Apocalypse: King of Zombies

"Raaaargh—!"

With a guttural roar, the Black-Skin Zombie hurled aside the femur it had been gnawing on and lunged straight at the group. The scent of fresh blood and flesh was just too tempting.

"Damn, this one's aggressive," Chris muttered, frowning as he drew his titanium-alloy machete.

"Let me handle it…"

The Black-Skin Zombie moved with surprising agility, its body a blur of motion as it darted forward like a shadow. It was clearly stronger than your average elite zombie—fast, precise, and dangerous. Easily a B-class threat.

As it closed in, heat radiated from Chris's body. Flames erupted around him, licking up the blade of his machete until it was fully engulfed in fire.

He swung.

The flaming machete sliced clean through the air—and then through the zombie's neck. The blade sank in with a screech of metal grinding against bone.

Schlick!

A moment later, the zombie's pitch-black head flew off its shoulders, spinning through the air.

Momentum carried its headless body forward a few more steps before it collapsed, skidding several feet across the pavement.

Thick, tar-like black blood oozed from the stump of its neck, reeking like a mix of rotting meat and asphalt.

"Ughhh…"

Everyone recoiled in disgust.

Chris pinched his nose and stepped forward, trying not to gag. With another swing, he split the severed head in two.

A small, dark object popped out—its Neurocore.

Unfortunately, it was just as black and foul as the blood. Misshapen, shriveled, and pitted with holes, it gave off the same nauseating stench.

"Damn it," Chris groaned. "This thing's useless. No way to absorb any energy from it."

"Uncle Chris, maybe you should give it a shot anyway?" Oliver suggested.

Chris shook his head vigorously. "Hell no. That thing smells like death."

"Maybe it's like blue cheese," Oliver said thoughtfully. "Smells awful, tastes amazing."

Chris stared at him, speechless. Blue cheese? Seriously?

"Yeah, no thanks. If you're so curious, you try it."

The group crowded around, chattering as they examined the Neurocore.

Ethan stepped up, took one look, and gave his verdict: "Looks like a rotten cherry."

Chris sighed, clearly annoyed. "So we killed that thing for nothing."

"What's even the point of these things existing?" he muttered.

"Hey, at least you killed it," Brandon chimed in. "Honestly, I thought you were gonna screw up again like usual."

Chris shot him a look. "What's that supposed to mean? You sound almost disappointed I didn't mess up. This just proves I can carry the team too, you know!"

As they bickered, the zombie's foul blood continued to seep into the air, carried by the wind down the empty streets.

"Raaaargh…"

From somewhere deep within the city, more guttural howls echoed—dozens of them, maybe more. And they were getting closer.

"Great. We kicked the hornet's nest," Ethan said calmly.

The others tensed, realizing what was happening. Their brows furrowed as they tried to figure out why so many zombies were suddenly converging.

And they weren't coming from just one direction—they were everywhere.

"Don't tell me we're about to trigger a full-on zombie horde…"

"Could there be a Zombie King among the Black-Skin types? One with weird powers?"

"Who knows…"

"Uncle Chris," Brandon said with a smirk, "didn't you just say you're the main guy now? Guess that means all these zombies are yours to deal with!"

Chris opened his mouth to respond… but nothing came out.

Yeah. That one kinda backfired.

But before anyone could catch their breath, the snarls grew louder—closer. The sound of chaotic, pounding footsteps echoed through the alley, and a wave of oppressive, feral energy swept over them.

One by one, Black-Skin Zombies began to appear—scaling alley walls like spiders, crawling over rooftops, dropping down into view. Their hollow, lifeless eyes somehow locked onto the group with eerie precision.

Every single one of them let out a guttural roar as they charged.

"No choice now. Get ready to fight," Mia said coolly, drawing her tachi with a sharp shing.

These weren't your run-of-the-mill zombies. Each one was fast, strong—solid B-class threats. A brutal mix of speed and raw power, just a notch above elite infected.

"Alright then…" Brandon muttered, squaring up as the group braced for the onslaught coming from all directions.

Five or six of the Black-Skin Zombies leapt down from the walls, landing hard and sprinting straight at them.

Brandon activated his ability—Blood Burst.

With a flick of his hand, the charging zombies suddenly stiffened mid-run, their movements slowing like they were wading through molasses.

"Huh?" Brandon frowned.

Something was off. He could feel it—their blood was resisting him. Too thick, too sluggish, maybe even too scarce. He couldn't get a grip on it, couldn't make it explode from within like usual.

Chris noticed and couldn't resist a jab. "What's wrong, Brandon? Constipated? Looks like even our 'main guy' has his off days."

Brandon's eyes narrowed. "Yeah? Watch this."

He spun around, drew a dagger, and slashed his own palm. Blood welled up instantly, dark red and gleaming.

With a flick of his wrist, he launched droplets of his own blood forward—each one moving like a bullet, fast and deadly. They pierced straight into the zombies' skulls.

"Detonate."

BOOM!

With a whispered command, the blood inside their heads exploded. Skulls shattered into red mist, and headless corpses dropped one after another.

"Holy shit! That was badass!" Chris's eyes lit up.

He had to admit—this kid was sharp. That kind of improvisation took real talent. The way Brandon adapted his ability on the fly? That wasn't just power. That was instinct.

Brandon smirked. "I call it Requiem of Blood. My own custom move."

Chris blinked. "What kind of cheesy-ass name is that…" he muttered under his breath. Requiem of Blood? What is this, a kung fu movie? It's the goddamn apocalypse, not a martial arts novel.

...

Elsewhere, the rest of the team was holding their own.

Mia was a whirlwind of precision and grace, her tachi slicing through the undead with blinding speed. Each swing left behind a blur of afterimages, carving down zombies like a blender on overdrive.

But the Black-Skin Zombies didn't feel fear. They didn't hesitate. No matter how many fell, more kept coming—relentless, mindless, unstoppable.

Sean, meanwhile, was a one-man wrecking crew. He might not have been the sharpest tool in the shed, but he didn't need to be. One punch from him sent a zombie flying like a cannonball, smashing into a wall with a sickening crunch. The body crumpled like a ragdoll.

Ethan's area was still a dead zone—literally.

His Domain of the Dead kept the zombies at bay, a suffocating aura of death that most infected wouldn't dare cross. But these Black-Skin bastards? They didn't care. They had no minds to fear him, no instincts to warn them off. Just pure, blind aggression.

Even as their comrades were torn apart, they kept charging—like moths to a flame.

And worst of all? Killing them didn't even give anything back. No Neurocores. No usable flesh. Nothing.

"Total waste…" Ethan muttered, annoyed. He was burning through energy for zero return.

And they just kept coming. From the alleys, the rooftops, the walls—Black-Skin Zombies were swarming in from every direction.

"This is pointless. Stop fighting—we need to move. Get out of here before we're buried in these things."

"Got it," the others responded quickly.

Mia glanced at Ethan, a small smirk tugging at her lips. This was rare. In all their battles, Ethan had never once backed down. He was usually the one steamrolling everything in his path.

But now? These monsters were actually forcing him to retreat.

Well, there's a first time for everything.

"These Black-Skin Zombies are no joke…" she murmured.

And the horde kept coming.

...