Chapter 2: Survival Begins
The banging continued for nearly an hour.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
Each impact sent fresh waves of anxiety through Zealot.
At first, he remained seated against the wall, barely daring to breathe.
But as time passed, he noticed something.
The impacts were becoming weaker.
Slower.
Less frequent.
Eventually, silence returned.
Complete silence.
Zealot remained where he was for several more minutes.
His heart still raced.
He wasn't willing to risk opening the door.
Not yet.
Slowly, he stood and approached one of the windows.
The city outside looked like a nightmare.
Smoke rose from several distant locations.
Cars remained abandoned across roads and intersections.
Not a single pedestrian could be seen.
The bustling city he had known yesterday appeared dead.
His phone vibrated.
Zealot nearly jumped.
Quickly pulling it out, he discovered dozens of missed notifications.
Most were from coworkers.
Some were from news applications.
The cellular network was still functioning.
His eyes widened.
Immediately he opened a news broadcast.
What he saw chilled him.
The screen showed footage from cities around the world.
People attacking one another.
Military vehicles firing into crowds.
Hospitals overwhelmed.
Emergency broadcasts repeating endlessly.
A scrolling message appeared at the bottom.
"Unknown infectious disease spreading globally."
"Citizens are advised to remain indoors."
"Do not approach infected individuals."
"Head trauma is currently the most effective means of neutralization."
Zealot stared.
Head trauma.
The infected.
There was no longer any doubt.
Zombies.
Real zombies.
A bitter laugh escaped his lips.
Years of movies and novels had prepared him for this possibility.
Yet now that it had actually happened, none of that knowledge made him feel safer.
If anything, it made him more terrified.
The realization struck him.
Food.
Water.
Electricity.
Medicine.
If society had collapsed, those things would soon become more valuable than money.
His savings account suddenly seemed meaningless.
He rushed into the kitchen.
Opening cupboards one after another.
Instant noodles.
Rice.
Canned food.
Bottled water.
Not much.
Maybe enough for two weeks.
Three if rationed carefully.
His expression darkened.
That wasn't nearly enough.
Especially if rescue never came.
Throughout the rest of the day, Zealot inventoried everything inside his apartment.
Food.
Water.
Medicine.
Tools.
Batteries.
Anything useful.
By evening, he had transformed his dining table into a supply station.
The situation wasn't good.
But it wasn't hopeless either.
As darkness fell, the city became even more terrifying.
Without electricity, most buildings vanished into darkness.
Occasional screams echoed through the night.
Distant gunfire sounded every few minutes.
Sometimes closer.
Sometimes farther away.
Zealot slept poorly.
Every noise woke him.
Every shadow seemed threatening.
The next morning brought little improvement.
The cellular network had weakened.
Many news channels had stopped broadcasting entirely.
The government continued issuing emergency messages.
But their tone was becoming increasingly desperate.
On the third day, the power finally returned.
At least temporarily.
The lights flickered.
The refrigerator hummed back to life.
Zealot nearly cheered.
Immediately he began charging every electronic device he owned.
Phones.
Power banks.
Rechargeable batteries.
Anything capable of storing electricity.
Something told him the power grid wouldn't survive forever.
The following days settled into a routine.
Wake up.
Check news.
Ration supplies.
Listen for danger.
Wait.
The boredom became almost as difficult as the fear.
Eventually curiosity won.
On the seventh day, Zealot finally left his apartment.
Armed with nothing more than a kitchen knife and a metal frying pan.
He cautiously entered the hallway.
The zombie that had attacked him earlier was gone.
Only dried blood remained.
The corridor was eerily quiet.
Carefully, he explored the twelfth floor.
Most apartments were locked.
Several showed signs of forced entry.
One apartment contained a horrifying scene.
A family lay dead inside.
The sight nearly made him vomit.
He quickly left.
Another apartment proved more useful.
The owner had apparently fled in a hurry.
Food remained untouched.
Several bottles of water sat in the kitchen.
Zealot carried everything back to his apartment.
Over the next several hours, he systematically searched the entire floor.
Some apartments contained corpses.
Others were empty.
Many contained valuable supplies.
By sunset, he had tripled his food reserves.
For the first time since the apocalypse began, hope appeared.
Perhaps survival was possible after all.
The next morning, Zealot decided to push further.
The eleventh floor.
He descended the stairs cautiously.
Nothing happened.
No zombies appeared.
The floor seemed deserted.
Room by room, he searched for supplies.
His confidence gradually increased.
Maybe most of the infected had already left the building.
Maybe the danger wasn't as great as he feared.
That assumption nearly got him killed.
As he entered a seemingly empty apartment, a figure exploded from behind a sofa.
A zombie.
The creature slammed into him.
Both crashed onto the floor.
The kitchen knife flew from his hand.
The zombie snarled violently.
Its rotten teeth snapped inches from his face.
Zealot panicked.
Using every ounce of strength, he held the creature back.
The frying pan had fallen nearby.
Too far.
The zombie pushed downward.
Centimeter by centimeter.
Its mouth approached.
Closer.
Closer.
Then—
PAIN.
Agonizing pain.
The zombie's teeth sank into his shoulder.
Zealot screamed.
Rage surged through him.
With a desperate burst of strength, he shoved the creature sideways.
His hand found the frying pan.
Without hesitation, he swung.
CRACK!
The zombie's skull caved inward.
The creature collapsed instantly.
Dead.
Silence returned.
Zealot remained frozen.
Breathing heavily.
Blood soaked his shoulder.
The bite wound throbbed painfully.
His face turned pale.
Every zombie movie.
Every zombie story.
Every warning.
A bite meant infection.
A bite meant death.
His hands trembled.
"No..."
"No..."
The wound burned.
His vision blurred slightly.
Fear unlike anything he had ever experienced flooded his mind.
He had survived the apocalypse.
Survived starvation.
Survived isolation.
Only to die from a single mistake.
Slowly, Zealot stared at the corpse lying beside him.
Then at the blood dripping from his shoulder.
A terrible realization settled over him.
The countdown had begun.
And somewhere deep within his body...
The virus was already spreading.