good," the woman said. "Take him to the storage room."
"Storage room?" Pedro asked.
"Back room," she explained. "Lock it from the outside. No windows, perfect for him."
Rogério jabbed Leon's back with the shotgun barrel. "Move."
Leon started walking. Pedro went ahead, opening the door to the last room in the corridor. It was small, unfurnished, just stacked boxes and a cold concrete floor. Like everywhere, it smelled of mildew.
"Get in," Rogério ordered.
Leon entered. Pedro closed the door behind him, and Leon heard the key turning in the lock on the outside.
Silence.
Leon stood still in the middle of the dark room, with only a sliver of light coming from under the door.
He took a deep breath.
He tested the ropes again. Tight. But not impossible.
He had time.
Time to think. And plenty of time to plan.
And time to decide whether he would keep cooperating or do what he did best.
Kill.
Outside the door, the five gathered in the corridor.
"I still think we should kill him," Rogério said, resting the shotgun on his shoulder.
"You always think that," Gustavo responded, tired. "But Marina is right. Information is worth more than violence."
"Since when?" the fat man asked.
"Since we need to know what's happening out there," Marina answered. "We've been isolated here for four days. We don't know how many infected are still in the city. We don't know if the army is coming. We don't know anything."
"And you think this guy knows?" Rogério asked skeptically.
"He's survived this far alone," Marina said. "That means he knows something."
"Or it means he's been lucky," the fat man grumbled.
"Luck doesn't last forever," Gustavo said.
Pedro, who had been quiet until now, finally spoke. "What if he really does have a boat?"
"Then we use him to get out of here," Marina said. "Simple."
"And after?" Pedro asked.
"After, we'll see," Marina answered. "One thing at a time."
Rogério scoffed. "Do you trust him?"
"No," Marina said without hesitation. "But I don't trust you either, Rogério. And yet, here we are."
Rogério gritted his teeth but didn't argue.
"Tomorrow morning," Gustavo said, "we interrogate him for real. Ask specific questions. See if the story holds up."
"And if it doesn't?" the fat man asked.
"Then we do what Rogério wants," Gustavo said, shrugging. "Get rid of him."
Marina nodded. "Agreed."