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The body hits the sidewalk, taking the hatchet with it.

I stand there, breathing hard, crowbar raised, one hand empty.

Leon looks at the body.

Then at the hatchet.

Then at me.

I point at it. “In my defense, that was disgusting.”

He lifts one brow.

“I know, I know. Not ideal.”

He steps in, plants one boot on the corpse’s shoulder, and pulls the hatchet free with a wet crack. Then he hands it back to me.

I take it, trying not to look at the bits clinging to the blade.

A groan sounds from behind a burned-out sedan. Another answers from inside the pharmacy.

Leon points. Again.

Trainer Leon is a menace.

By the time we make it halfway across the street, my arms burn. My breath scrapes in and out of my lungs, sharp from cold and adrenaline. Leon takes the ones that come too fast or too close. He drops them with arrows before I can panic myself into becoming dinner.

But the slower ones? The ones he decides probably won’t kill me immediately?

Mine.

Or they’re supposed to be.

I miss the next knee completely.

The crowbar swings through empty air, momentum dragging me off-balance. The infected’s fingers catch my sleeve, and I stumble so hard my bad leg nearly folds. Leon catches the back of my jacket and hauls me out of reach before its teeth close on the air where my shoulder just was.

My heart tries to leave my body.

Leon points to my feet. Too close together.

Then to my shoulders. Too high.

Then he taps his own chest and breathes in slow. Breathe.

I suck in air. It shakes the whole way down.

He nods once and points to another infected limping toward us. Again.

“Your confidence in me is becoming aggressive.”

His mouth curves.

The next one goes better.

I take the knee on the second swing, almost trip over my own foot, and bring the hatchet down hard enough to split the skull but not hard enough to free the blade afterward. Leon has to step in and help me wrench it loose.

Progress is beautiful.