He walked to the kitchen with slow, deliberate steps. The air smelled stale, metallic. Opening the cupboard, he frowned—two cans of beef, half a loaf of bread, and a pack of cigarettes stared back at him.
> "Guess I'll have to go out soon," he thought grimly.
He sighed, grabbed an empty plastic bottle, urinated into it, and drank.
It was salty. Disgusting. But it was survival.
> "At least it's my own," he whispered, forcing the bottle down in one long gulp.
Moving to the window, he lifted the curtain just enough to peek outside. The city lay dead under a dark sky. Rusted cars. Collapsed buildings. Streets hollow and still.
Zombies wandered aimlessly between shadows. Some dragged broken limbs; others moved with eerie human-like grace, sniffing the air.
One suddenly looked straight toward his window.
Sunny's heart stopped.
He dropped the curtain and pressed against the wall, holding his breath.
> "Did it see me?"
He waited. Silence.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
After a long moment, he forced himself to sit on the sofa, grabbed his old notebook, and began to write.
---
Day 1,460 into the Apocalypse.
Still no sign of my train system awakening.
Guess I'll be joining my family in hell soon.
I keep hearing Grandma's voice whenever I feel despair. She says she misses me.
My food is running low.
Last time I scavenged—eighteen days ago—I found four cans of beef, two loaves of bread, a bottle of water, and a military knife.
That's what's kept me alive so far.
---
He closed the book, sighed, and sniffed his armpit.
Instant regret.
> "Ugh... I'll rot before the zombies eat me," he muttered, forcing a laugh.
The truth was, he had barely enough water to drink—bathing was a fantasy.
He lay down on the sofa, listening to the wind outside whisper through the broken walls. Hunger growled in his stomach, but he ignored it.
Eventually, sleep claimed him.