"Dia," Adrian whispered out of the corner of his mouth, his brow furrowing beneath the neon pink dinosaur band-aid. "Are these the hostile entities you mentioned?"
Dia stared at the group, her large eyes analyzing their responses.
Analysis, Dia processed rapidly.
Tear duct secretion is active.
Vocal cords are demonstrating high-frequency distress patterns.
Posture indicates submission.
However...
Dia zoomed in on the micro-expressions.
The way the teenager’s grip on the golf club wasn’t panicked, but practiced. The way the older man behind the massage chair had instantly shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, perfectly balanced for a lunging strike.
The heavy scent of gun oil completely overpowered the stale synthetic cheese.
"Affirmative," Dia whispered back, her voice a flat, emotionless hum. "They are executing a theatrical deception. The probability of concealed firearms is ninety-eight point seven percent. They are attempting to lower your guard through an exploitation of human empathy."
[SYSTEM ALERT! 🚨]
[The Host’s tactical analysis is flawless! These guys are total fakes! They rob travelers by playing the ’Oh no, we are helpless mall rats’ card! Don’t let them trick the Guardian!]
Adrian’s jaw tightened.
In the old days, before the apocalypse, maybe he would have given them the benefit of the doubt.
But out here? In Sector 4?
You didn’t survive a month in the ruins by crying into a paper bag.
You survived by being ruthless.
And there was no way in hell he was going to doubt his cheeky little computer over a bunch of strangers who smelled like gun oil.
Still, a bloodbath in the middle of a mall wasn’t on the agenda right now.
He needed to feed Dia and loot... ahem, secure some children’s goods.
He decided to play along, test the waters, and see exactly how deep this trap went.
***
Adrian lowered his wrench, resting the heavy steel head on the tiled floor with a loud, ringing CLANG that made several of the actors flinch for real. He let his terrifying aura fade away, putting on the persona of a tired, heavily armed survivor who was just passing through.
"Relax," Adrian grunted, his voice echoing through the cavernous mall. "I’m not here for your Bluetooth massage chairs. We’re just looking for supplies."
The group collectively released a ridiculously exaggerated sigh of relief.
The woman with the paper bag even clutched her pearls, literally. She was wearing a pearl necklace with her tracksuit.
From the back of the group, a man stepped forward.
He looked around Adrian’s age, maybe in his late twenties, wearing a surprisingly clean flannel shirt and a bright, friendly smile.
It was the kind of smile that belonged on a car salesman.
Or a cult leader.
"Man, you almost gave us a heart attack!" the Smiley Guy laughed, raising both hands as he stepped over the barricade. "I’m Greg. We’ve been holed up here for weeks, terrified of those biters outside. It’s a madhouse out there, huh? I mean, a guy your size, you look like you could punch a hole through a tank, but even you gotta be careful."
Greg’s eyes quickly traveled over Adrian’s shredded tactical gear, the empty gun holster, the heavy wrench, and finally landed on the tiny girl sitting on his hip.
His eyes lingered for just a little too long on the high-quality flak jacket wrapped around her like a blanket.
Then he noticed the little ring on her thumb.
"And who is this little angel?" Greg cooed, his smile growing wider.
He stepped closer and reached out a hand.
"Poor thing, out in this nightmare. You must be terrified, sweetheart."
Dia stared at the approaching hand.
She did not cry or scream.
She simply looked at it with the deeply offended expression of a five-year-old who had just watched someone reach for the last piece of candy.
Dirty.
Her nose wrinkled.
Very dirty.
The hand was coming closer.
Dia’s tiny brain immediately began calculating.
Unknown person.
Unknown hand.
Unknown germs.
Absolutely not!
And then there was another, much more important problem.
A stranger touching Dia.
No.
No, no, no.
Dia abruptly jerked her head backward, dodging the hand by barely a millimeter.
Then she buried her entire face into Adrian’s neck.
"Mine."
Her little arms wrapped tightly around his collar.
She clung to him like a tiny, angry koala.
Adrian froze.
His entire body tensed instantly.
The warlord’s protective instincts exploded like a supernova.
If Greg’s hand had actually touched her, Adrian would probably have broken the man’s wrist before the poor idiot even realized what happened.
"She doesn’t like strangers," Adrian growled.
His voice dropped dangerously low.
The tiny blue sparks returned to his knuckles.
"Back off, Mr. Greg or whatever your name is."
Greg immediately pulled his hand away and raised both hands.
"Whoa, easy there, big guy. No offense intended."
He laughed nervously and took a step back.
"Just trying to be friendly."
Dia peeked out from Adrian’s neck.
She stared at Greg.
Greg smiled.
Dia narrowed her eyes.
Then she hid again.
Adrian almost snorted.
Greg cleared his throat.
"Look, we don’t want any trouble. If you’re looking for supplies, especially for the kid, the ground floor is totally picked clean. We checked out that place."
He pointed toward a set of polished steel doors at the end of the concourse.
"But, if you’re looking for food and kids’ clothes? The fourth floor is where you want to be. The children’s corner and the high-end food court are up there."
Greg pointed toward the service elevator.
"We haven’t been able to secure the stairs, but the service elevator over there? We managed to hotwire the backup generator. It goes straight to the fourth floor."
He smiled.
"Save you the trouble of fighting your way up. It’s the least we can do for a fellow survivor."
Adrian looked toward the elevator.
It was tempting.
Four flights of stairs.
A kid in his arms.
Zombies.
And a wrench.
Honestly, the elevator sounded wonderful.
Unfortunately, Dia had other plans.