Chapter 1
The burning heat in his abdomen jolted Alaric awake from his nightmare. Rubbing his stomach, he sat up bleary-eyed, struggling to distinguish dream from reality. A faint stench of dead rodents permeated the house beneath the gloomy, overcast sky outside his window. Below his sanctuary, the streets had become a death zone filled with bloodthirsty zombies whose guttural growls and wet chewing sounds made his scalp prickle.
He grabbed the half-eaten protein bar from the table, inhaling deeply through his nose. The comforting aroma of processed food momentarily overpowered the ambient rot. Crumbling the bar deliberately, he let the crumbs dissolve on his tongue before rinsing his mouth with water and swallowing the pasty mixture. Creeping to the window, he observed the shambling figures below while mentally calculating his dwindling supplies. Unbidden, his thoughts drifted to that catastrophic morning fifteen days earlier - the dawn of the apocalypse.
After both parents succumbed to cancer and his sister married away, the thirty-year-old found himself alone. A heated argument with his supervisor had ended his corporate career, prompting an ill-fated restaurant venture in Jelen City with friends that hemorrhaged money. Retreating into self-imposed isolation, he’d whittled away days with video games and streaming services, surviving on rental income from his parents’ leased shopfront. His monthly supply runs during rent collection had unwittingly become his salvation.
The year 2015 saw rampant online doomsday prophecies, which Alaric dismissed as clickbait from attention-seeking trolls. September 24th came and went without the predicted ice age, leaving forums eerily quiet except for complaints about hoarded flour and eggs - even military-grade ration bars had tripled in price.
October 2nd news reports mentioned minor meteor showers over the Pacific with no casualties.
Then October 15th at 9:03 AM shattered reality.
Exhausted from an all-night gaming session, Alaric had wrinkled his nose at an unfamiliar chemical tang permeating the air. His casual decision to seal all windows and doors later proved life-saving. After showering, he’d spritzed his sister’s leftover perfume as air freshener before collapsing into bed.
Waking at 9 PM, he munched snacks while checking news sites. All updates ceased abruptly at noon. Initially unconcerned, he grew uneasy an hour later - the perpetually busy road outside lay silent. No engine hums, no horns, just oppressive stillness tightening his chest.
A bloodcurdling scream shattered the quiet. Barefoot and trembling, he rushed to the window.
Under sulfurous streetlights, three figures hunched over something twitching. Wiping his glasses clean, Alaric squinted. The group appeared to be... feeding. Between them protruded human legs jerking spasmodically. When one figure shifted, the yellow light illuminated their grisly banquet.
Oh God! Alaric witnessed the most gruesome scene of his life: A man lay supine on the ground, his head tilted to one side, gaping mouth twisted into a horrified grimace. Hollow eyes filled with despair stared skyward. The man’s chest had been ripped open as two crouching figures fought over viscera while stuffing organs into their mouths. A third figure sat with its back to him, clutching a heart between both hands as it chewed.
Alaric’s legs gave way, sending him crashing to his knees. Bile surged up his throat as he scrambled to his feet and staggered to the bathroom, retching violently. When he finally rose trembling from the cold tiles, his mind flooded with scenes from horror films he’d watched - Resident Evil, Saw - never imagining he’d witness such atrocities in reality.
After half an hour slumped against the wall, his breathing steadied. Returning to the window, he found the cannibals had multiplied from three to a horde. Streetlights illuminated their stiff, shuffling movements as more silhouettes converged endlessly. The macabre procession resembled some profane ritual with living sacrifices, making him shiver uncontrollably.
His trembling fingers fumbled through multiple failed attempts to dial emergency services. When twelve calls went unanswered, he tried relatives and friends - all lines busy. He nearly hurled his phone into the toilet bowl in frustration.
Outside, the mob now clustered around the corpse reduced to bare bones. Dozens knelt licking bloodstains from pavement cracks. These were no longer human - just ravenous beasts driven by predatory instinct. Scuffles erupted constantly as figures knocked each other down only to rise and attack anew. Distant screams pierced the night before being abruptly silenced - unmistakable signs of survivors being hunted.
Watching this hellscape unfold, Alaric lit a cigarette. The nicotine steadied his hands. He needed answers. Returning to his computer, he found news sites flooded with “Virus Outbreak” headlines he’d previously dismissed as clickbait. Now the truth glared from the screen:
Reports detailed global infections spanning from Alaska to Argentina, Africa to Eurasia. Victims transformed into frenzied killers attacking indiscriminately. The timeline chilled him - starting at 10 AM nationwide, the infection spread exponentially before emergency protocols could activate. Governments and militaries collapsed as colleagues, family members, even soldiers turned without warning. A dinner companion might suddenly rip out your throat. Worse, bite or scratch victims mutated within an hour.
European authorities had named it the Berserker Virus - B-Virus for short.
The mode of transmission for this virus is divided into airborne and contact infections. The infected exhibit heightened aggression, possess 1.5 times the physical strength of ordinary humans, and move at normal walking speed with limited explosive power. Their teeth and nails have mutated into sharper forms capable of penetrating ordinary clothing. Key external characteristics include: entirely white sclera without pupils, complete loss of vision, rigid gait, heightened olfactory senses, craving for living flesh, and functional hearing. Any healthy individual scratched or bitten will mutate. The infected demonstrate exceptional physical resilience, impervious to conventional injuries—only destruction of the central nervous system or severing the cervical spine can neutralize them. No new mutations have been observed thus far. Conservative estimates indicate over 90% of the global population has been infected. To anyone reading this post: Survive. Survival represents hope.
There is hope as long as one is alive. Alaric now fully understood this. The crowd outside his window were all infected. He didn’t know whether he was already carrying the virus, when his symptoms might manifest, or where this damned outbreak had originated. But he feared death—feared being devoured by those zombified carriers. The mental image of his arm being torn off, his intestines ripped out and fed into a zombie’s maw, filled him with primal terror. Pacing restlessly around the room, he struggled to settle.
He grabbed a bottle of brandy from the fridge and took a deep swig. The burn of alcohol finally steadied him. With societal order collapsed and taxpayers stripped of government or police protection, seeking help outdoors was futile. The horde below hungered for foolish prey. Alaric sat before his computer to strategize survival priorities: food, water, and weapons. He bitterly regretted dismissing his father’s firearm training—his current ignorance of guns left him no choice but to improvise melee weapons.
Tap water was untrustworthy; who knew if corpses floated in reservoir tanks? Thankfully, his habit of ordering bottled water left two full barrels—a temporary reprieve from thirst.
Next came food inventory. His routine of monthly grocery runs after rent collection on the 10th meant supplies would last only ten days. Today was the 1st. Forbidden from using lights, he scavenged through his cluttered home via phone flashlight. After hours of chaotic searching, he cataloged all provisions: compressed biscuits, canned food, dried fish fillets, instant noodles, milk, steak, cheese, eggs, flour, salt, sugar, two barrels of water, and ten cigarette packs. No vegetables. He patted his stomach—strict rationing might stretch this to a month.
Finally, securing his shelter. His late-20th-century two-story house stood behind iron gates, which normally deterred infected—unless they detected living prey inside. His computer room on the second floor offered full visibility through windows. He stealthily checked the reinforced front door on the ground floor, sealing all gaps with duct tape. Newspaper covered every window except his observation slit, curtains drawn tight.
By midnight, sweat-drenched and exhausted, Alaric reviewed his preparations. Electricity remained functional—for now. Jelen City’s hydroelectric power station might sustain it for months. But without network maintenance, internet collapse was imminent. His devices would soon become useless. He spent the night downloading survival guides: wilderness skills, wound treatment, improvised weapons, water purification. By dawn, his computer had transformed into a survival encyclopedia.
