The screen flickered like it always did. Low-budget cable, weak signal, and that buzzing static that kept playing in the background like a dull whisper nobody could ever quite shut off. Elias sat cross-legged on the carpet, hunched forward, a bowl of soggy cereal forgotten on the floor. His eyes—dark, thoughtful, maybe too thoughtful for a seventeen-year-old—were locked onto the news anchor on TV.
"—still no confirmation from the World Health Organization on the nature of the virus. Early reports suggest symptoms start as fever and fatigue, followed by—"
She hesitated. The pause stretched just long enough for Elias to feel the weight of it.
"…violent behavior. Affected individuals have been reported attacking others, apparently without reason. Stay inside, and if you feel sick, seek help immediately."
He blinked. "The hell does that mean? Violent?"
He looked over his shoulder. The living room was dim, just the gray light of a cloudy European morning bleeding through the curtains. His mom had gone to work early—hospital shift. His dad, already gone months before, a quiet absence none of them ever filled. Just Elias, the TV, and the sinking feeling that this wasn't another news cycle they'd forget in a week.
Another anchor took over. "We're just getting confirmation now that the first fatal case has been documented in Berlin. The deceased, after a brief illness, was pronounced dead at 7:45 AM and—this is unverified—appeared to reanimate minutes later, attacking emergency responders before being shot."
Elias's spoon clattered into the bowl.
"Bullshit."
But he didn't believe himself.
He knew panic when he saw it. The anchor's eyes weren't performing anymore. That wasn't journalistic concern. That was real fear.
He reached for his phone, typed "Berlin virus reanimation" into search.
Service was slow. Probably jammed. Everyone must've been doing the same.
One article loaded. Grainy footage. A hospital hallway. Screams. Shaking camera. Then—someone limping, bleeding, grabbing a nurse. Teeth sinking into her neck like it was instinct.
Elias looked away.
He didn't throw up, but he wanted to.
That night, it rained.
Thick, cold, European rain. The kind that seeps into old houses and older bones. Elias lay awake listening to it, fingers laced over his chest like a corpse in a coffin.
It wasn't real. It couldn't be. People didn't come back from the dead. That was movie stuff. Games. Comics.
He remembered watching old zombie movies with his mom when he was a kid. She always rolled her eyes. "It's never about the zombies," she said. "It's about what people turn into when things fall apart."
Elias was starting to understand what she meant.
Day 2.
Lockdown.
It came fast. Too fast.
"—mandatory stay-at-home order across all EU countries effective immediately. Citizens are advised to remain indoors. Military deployment is underway. We repeat—do not leave your homes—"
Everywhere, panic.
He watched from the window.
Cars clogging the narrow streets. A neighbor banging on another neighbor's door. Someone screaming in Polish downstairs. A woman ran barefoot across the parking lot with a bag of diapers.
He tried calling his mom.
No answer.
Tried again. Nothing.
He went to her room, opened her closet. Her nurse's uniform was gone.
"She went in," he whispered to himself. "She… she wouldn't leave me if she didn't have to."
That's what he told himself.
He made pasta. Ate half. Sat by the door, hugging his knees.
He'd always been a nerd, yeah. Skinny, awkward. The kind of kid who always had his head in a book. But this—this was something no book prepared him for.
Day 5.
The world fell.
It wasn't slow. It wasn't cinematic. It was fast, ugly, and terrifying.
The news stopped pretending. No more polished suits. No more graphics. Just shaky cell phone videos. Governments collapsing. Entire cities going dark.
"No cure," a voice on TV said flatly. "No cure. No explanation. And no hope unless you're willing to survive."
That was the last broadcast he saw before the power went out.
The silence that followed was worse than the screams.
Day 6.
The first one came at dawn.
Elias heard the sound before he saw it. A wet, dragging shuffle outside the apartment. His hands gripped the bat he'd found in his closet. Aluminum. His dad's old one. He hadn't touched it in years.
He peeked through the peephole.
It was Mr. Laurent. Or… it used to be.
Face pale, eyes cloudy, lips red with dried blood. He stood there in the hallway, swaying like a drunk, until he collapsed forward and started clawing at the door. No awareness. No speech. Just animal sounds.
Elias backed away. Slowly.
He locked the door. All three bolts. He pushed a chair under the handle. Then the table.
His heart was louder than the banging.
And that's when the second one came. Downstairs. A scream. Then silence. Then wet chewing sounds.
Day 7.
He hadn't eaten. Couldn't. Not with the stench in the hallway and the sound of dragging feet outside his window every few hours.
He wrote down everything. Every name. Every detail. He told himself it helped. That he was cataloging the apocalypse like a scientist. But the truth?
He was terrified of forgetting what normal felt like.
He wrote:
Day 7
Alone
No word from mom
Mr. Laurent dead
Water still running
Food: 2 cans beans, 1 rice, 3 ramen
And then: If I die, I want someone to know I tried.
Day 8.
He died.
It happened just like that.
There was screaming in the hall. A kid—he didn't know his name—banging on doors, screaming for help. Elias opened his.
He didn't think. He couldn't.
Instinct.
He saw the kid. Bleeding. Behind him, three of them—zombies. Twisted, more feral than the ones before. Their skin bubbling. One had extra arms.
Mutated. Different.
He grabbed the kid, yanked him inside, slammed the door. But the door wouldn't close. One of the creatures shoved itself through.
"Push!" Elias yelled.
He pushed. The kid pushed. The door groaned.
Then—teeth.
Pain. Fire. The world going red.
Elias screamed as something tore into his side. He kept pushing. Kept fighting. He shoved his body forward. He managed to get the door shut. He locked it.
And then he fell.
He bled out on the floor.
As the kid cried in the corner, Elias died looking at the ceiling, thinking only one thing:
Mom… I'm sorry.
And then—darkness.
Not peace. Not heaven.
Just darkness.
And a noise.
[Welcome, Survivor.]
He opened his eyes.
He was back. Same room. Same carpet. Same cereal bowl.
He gasped, clutching his side. No wound. No blood.
"What the hell…?"
His hands trembled.
[You died.]
"What?"
[You died. But you are not done yet.]
A sound echoed in his head—like a machine whispering. But it wasn't robotic. It was… something else. Alien. Clean. Like it didn't belong in this world.
"Who are you?!"
No answer.
A book materialized in his lap. Not dropped. Not thrown. One moment it wasn't there, the next it was. A thick, leather-bound thing titled in black ink:
The Survivalist's Instructions Manual
He opened it.
Page 1: You will survive. Follow instructions. Complete quests. Earn rewards.
Page 2: You may now access: Shop, Inventory, Skill Creation.
Page 3: First quest: Secure shelter. Reinforce all entry points. Reward: 100 coins.
Then the pages faded. The book dissolved in his hands like smoke.
Elias sat there for a full minute before moving. His hands clenched.
"I died."
He touched his chest. Beat. Real.
"I came back."
He looked around.
Same apartment. Same peeling wallpaper. Same faint mildew smell.
"System?" he whispered.
[Active.]
"Why me?"
[Classified.]
He laughed. It sounded strange. Like someone else laughing with his mouth.
"Figures."
He stood, still shaky.
"Mom…"
He didn't know if she was alive.
He didn't know if this was real.
But one thing burned in his chest now, brighter than fear:
He had another chance.
And he wasn't going to waste it.