Amid a series of teeth-grinding scraping sounds, heavy furniture was shoved against the door. Listening to the zombies roaring out on the street and their nails scratching at the rolling shutter, Old Mike did not know what to say for a moment.
After directly experiencing the threat posed by the zombies, he did not know how to face their current predicament of being trapped. Once that state of mind showed itself, it looked like he was spacing out.
Sweat ran down his aged cheeks and splattered onto the pale red wooden floor. He silently returned to the bar and, beneath the orange-yellow light, poured himself another drink.
Perhaps alcohol was what people needed at times like this. Numbed nerves could greatly ease the pain caused by outside stimuli.
"Thomas, we both know The Pentagon won't send anyone to save us, right?"
He glanced up at the television. San Diego's power supply and electronic signals were still functioning normally for now, but Old Tom seemed to have already thought of what would happen next.
He used those words to ask Thomas, but in truth, he was still clinging to some unrealistic hope.
"No. Forget about entering the city to rescue civilians like us—even if those military bigwigs don't nuke us, that'll be a blessing. I know them."
The middle-aged man rested his hands on the bar and bent over, gasping for breath. Moving the furniture seemed to have left him short of breath.
"Believe me, if they weren't worried that using nuclear weapons would draw Godzilla here, the nukes would have landed on our heads long ago. All we can do now is watch the situation and try to save ourselves."
The bar was quiet. Only the television played footage of combat engineers building houses while "Old Town Road" played in