Kccc... Warning... stay indoors... kcccc.
Kccc... They're coming back... Ahhhhh!
Kccc... The dead... kcccc.
Kccc... The dead ar— kcccc.
Click.
"This is why I don't watch the news anymore," Marcel muttered to himself, tossing the remote onto the coffee table.
The television screen faded to black, leaving only the faint hum of the old box TV echoing in the small apartment. For a moment, silence wrapped around him like a heavy blanket — but outside, the world was anything but silent.
In the distance, the faint wail of sirens cried out, mingling with the occasional crack of distant gunfire. Every so often, a low, guttural moan would echo through the streets — almost like the city itself was breathing in agony.
Marcel stood up from the couch, stretching his sore limbs. The last two days had been nothing short of a nightmare. What started as bizarre reports on the news — isolated incidents of violent outbreaks, strange illnesses, people attacking one another — had spiraled into full-blown chaos.
He walked toward the window, carefully pulling aside the faded curtain just enough to peer outside. The street below was eerily still. Abandoned cars littered the roads, their doors left ajar as if their owners had fled in a panic. The glow of the setting sun casts long shadows across the neighborhood, bathing everything in an orange hue that makes the emptiness feel even more sinister.
But it wasn't completely deserted.
A lone figure stumbled down the middle of the road — its gait uneven, head jerking unnaturally with every step. Marcel squinted. The man — if you could still call it that — was dragging a broken leg behind him, but that didn't seem to slow it down. Blood stained its shirt, caking around its mouth and hands.
Another one.
Marcel backed away from the window, heart pounding. He'd seen enough of these things already — the walking dead. Zombies. Call them whatever you want. The world had gone straight to hell, and it had happened so fast no one was prepared.
He grabbed the crowbar leaning against the wall near the door — his most trusted companion since everything fell apart. He had scavenged it yesterday after a desperate run to a nearby hardware store. The crowbar had saved his life more times than he cared to count.
As the sun dipped lower, Marcel locked every bolt and latch on his front door. The dead were more active at night — that much he had learned quickly.
His apartment was his fortress now — small, simple, but secure. The windows were barricaded with wooden planks, the doors reinforced with furniture. He had enough food and water stashed away for a couple of weeks if he rationed carefully.
But he knew staying locked away wouldn't work forever.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sudden sound at his back window made him freeze. Someone — or something — was out there.
Slowly, he crept toward the noise, gripping the crowbar tighter. The tapping grew more frantic, desperate.
"Help… please… someone…"
A voice. Human.
Marcel exhaled, but only slightly. The living were sometimes even more dangerous than the dead.
He cautiously peeked out and saw a young woman — late twenties, disheveled, terrified — pounding lightly on the glass. She was alone, glancing nervously over her shoulder every few seconds.
"Please," she whispered again, barely audible. "Let me in. They're coming."
Marcel hesitated. He'd made a rule: No one gets in.
Rules kept him alive.
But as he looked into her eyes — wide, desperate, filled with raw fear — something inside him softened.
Another distant groan echoed through the neighborhood. Louder. Closer.
Marcel cursed under his breath, unlocked the side window, and quickly pulled her inside. She stumbled in, collapsing on the floor as he sealed the window shut behind her.
"Thank you… oh God, thank you…" she sobbed, trying to catch her breath.
"Quiet," Marcel whispered sharply. "You'll bring more of them."
The woman nodded rapidly, biting her lip to stifle her cries.
Waiting for the low moans to disappear, Marcel kept his ears sharp, his breathing steady. Only when the last of the groans faded into the distance did he shift his focus back to the woman huddled on the floor.
She looked like she was in her twenties, though fear had aged her face. Dirt smeared her cheeks, and strands of hair clung to her forehead from sweat and panic. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, but no visible wounds. That was a small relief. No bite marks. No scratches—at least none that could be seen.
Marcel gripped the crowbar loosely, keeping it at his side but ready. He knelt slightly, voice low and shuffled, careful not to alarm her or bring any unwanted attention.
"What's your name?" he asked.
Her wide, frantic eyes locked onto his, like a cornered animal uncertain if its savior might also be its predator. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out at first. She swallowed hard, tears threatening to fall.
After a moment, she whispered hoarsely, "Sarah… Sarah Myers."
Marcel gave a slow nod. "You hurt?"
Sarah shook her head quickly. "No. I—I ran. I saw them coming, and I just ran." Her voice trembled. "They were everywhere… my group… they didn't make it."
She wiped her eyes with the back of her dirty sleeve, trying to steady herself.
Marcel studied her carefully. She was scared, that much was obvious. But fear didn't make her a threat. Yet.
"How long have you been out there?" he asked, keeping his voice low.
"A few hours," she breathed, her words shaking. "We tried to make it to the evacuation center… but it was already gone. Overrun."
Marcel exhaled slowly. Of course it was.
The "evacuation centers" the government had set up collapsed within days. The moment the dead flooded the streets faster than the military could react, it all fell apart. People clung to those safe zones, thinking someone would come fix it. Nobody did.
"You alone now?" he asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
She nodded again, fresh tears spilling. "I don't know what to do anymore."
Silence hung between them for a few moments, only broken by faint distant echoes from the world outside. The dead were always out there, somewhere, hunting.
Finally, Marcel stood up and extended a hand. "Get up. You're safe for now."
Sarah hesitated before reaching up and taking his hand. He pulled her to her feet gently.
"Stay quiet. Stay smart," Marcel said. "And you'll stay alive."
Sarah nodded quickly, looking around the small apartment fortress Marcel had built — the heavy furniture barricading the door, the boarded windows, the few precious supplies carefully rationed.
Her voice was still shaking when she asked, "What's your name?"
Marcel glanced at her briefly, his face calm but unreadable.
"Marcel," he said simply.