He slammed the cylinder shut with a frustrated grunt.
No bullets.
"Alright. We improvise."
His combat instincts took over.
He stalked over to a collapsed pile of maintenance supplies.
With his newly enhanced physical strength, he effortlessly kicked aside a three-hundred-pound concrete block.
From the rubble, he retrieved a massive, three-foot-long heavy steel wrench.
He gave it a few test swings.
The heavy metal whooshed through the air, completely weightless in his grip.
"Offensive capability acquired." Adrian said with a grim smile.
Next, he needed a shield.
He was durable now, yes, but he wasn’t about to risk a stray zombie claw scratching his newly adopted, ridiculously fragile ward.
He ripped the heavy, reinforced steel hubcap off the wheel of a wrecked delivery van, the bolts snapping like dry twigs beneath his grip.
He bent the sharp edges inward with his bare hands, creating a crude, terrifyingly heavy buckler.
Then he walked back toward Dia, presenting his scavenged arsenal.
"How’s this for efficiency?"
Dia looked at the bloody, battered warlord holding a steel wrench and a van hubcap, wearing a neon-pink dinosaur Band-Aid on his forehead.
She thought about it seriously.
"It looks strong."
Adrian grinned.
"Exactly."
Dia pointed at the wrench.
"But it’s big. Blunt force trauma is highly effective against decayed skeletal structures. However, walking is still off the table. My stamina gauge is flashing red."
"That’s the point."
She nodded.
"Then it’s good."
Adrian’s grin widened.
Dia glanced toward the garage exit again.
"Can we go now?"
Adrian blinked.
"Not quite yet."
"I’m sleepy."
"I know."
"And hungry."
"We’ll get food."
"And strawberry milk."
Adrian paused.
"...Definitely strawberry milk."
Dia seemed satisfied.
Adrian turned his attention toward the vehicles scattered throughout the garage.
"We aren’t walking," he declared. "I am Adrian Pendelton. I don’t walk through a zombie horde when I can drive through it."
He marched down the row of parked cars, bypassing the sensible sedans and sports cars.
Finally, his eyes locked onto a massive, matte-black, heavily modified expedition SUV parked in the VIP corner of the garage.
It was a beast of a machine.
Reinforced steel brush guards.
Off-road tires the size of dining tables.
A chassis high enough to clear a small mountain.
"Bingo."
Adrian walked up to the driver’s side door.
Locked.
Instead of searching for the keys, Adrian simply drove his heavy steel wrench straight through the reinforced glass.
CRASH!
Glass exploded inward in a glittering shower.
He reached inside, unlocked the door, and slid into the driver’s seat.
Within ten seconds, he had ripped the paneling off the steering column, his fingers deftly crossing the ignition wires.
With a deafening roar, the massive V8 engine came to life, echoing through the concrete garage like a caged beast demanding to be unleashed.
The headlights snapped on, twin beams of blinding white cutting through the gloom.
Adrian hopped out and jogged back to Dia.
He scooped her off the hood of the sedan with one arm, cradling her against his chest as if she were made of spun glass.
"Your chariot awaits, Princess."
"My name is Dia," she corrected him.
Adrian chuckled.
"Right. Dia."
He carried her toward the roaring beast of a truck.
Adrian opened the passenger door.
Then he paused.
He looked at the deep leather bucket seat.
Then at the tiny five-year-old in his arms.
The seatbelt would practically swallow her.
"Hold on."
He reached into the back seat, grabbed a discarded, heavy-duty tactical flak jacket, and folded it into a thick, sturdy square.
He placed it onto the passenger seat, creating a makeshift booster seat.
Then he gently set Dia down on top of it.
He carefully strapped the heavy seatbelt across her chest, ensuring it secured her without crushing her ribs.
"Comfort level?" Adrian asked, deliberately mimicking her earlier clinical tone.
Dia wiggled her little shoulders against the leather, testing the soft flak jacket beneath her.
She nodded.
"Good."
She paused.
"...Where is the cup holder?"
Adrian stared at her.
Dia looked completely serious.
"For strawberry milk."
A booming laugh escaped him.
"I’ll have the base engineers install one by tomorrow. I promise."
He jogged around to the driver’s side, throwing his wrench and hubcap into the back before sliding behind the wheel.
He grabbed the heavy gear shifter.
His muscles tensed.
The remnants of his suppressed rage finally began bubbling back to the surface.
Marcus had betrayed him.
He had been left to die like a dog in the dirt.
But he hadn’t died.
He had been reborn.
Armed with lightning.
A miraculous healing artifact on his forehead.
And a tiny, ruthlessly practical co-pilot riding shotgun.
Adrian glanced toward Dia.
"Seatbelt tight, kiddo?"
Dia looked down.
Then tugged on it experimentally.
"Very tight."
"Good."
Adrian’s expression hardened.
"Because Uncle Adrian has some stress to work out."
He slammed the shifter into drive.
And stomped on the gas.
The massive SUV launched forward like a cannonball.
The tires screeched against the concrete, leaving thick black marks as the vehicle barreled toward the steep exit ramp.
They hit the incline at sixty miles an hour.
The engine howled, violently propelling the multi-ton vehicle toward the surface.
Sunlight, harsh, gray, and apocalyptic, flooded the windshield as they breached the exit.
The street above was a nightmare.
The horde that had chased Dia earlier had multiplied, drawn by the sound of the revving engine.
Hundreds of rotting, snarling zombies filled the road.
A sea of gray flesh and blood-stained clothes completely blocked their path.
Dia stared through the windshield.
"Lots of zombies."
"Not obstacles, Dia."
Adrian’s grin slowly widened.
"Speed bumps."
He didn’t hit the brakes.
He slammed the accelerator all the way to the floor.
The reinforced steel brush guard of the SUV hit the front line of the horde with the sound of a bomb detonating inside a butcher shop.
CRACK—! SQUELCH—! BOOM!
The impact was catastrophic for the undead.
Zombies launched into the air like horrifying, rotting bowling pins.
A former postman went flying over the roof, his mailbag exploding in a shower of letters and severed fingers.