Ivan woke up feeling uneasy, his anxiety still running high. The first thing he did was glance nervously at the front door, his mind racing with paranoia about the state of his barricades. He felt a nagging discomfort, like he had forgotten something important. Then it hit him—yesterday was his birthday.
How the hell did I forget that? Ivan thought to himself.
It made sense, though. His 18th birthday had been overshadowed by the chaos of the world falling apart. Between dealing with Ms. Anderson, cleaning the bathroom, and meeting Lucy, exhaustion had left him no time to even think about celebrating.
Now, standing in his apartment with no one around to wish him well, Ivan felt a strange mix of frustration and sadness. His birthday—an important milestone—had come and gone without recognition.
Happy birthday to me...
He checked the barricade at the front door more closely. It was still holding, but he could hear the faint, unnerving sound of the infected wandering outside. His heart beat faster.
He tapped his chest silently, hoping to calm his racing pulse, but the anxiety refused to fade.
Ivan walked to the balcony, moving cautiously to avoid drawing attention. He opened the door just enough to look out. The street below was as deserted as the day before, though a few infected were scattered across the area, shuffling aimlessly in the late morning light.
Guess they wandered off somewhere after the car stopped beeping. He observed them more carefully now, eyes narrowed.
Their eyes, even from this distance, seemed disturbingly focused—glinting with malice, as if driven by some unseen force. But beneath that intensity, there was a flicker of something else. Pain? Do they still have any consciousness? he wondered, the thought creeping into his mind. Or are they just shells?
He didn’t know why he was even entertaining the idea, but a part of him wanted to believe there was still something human left inside them. Suffering like that... it’d be too cruel otherwise.
Then another unsettling question emerged. If everyone stays hidden, do they just... starve? What do they need to survive? Do they only hunt humans?
Ivan sighed, leaning heavily on the railing. He’d seen these kinds of questions pop up online, theories thrown around when the internet was still working. But nobody had any real answers.
The infected didn’t look like they were decaying or falling apart. Instead, they appeared unnaturally preserved, despite the trauma their bodies had suffered. Their skin, though pale and stretched tight over sinewy muscle, bore bite marks and gashes, yet there was no festering, no rot. They moved as if nothing could stop them, relentless and unnervingly focused.
How long can they go on like this? Ivan thought, his gaze lingering on them with a mixture of dread and pity. They didn’t seem like creatures that could survive on their own, yet there they were—moving, searching.
Ivan's thoughts spiraled into a dark abyss as he considered the implications of what he was witnessing. The most horrifying part of the infected wasn’t just their appearance or the constant threat they posed; it was their unnatural way of surviving.
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How can something go without food and water for days, even weeks, and not show any signs of decay? he thought, recalling Ms. Anderson's accounts. She had somehow managed to survive for six days without food or water, but these creatures seemed to defy the natural limits of human endurance.
The infected, despite their relentless movements, showed no signs of typical decay. Their skin, though pale and stretched tight, didn’t decompose or rot. Their eyes, though hollow, lacked the cloudiness of death. They moved with an unsettling purpose, as if the lack of sustenance didn’t impact them at all.
Are they going to just stay here forever? Ivan wondered. The thought was chilling. The infected seemed to be locked in a perpetual state of unrest, endlessly searching and wandering without any clear objective other than their own grim existence.
The realization dawned on him with a shiver: What happens if they just stay here, endlessly roaming around the city? His heart raced with the unsettling thought that this situation might be even more complex and enduring than he had anticipated. The infected might not just be a temporary threat; they could become a permanent part of the landscape.
He also thought about the broader implications. How is the military solving this? Surely they wouldn’t be eradicated just like that, right? The idea of a massive, unyielding presence of the infected seemed almost insurmountable.
Surely not America, Ivan thought. It’s the land of guns—maybe there are a lot of survivors there. The notion brought a glimmer of hope, but it was tinged with doubt. He had seen and heard of the chaos unfolding everywhere, and while the American resilience was well-known, the scale of this crisis was something else entirely.
Ivan had so many thoughts but no answers. He stepped back inside the apartment, determined to stick to some semblance of routine amidst the chaos. He grabbed a bottle of alcohol and some plastic gloves, focusing on cleaning his living space with meticulous care. Each task, though mundane, helped him keep a grip on reality.
After cleaning, Ivan turned his attention to food. He checked his stock again, only to find that it was alarmingly low—enough for just a few more meals. Shit, he thought. I didn’t expect it to run out so quickly. The realization that he might soon be out of food hit him hard. What was he going to do when he was out of supplies?
He also checked his water supply, which, like his food, was dwindling rapidly. The limited amount left was barely enough to last a few more days.
With a heavy sigh, Ivan turned to prepare his meal. He took out a cup of noodles, the last of his small stockpile. The cup was plain, but it held a small comfort amidst the uncertainty. He filled the cup with boiling water from his kettle, the steam rising and filling the room with the faint, savory aroma of dehydrated broth and noodles.
As the noodles rehydrated, he noticed how simple and unremarkable the meal was—just a few strands of pasta floating in a lukewarm, watery broth. The scent of the seasoning was mild, lacking the rich, flavorful punch it would have had under normal circumstances. But it was food, and in this world, that was something.
He stirred the noodles with a fork, letting the seasoning dissolve into the water, and took a moment to appreciate the small comfort of the meal. Even though the food was basic and unexciting, it was a reminder of normalcy in a world that had lost so much of it.
Ivan sat down on the floor, his back resting against the wall. With the furniture barricading the front door, he had no choice but to use the bare floor as his seating. The cold, hard surface pressed against him, a stark contrast to the comfort he used to take for granted.
The sparse furnishings in the room had been repurposed for defense, leaving him with only the bare essentials. The remnants of his old life seemed distant now, replaced by a constant focus on survival.
As he ate the simple meal of noodles, the steam from the cup warmed his face slightly, offering a fleeting moment of comfort. The bland broth did little to satiate his hunger, but it was nourishment in this desolate time. The floor beneath him felt unyielding, a reminder of the precariousness of his situation.
He stared at the walls, lost in thought, the reality of his dwindling supplies weighing heavily on his mind. The absence of his usual surroundings and the makeshift nature of his current setup only added to his sense of unease. Every sound from outside—the distant shuffle of the infected, the occasional creak of the building—felt amplified in the silence of his makeshift refuge.