Sold by My Girlfriend, I Became the Warlord Chief

After the apocalypse, I joined my girlfriend and her friends as a makeshift team. I cleared infected, scavenged supplies, and stood guard at night so they could sleep.

I thought we were all each other had.

Then, for a single dose of antibiotics, they handed me to the warlord who slaughtered my entire family.

When she said, “Just endure it—I’ll find a way to bring you back,” I didn’t even have the strength to be angry. She knew exactly what stood between me and that warlord, and what would happen once I was taken.

That’s when it hit me: to them, I was always just a tool.

If she chose to deliver me into my enemy’s hands, I’d settle the three-year-old debt right there.

When we met again, she demanded to speak to the warlord chief—hoping to trade for me once more. Because without me, they couldn’t even find food.

What she didn’t know was that by the third day after she traded me away—

the warlord had a new owner.

————

I pressed myself against the broken window on the hospital’s second floor and looked down.

An armored vehicle was parked at the intersection. Its body was scraped and gouged, like it had forced its way through something not long ago.

Four or five armed men stood beside it. Rifles slung across their chests, they checked magazines with practiced hands, racked bolts, and exchanged quick signals.

I pulled my gaze back, lowered my head, and stripped my own magazine. I counted the rounds one by one into my palm.

Seven.

I seated the magazine again, worked the action, and kept my finger outside the trigger guard. No extra movement.

A stifled groan came from behind me.

Marcus Reed lay on a relatively clean hospital bed, both hands pressed to his abdomen. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His voice rose and fell, as if he needed everyone to know exactly how much he was suffering.

Nora Veer stood at his bedside, sleeves rolled up. Dried blood still stained her hands. Her brow was knotted tight, her lips pale.

Claire Brooks was on the other side, twisting a strip of cloth tighter, then loosening it, over and over—like she needed something to do so she wouldn’t have to look at Marcus’s face.

Three years ago, the zombie virus swept across the world. Cities turned from lines on a map into broken blocks of streets. The ones who could run, ran. The ones who couldn’t either died on the road, or hid in buildings like this and survived on canned food, rainwater, and luck.

The four of us made a team. If you wanted to put it nicely, we were temporary partners. If you didn’t, we were just tied together so none of us got eaten alone.

I was the one who went into the filthiest places for food, batteries, and medicine. I cleared the wandering infected out of stairwells. When we had to retreat, I was the one at the back.

Nora made the calls. Claire watched the angles. Marcus handled… whatever he could turn into someone else’s problem.

Before the world ended, Nora, Marcus, and Claire were already a unit—friends, classmates, something. I never cared enough to ask.

I joined them because Nora and I were together back then.

She needed someone who could carry weight, and at the time, I needed a reason to keep living.

But the longer it went on, the more I felt like a tool in their pack: useful when it worked, disposable when it didn’t.

Last night, Marcus got “sick.”

He said his stomach hurt badly, like he’d picked up an infection, and we had to find antibiotics fast.

Nora decided on the spot that we’d risk the abandoned hospital today to look for meds.

I didn’t argue. We really were short on medicine. The problem was, the hospital had already been picked clean. It was empty—everything worth taking was long gone.

On the way out, we ran into a warlord.

People called them warlords, but they were closer to raiders—armed men who’d gathered up weapons after the outbreak and decided the world owed them whatever they could take. Their leader was named Viktor.

They lived by looting. Any resource was fair game: food, medicine, water, animals—people.

Once they realized we were hunting antibiotics, they made an offer.

Trade me for one dose.

They gave us one hour to decide.

We fell back into this second-floor patient room, shut the door, jammed the crack, and listened to the clink of metal outside—boots dragging, a shift change, a bolt being pulled back.

The hour was almost up.

I looked at Marcus on the bed. His breathing was fast, his body curled slightly, like he was in real pain.

But my mind pulled up a sound from the middle of the night.

I’d gone to the bathroom and heard voices from Marcus’s room, low and careful.

I thought they were planning routes. Then I heard Marcus complaining.

“I don’t want to go to places like that anymore.”

Claire’s voice was even softer. “Then fake it. Tomorrow we’ll have Caleb go find the meds. He always can.”

In that moment, I didn’t go in. I didn’t expose him.

I told myself it was just laziness, a little act at worst—maybe it meant one more run for me. We did need medicine anyway.

But their lie had led us straight to Viktor’s guns.

And worse, now they were treating it like a real option—hand me over and buy a dose with my life.

The room was too quiet. Only Marcus’s groans bounced off the walls.

Nora still hadn’t spoken. Her eyes moved between me and Marcus, like she was weighing two objects on a scale.

Finally Claire spoke, her voice so low it sounded afraid of the men downstairs.

“Do it. Trade.”

I turned my head and saw her avoid my eyes.

“Marcus won’t make it. We don’t have another way. You saw them—there are men everywhere. Even if we push out, what then? Without antibiotics, Marcus still won’t last.”

I lifted my eyes to Nora.

Nora said nothing.

I raised my rifle and brought the muzzle up, pointing it at Marcus on the bed.

Claire sucked in a breath and stumbled back, slamming into the wall.

Nora moved on instinct, throwing herself over the bed. For the first time, real fear showed in her eyes.

“Are you out of your mind?” Claire hissed. “What are you doing?”

Nora’s voice tightened. “Caleb. Put the gun down.”

I didn’t.

I stared at Marcus, the muzzle steady on his chest.

“Are you actually sick?” I asked.

Marcus’s eyes went wide. Sweat ran down his temples. His lips shook and his voice drifted, thin and unsteady. “I—I’m sick. Can’t you tell? My stomach hurts. I might be infected… Nora, tell him.”

Nora pressed herself harder between us, almost glued to the bed, shaking her head at me. “Don’t push him. He needs medicine right now.”

“I’m asking him,” I said.

I didn’t raise my voice, but the air in the room tightened.

Outside, a short whistle cut through—someone reminding us we were running out of time.

I stepped forward. The muzzle steadied even more.

“I’ll ask again,” I said. “Are you sure you’re sick?”

Marcus swallowed. His eyes flicked toward Claire, then snapped away.

His mouth opened like he was about to speak, but the sound stuck in his throat.

For a second, I could almost see the calculation in his head: what happens if I admit it, what happens if I don’t.

The room held only his rough breathing.

That breathing stopped—and right as he was about to force words out, Nora suddenly made up her mind.

“Enough!”

She clenched her jaw. “I’ll trade.”

I froze for a beat, like I hadn’t heard her.

Nora took a hard breath, her words coming fast, as if she was afraid she’d change her mind. “Marcus can’t die. Caleb, just hold on. We’ll find a way to get you back.”

My muzzle lowered slowly—not because she’d convinced me, but because the disappointment was heavier than anger.

She wasn’t asking me. She was deciding.

She chose them. She chose the man lying on the bed, faking pain. She chose Claire’s solution. And she chose to treat me like something that could be exchanged.

I looked at her and realized I wasn’t even exploding.

It felt like a nail had been driven into my chest—sharp, then quiet.

“What did you say?” I asked.

Nora’s lips trembled again. She didn’t look away. This time she forced herself to nod. “I said… trade.”

I stared at her, and a flood of images hit me: carrying her through streets full of infected; giving her the last half-can; keeping watch at night so they could sleep; telling myself that as long as they lived, anything I did was worth it.

Now I understood—whether it was worth it was never mine to decide.

To them, I’d always been a cost that could be calculated.

Downstairs, an engine growled. The armored vehicle was closer.

The hour was up. Viktor was waiting for our answer—and Nora had already given it for me.