Chapter 1 — Welcome to the End of the World
The smell of rotting flesh was as common as the air. Renfield Ratley no longer noticed it. What he could feel was the comfortable weight of his leather coat, the slight jingle of his piercings with each step, and the irritating itch under his eye patch — a gift from a particularly enthusiastic zombie.
He walked down Main Avenue, or what was left of it. Charred cars served as makeshift barricades, graffiti covered the storefronts: "Run!", "They're everywhere," "Last one turns out the lights." Renfield smiled. Dramatic people.
A zombie stumbled around the corner, dragging what looked like a mannequin's leg. Renfield raised an eyebrow (the only visible one) and bowed exaggeratedly.
—Ladies and gentlemen, the apocalyptic fashion show begins now.
The undead responded with a grunt and a clumsy step. Renfield pulled out his wrench—named "Diplomacy"—and spun on his heel, connecting with the unfortunate man's skull with a wet crack.
"Zero for you, one for the sarcasm team," he muttered, wiping the wrench on his jacket.
As he rummaged through the zombie's pockets, he found a mint. He glanced up at the gray sky, as if expecting applause.
"The universe has a sense of humor, after all."
The radio strapped to his waist crackled. Distorted voices, laughter, maybe screams. Renfield turned the dial, searching for something interesting. Nothing but static and an 80s punk song lost in time.
He kept walking, kicking an empty can, listening for footsteps—dead or alive. In Renfield's world, trust was a luxury. Survival was an art. And laughter was his fuel.
Around the next corner, he saw a shadow moving too fast to be a zombie. Maybe a looter, maybe a survivor. Maybe someone with a better story than he did.
Renfield adjusted his eyepatch, smirked, and muttered to himself:
"Let another episode of this horror show begin."
And he moved forward, ready for another round in the apocalypse game.