The vibrant colours of the setting sun blend effortlessly with the cool, dusky sky, bringing a sense of tranquillity. With every step you take down the deserted street, your eyes dart around. Your gaze keeps scanning your surroundings. The faint smell of old rain on the ground fills your nostrils. It's a sharp contrast to the day's disappearing warmth. You tread carefully, being cautious not to let the hard soles of your boots echo against the cold concrete. Despite the ache in your legs and the dull throb in your sore feet, you maintain a brisk pace. Your heart pounds in rhythm with your hurried footsteps.
In your right hand, which is glued to your side, you hold a hefty knife. The handle feels cold and digs into your skin. Your sweaty palm makes maintaining a steady grip a constant struggle. This forces you to adjust your hold occasionally to prevent the sharp blade from slipping through your fingers. As your gaze scans a row of abandoned houses, your eyes glide along the overgrown front lawns. The sight triggers an unsettling realisation — you have never been in this neighbourhood before.
A cold shudder trails down your spine. You swallow hard, trying to loosen the knot of fear tightening in your stomach. The thrill of discovering unknown places is usually a welcome feeling. It means you may find something useful. Whether it's a warm jacket, a gun with a few bullets in its chamber, or an abandoned stash of food. But when the sun sets and darkness takes over, unfamiliar territory is the last place you wish to be. Right now, you have no choice. You are miles away from your home. No matter how hard you are determined to push yourself, you won't be able to reach it tonight. You need to find another place to spend the night in. Roaming the dark streets at night is not an option — it's a risk you are reluctant to take.
The houses in this neighbourhood are all abandoned. But the dead could still be lurking within these dilapidated homes. As you continue walking down the street, you find yourself peering through the dusty broken windows. Eventually, your gaze falls on a particular house. Its windows are boarded up, though the front door stands ajar. You hesitate for a moment, your senses on high alert, listening for any signs of movement. Though you'd prefer to wait a few more minutes, the night is growing darker, and you can't keep standing on the porch. A biter could sneak up on you, and you don't wish to be its dinner tonight.
Deciding this place will have to do, you hold the knife in front of you and push the door. As it creaks, the sound reverberates through the air, causing you to grimace. You step inside the dark hallway, feeling the tension mounting. When no one jumps out at you from the shadows, you retrieve a flashlight from your backpack and turn it on. You explore the first floor, checking the living room and kitchen. A quick peek into the bathroom downstairs and an empty broom closet reassures you of your solitude. Apart from the sea of dust, broken furniture and an expired can of tomato soup, you find no signs of life. The shadows, once threatening, now offer solace in their silence.
Before climbing upstairs, you secure the front door and all the windows. You double and triple-check each one, making sure that no one else will get in or see you creeping around the house.
When you come to a halt at the top of the stairs, a sense of unease washes over you. The hair on the back of your neck stands up. For a moment, you are convinced you hear something, akin to a whisper or a hushed footfall. Your heart races and your muscles tense, preparing for a biter that might be looming behind one of the closed doors. But it's a false alarm. A tiny rat scurries along the floor. You jump when the tiny creature brushes past your boots with its coarse fur.
As you step into the bedroom, the first thing you notice is the bed. It's been stripped of its mattress. The headboard is in a pitiful state, splintered and broken, a mere shadow of its former self. The rest of the room is sparse, furnished only with a chair and a dusty dresser, which you shove in front of the door. It serves as an extra layer of protection in case someone or something sneaks up on you in the dead of night.
Before settling down in the relative safety of a dim corner, you can't help but glance out of the window. Your eyes scan the backyard. You assure yourself that no biters are creeping around. Only then do you allow yourself a moment of relief. With a shaky hand, you pull the curtains closed, sealing yourself from the outside.
The world you are living in now has drastically changed, and you despise it. At first, you believed you might survive. The dead, or 'biters' as you've come to refer to them, were a constant source of terror. Their incessant low growling, the lifeless, pale gaze of their eyes, and their insatiable hunger terrified you. Yet, you weren't alone. You had a family: a mother, a father, and a brother. They made each day in this apocalypse easier to bear.
However, one time, your father was attacked. A biter cornered your mother, causing her to stumble, fall and freeze in terror. Without hesitation, your father shielded her from the dead man. Unarmed, without a gun or knife, he did his best to make the biter retreat. That day, he saved your mother but was bitten. Over the course of two nights, your father grew weaker and weaker. One fateful morning, you found him dead in the backyard. A knife embedded in his heart — the same one you now always carry with you — he killed himself since he knew what awaited him. He refused to become a dead walking man.
And yet, he turned into a biter. You were kneeling beside him when his eyes peeled open. Your father lunged towards you. His mouth opened and closed repeatedly as he tried to sink his teeth into your arm. Your mother was crying, begging you to leave your father alone. To keep her from intervening as you pulled the knife from your father's chest, your brother had to coddle her in his arms. You weren't conscious of your actions. But you knew you didn't want to die, nor did you want to see your brother or mother getting killed. So, with a shaky hand, you plunged the knife into your father's skull, causing his body to collapse on the ground.
That day, your father died twice. The last time he died, he taught you an important lesson — always aim for a biter's head.
You and your brother buried him together. Your mother, overwhelmed by grief and despair, stayed inside the house and locked herself in the bedroom. From then on, your world was forever altered. The constant sorrow that washed over you was like a tidal wave. A relentless pain that welled up in your heart and threatened to make you break down in tears at any given moment. But you swallowed all your emotions, including the terror that gripped you daily. You had to be strong, not just for yourself, but for your mother and your brother.
In a cruel twist of fate, you were separated from them during a terrifying encounter with a horde of biters. The days passed one by one. Slowly. No matter how long and hard you looked, you couldn't find them as if they had vanished into thin air. There was a possibility that they were dead and that the next time you will see them, they would be among the biters. Yet you refuse to even let such thoughts settle in your mind. You cling to the hope that when you find them, they will be alive and well.
In the early hours of the morning, noises emanating from downstairs wake you up. At first, you're disoriented, struggling to comprehend that you were indeed sleeping. But as the loud clamour persists and even increases in volume, any chance of falling back to sleep is eliminated.
Blinking, you try to adjust your eyes to the harsh brightness of the morning light. It filters through the dirty curtains. Your skin is freezing, and the cold is seeping into your bones. The fear that grips you. You don't dare to move and remain glued to the floor, sitting in the corner of the room. You listen to the commotion downstairs, your heart pounding in your chest. To combat the creeping chill, you move your fingers. This repetitive motion makes your blood flow through your veins again, providing a much-needed source of warmth to your otherwise icy body.
You know you must get out of this house before whoever is downstairs decides to explore the second floor and discovers you. Fear runs through your body like ice-cold water. You aren't a fighter; you have never been. Even outside, when you encounter a biter, it's a struggle for you. The prospect of having to fight the dead within the confined space of this home is terrifying. There is less room to manoeuvre. Escape could be more difficult, and a fight could end before it begins if a biter sneaks up on you. Your only other option is to risk jumping out of the window. But you've never been fond of heights. Not to mention the very real possibility you might injure yourself.
You pack your backpack. Casting a sweeping glance around the bedroom, you ensure nothing of value is left behind. Gathering your courage, you push aside the dresser that's been barricading the door. Your senses heighten as you leave the room and approach the staircase. You tiptoe down, gripping the railing. The sound of footsteps in the living room intensifies your alertness. You draw your knife, ready to stab any biter that comes into your peripheral view. Right now, there's no room for caution. Your survival instinct is in high gear because you're determined not to get bitten.
After rounding the corner, you press your body against the wall and peek inside the living room. Your eyes immediately land on a towering figure. His back is turned towards you, so he's unaware of your presence. You have never seen such a big-biter before, let alone fought one. However, he is blocking your only way out. If you want to exit the house, you need to reach the front door. You can't climb out through the windows because they are all bolted shut. And if you want to step a foot in the hallway, first you need to cross the living room. But it's impossible while the biter is still in there, and your only choice is to deal with him.
In your mind, you toy with the idea of tossing something across the floor. The noise might divert his attention long enough for you to sneak past. But this might not work. Your gut tells you that your only viable option, although terrifying, is to approach the biter from behind and plunge your knife into his skull before he can turn around and grab you.
At first, everything goes according to your plan. You are quiet and avoid drawing unwanted attention towards yourself. Yet, as you are about to strike, the biter spins around and lunges at you with an unexpected ferocity. Your knife slips out of your hand. It clatters onto the floor. You are knocked off balance, your feet betraying you on the deceptive carpet. The fall is harsh. Your back collides with the unforgiving ground. A loud groan of pain escapes your lips as you feel the shock of the impact.
You roll to the side, keeping your eyes, wide and filled with fear, fixated on the biter. You notice his face is concealed — he is wearing a skull mask. This means he can't bite you. The realisation strikes you like a bolt of lightning. It reignites the dwindling flame of hope inside of you and causes a surge of strength to flood your body.
The biter is relentless, showing an uncanny level of determination for a dead man. He charges at you, his hand extending as he tries to grab your hair. Despite still being on the floor, you push your body backwards, just barely evading his grasp. The carpet burns your exposed skin as you slide towards its edge. Your legs kick and slip on the dirty, coarse material.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you start swearing. Your eyes race across the floor, desperately searching for something, anything, to use as a weapon. Your heart pounds in your chest as you realise you don't know where your knife has landed.
As the string of curse words tumbles from your lips, the dead man, who had seemed unstoppable until now, suddenly comes to a complete halt. You, too, freeze. Your mind races as you try to figure out what made him take a step back from you. There is a brief moment of silence, but then you come back to your senses. This is your chance to flee. With a burst of adrenaline, you push past your fear and leap to your feet.
"Duck!" The man roars, his voice booming in the quiet. The sudden command almost throws you off balance and you stumble again. Nonetheless, without you realising it, your body reacts to the order, and you do as told.
He moves closer, his heavy footsteps making your heart pound even louder in your ears. You stop breathing, convinced that you've walked straight into his trap. But, to your surprise, he doesn't attack you. Instead, he lunges forward and stabs a biter that had crept up behind you.
Ever since you were left alone, you haven't seen a single other person. But now, you find yourself standing in front of another human being. It's a strange sensation. It's as if you've forgotten how to interact, how to react, and even how to contribute to a simple conversation. You're wary and apprehensive. You don't know who this man is, where he comes from, or what his intentions might be. Yet you can't bring yourself to leave. You want to at least say thank you before fleeing.
After all, he saved you. Even if he initially tried to cut you with your knife.
