My 100th Rebirth a day before the Apocalypse novel Chapter 660

The loud crash of metal echoed through the night, followed by the sharp shatter of headlights, but Sparrow didn’t flinch.

He kept his foot on the gas, maneuvering the battered bus until he reached the gas station. Without wasting a second, he pulled up right in front and jumped out, heading straight for the fuel pump.

He grabbed the nozzle, ready to refuel—but the pump refused to dispense. His eyes flicked to the digital screen.

Payment required.

Cursing under his breath, Sparrow patted his pockets, only to remember that cash and credit cards had long lost their value in this broken world, so he didn’t bring them with him anymore. Yet, despite that, the gas dispenser remained locked, demanding payment before it released a single drop.

With no other choice, he turned toward the gas station’s convenience store. The soft chime of the doorbell rang as he stepped inside.

Dim lighting cast long shadows over the disheveled shelves, a scene all too familiar in these times. Sparrow moved straight to the counter, his gaze locking onto the cashier’s register.

Just as he reached out to pry it open—

A hand shot out from the shadow and clamped down on his wrist.

Rawr!!!

Bang!

A decayed, lifeless hand shot out and clamped onto Sparrow’s wrist. The zombie, its neck tangled in a telephone cord, was trapped behind the counter, barely able to move. It strained violently, its rotting fingers stretching toward him.

Before Sparrow could react—

Bang!

The deafening blast of a shotgun echoed through the enclosed space. The suddenness of it made Sparrow flinch, not just from the sound but from the spray of brain matter splattering onto his cheek. His gaze snapped toward the source of the shot, his body tense.

Smoke curled from the barrel of a Coag Gun (DBL-Barrel), a sleek, old-school, one-handed shotgun that looked more like a long pistol. The man holding it chewed lazily on a piece of gum, blowing a bubble as he locked eyes with Sparrow.

He had an unmistakable bad-boy aura, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of a baseball cap pulled low over his face.

Behind him, a girl and several others stood cautiously, clutching their bags, their wary gazes fixed on Sparrow, as if unsure whether to consider him friend or foe.

"I told you not to help! W-What if he’s a bad guy and tries to rob us instead?" the girl behind the man whispered anxiously, tugging at his sleeve.

Her fingers clenched the fabric tightly, but the man didn’t budge. His gaze remained locked onto Sparrow, as if assessing him, weighing whether he was a threat.

After a tense moment, the man finally broke eye contact and turned to the girl.

"Grab everything we need. We’re leaving ASAP." His voice was firm, authoritative—clearly someone used to giving orders.

Sparrow knew he wasn’t in peak condition and had no intention of provoking a fight or drawing unnecessary attention from other factions. So, he willingly gave up any claim on the remaining supplies.

Besides, with the provisions he had already gathered and the stockpile back at their base, they had more than enough to sustain themselves. There was no need to take more when others might desperately need it. Letting the other survivors claim what was left was an easy choice.

Seeing that Sparrow had no intention of fighting over the supplies and was only focused on getting gas, the man eyed him with suspicion. He couldn’t quite figure out what Sparrow was thinking.

Though he had a bad-boy aura and an intimidating presence, he wasn’t reckless. He knew better than to start an unnecessary fight or waste bullets that could be crucial for their survival later.

The shot he had fired earlier wasn’t just to kill the zombie—it was a calculated move, meant to intimidate Sparrow, to make it clear that they weren’t easy targets and were armed in case he had any ill intentions.

The man’s thoughts were thrown into disarray when Sparrow openly showed his lack of interest in hoarding supplies. For a moment, his mind went blank, caught off guard by Sparrow’s straightforwardness.

By the time he regained his composure and thought of asking more questions, Sparrow was already gone. He had moved to the gas dispenser, filling the yellow bus’s tank before topping off the containers he had taken from the back.

Once finished, he carefully sealed them, loaded them into the bus, and drove away without another word.

"Hurry up, we’re leaving!" the man called out urgently before heading to a secluded spot beside the convenience store. Moments later, he pulled up a Humvee military truck in front of the store, urging the others to climb aboard.

Another truck followed closely behind, pulling up in formation. He pressed the horn once, receiving a confirming honk in return. Without wasting another second, he stepped on the gas, and they sped away from the area.