Atlanta, Georgia
Seven days before the world fell.The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the apartment.
Zephyr sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on knees, observing the same wall encountered prior to death.The realization of having previously died remained profoundly impactful.The final memories included sand, smoke, the distinct sound of small-arms fire, a shockwave, and then a loss of consciousness.
Zephyr found himself in his mid-twenties, residing in the same one-bedroom apartment previously assigned by the army before the last deployment. The scuffed floor, malfunctioning clock, and calendar dated July 8, 2010, remained unchanged.The date stuck out because, in another life, I knew what came next.
In a week, Atlanta would burn. The dead would start walking.I didn't know why or how I was back. Didn't matter. Survival wasn't about explanations; it was about math, planning, and momentum. I had seven days of grace before hell opened. That was enough.
[ Zephyr POV]
The first thing I did was check my body. Muscle tone, breathing, reflex.
You don't survive combat without learning to inventory yourself.I looked healthier—stronger even. But when I focused, something strange hummed behind my eyes, like a low static in my skull. I blinked, and for an instant, words glimmered at the edge of my vision:Operator Protocol: Online.
Functions: Inventory / Accelerated Growth / Stat Tracking.
User: Zephyr Ward.Then the light faded, leaving only the silence.No sound, no HUD—just knowledge, burned directly into thought.
A system, but stripped down to its bones.
Perfect.I tested it.There was a half-empty bottle of water on the desk. I reached out, focused on the idea of storing it.
The air shimmered for a fraction of a second, and the bottle vanished.My pulse kicked up. I thought retrieve, and the bottle reappeared, cool as if it had never been touched.Infinite storage. Time frozen inside.
That single mechanic could break the apocalypse in half if used right.I leaned back, exhaling slowly.Step one: inventory my assets.
Step two: expand my resources.
Step three: vanish before the panic starts.
[Third-Person POV]
Outside, the world was still pretending to be normal. Cars honked. Dogs barked. A news reporter on TV droned about "isolated violent outbreaks" in neighboring states—attacks blamed on drugs, heat, anything but what it really was. Zephyr stood in front of his window, watching sunlight cut across the parking lot. Each movement outside was cataloged: lines of sight, possible exits, choke points. He was back in mission mode, but this time the mission was survival itself.He opened the closet.
The duffel bag was still there—OD green, regulation issue. Inside:One M9 sidearm, three magazines.A disassembled M4 carbine.Field knife, multitool, gloves, rations. A small stack of manuals and notebooks.The sight steadied his hands. Gear was comfort. Gear was certainty.He stripped and cleaned every weapon, oiling the parts, loading magazines, then fed them all into the Operator Protocol's infinite space. Each click of a slide or snap of a mag seated perfectly into his routine; muscle memory honed from years of repetition.
Skill Formed: Firearms Handling Lv.1.
Skill Formed: Maintenance Lv.1.
The words didn't appear so much as arrive—quiet, factual, internal.
His brain now ran like a machine built for efficiency.
[Zephyr POV]
By noon I had the essentials packed: clothes, rations, all field gear, manuals. Everything went into the void. My apartment was empty except for furniture and dust.The next step was transportation. I needed something large, military, reliable.
Something that could be converted into a mobile workshop.
And I knew exactly where to find it.The Atlanta National Guard depot—fifteen miles west.
Last time around, it had gone dark three days before the main outbreak, overrun by soldiers turned walkers. If I got there early, I could strip it clean.I checked the sidearm again, loaded the first mag, and holstered it.
The weight felt right.Seven days.That's how long I had to build a fortress before the world forgot how to breathe.
(To be continued…)