Zombie Soap 3: Revolution

Five

Between DMs and comments, Jayson won the vote for POV since we haven't seen him appear and because readers want to know Taylor's fate (which you'll notice wasn't a POV option).

Jayson

Something bad had happened. Jayson Recklaw, now only JR by necessity, sat with his heart somewhere in his stomach. Or maybe his butt. Though he hadn't liked Taylor's father for a multitude of reasons, including throwing him to the curb when his son had needed him most, John Whittaker didn't deserve to be shot.

Static had drowned most of the broadcast, even with the survivalists' long range radio. Whittaker's voice—as much as the spray of bullets—were unmistakable. The silence afterward left little to the imagination, and Jayson thought he might be sick.

A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold air and high altitude rocked his body, even as he sat bundled in a hoodie, sweatpants, and knitted cap. The fire in the barrel did nothing to add warmth, nor did the body heat of his companions surrounding him.

Eli, the eccentric yet sweet man who'd rescued his ass from the totaled truck at Elmo's city limits, rested a hand on his shoulder. "That was the facility you came from?

Jayson nodded and rubbed his face. "Benson is a psycho," he whispered. "I'm worried about my friends."

The other survivors shared knowing glances—an unspoken acknowledgement that they had all lost family and friends at some point since the outbreak.

He jumped with a hiss when Gloria settled a crocheted blanket over his shoulders. His rib had to be broken; he couldn't breathe without an intense urge to scream, much less walk two steps before a whimper escaped. It was an injury unlike any he'd endured short of the left side of his body melting in hellish flame and metal. Only that had been worse, making him wish for death when he'd awoken to disfigured flesh and excruciating pain.

"Sorry," she whispered, rubbing his back. Then she took a seat on a crate beside him and pressed a steaming cup in his gloved hands. "Drink this."

He shook his head and tried to pass it back, only for Gloria to eye him with the glare of a feral mother ready to set her young straight. Jayson brought the cup back to his chest but didn't drink what smelled like broth, processed noodles, and vegetables. "I don't think I can stomach anything right now." Not when his friends were now at Benson's mercy. What would he do to them now that no one was in the man's way to power?

Billy, Eli's older brother who'd initially been inclined to leave Jayson outside their clan, frowned. "So far, the facility has left us alone, but we've been open to threats from other gangs and looters. Would this guy have any reason to come this way now their leader is down?"

"I don't know," Jayson replied honestly. The distance between them was quite a stretch, but that didn't mean anything in a world where dwindling resources were every man's game. "I guess it depends on how experimental Benson is feeling. We can't hold this motel down for very long if any large groups come knocking."

Billy sucked in his lower lip and nodded while the firelight danced across his dark irises. "Hmm. I think you're right about that. Everyone's been in survival mode, but once camps start settling down, especially for the winter, they're either going to band together or fight. Problem is, there ain't nothin' for the next several hundred miles. Anything valuable woulda be lifted by now."