Hugo sat in his dimly lit apartment, staring at the empty cans and crumpled food wrappers that littered his kitchen counter. Three weeks. That’s how long he had managed to ration what little he had left. But now, there was nothing—no more canned beans, no more instant noodles, not even a stale cracker to gnaw on. His stomach growled in protest, a sharp reminder of his dwindling chances.
His apartment was on the third floor, giving him a decent view of the street below. He pulled aside the makeshift curtain and peered out. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the ruined cityscape. A few figures shambled in the distance, their movements slow and disjointed, their ragged clothes hanging loosely over emaciated frames. The sight sent a chill down his spine. He had seen them before, always wandering, never stopping, never resting.
He ran a hand through his unkempt hair, his mind racing. Going outside was suicide. The undead roamed the streets, shuffling aimlessly, their chilling screams occasionally piercing the silence of the dead city. But if he stayed here, starvation would take him before they did. He had to find food.
Hugo had been a cook once, before the world had turned into this rotting nightmare. A good one, too. He had made a living crafting delicate dishes, balancing flavors, ensuring every meal was a masterpiece. Now, he would settle for a can of cold soup or a crust of bread, something, anything to keep the gnawing hunger at bay.
He looked at his phone. No reception—communication had been the first thing to collapse when the virus spread. He had only 10% battery left, a small lifeline quickly draining away. The electricity had gone down a couple of days ago, though at least the water had still been running. But, he hadn’t checked since yesterday. He had filled every bottle he owned and the bathtub just in case, but now he needed to confirm if it was still flowing.
His eyes drifted back to the phone screen. The date read: June 12, 6 PM.
Boredom was an enemy of its own. There wasn’t a lot to read in his apartment—mostly cookbooks and recipe collections. And he didn’t want to look at those; it would be torture in his state. The only other books he had were a zombie novel—which was definitely off the table—and two books he had already read in college. He had already reread them out of sheer desperation, but they did little to distract him from his growing hunger.
He couldn’t even distract himself with games; his computer sat useless in the corner, just another relic of the world before. Board games? That was out of the question—he wasn’t desperate enough to play alone, not yet. And making too much noise was a risk he wasn’t willing to take. That left him with nothing but his thoughts, which was a dangerous place to be. His stomach twisted in hunger, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered if drinking more water would trick his body into feeling full. It was a miserable thought, but right now, it was all he had.
As he got up, he grabbed a glass from the counter and twisted the faucet handle. A sinking feeling settled in his gut as he listened. The only sound was the faint creaking of the pipes—nothing came out. Not even a drip. His stomach tightened. Maybe he had jinxed himself by thinking the water was still running. Now, with what he had, he estimated he could survive for at least a month. But the main problem was food.
He had to formulate a plan. Going outside to find a store was dangerous, but starting with his neighbor’s apartment seemed like a safer bet. It was better to start close, giving himself the option to retreat quickly if needed, rather than risk venturing outside at this hour.
After some thought, he decided his best bet was the apartment next door. He hadn’t heard a sound from it in weeks, which could mean it was abandoned—or worse. But if there was food inside, it was worth the risk. He grabbed his backpack, shaking out anything unnecessary to make room for supplies. Taking a deep breath, he secured his prized Japanese kitchen knife in his belt. It was razor-sharp, well-maintained—one of the few things he had left from his old life as a chef. He had paid a fortune for it, and over the years, it had been through a lot with him. Now, it wasn’t just a tool for cooking; it was his best chance at survival.
He picked up his flashlight, flicking it on and off to make sure it still worked. With no electricity, everything beyond his apartment was shrouded in darkness. The thought made his skin crawl. The silence was suffocating, and the idea of stepping into it sent a shiver down his spine. He took a steadying breath, trying to convince himself to move.
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Slowly, he cracked open his door and peered into the hallway. Pitch black. He stepped out, his footsteps silent against the concrete floor. His heart pounded, his grip tightening around the flashlight as he swung its beam across the corridor. No movement. No noise. Just the stale scent of dust and decay.
He turned toward the apartment right in front of his—Apartment 302. He hesitated for a moment. He didn’t even remember who his neighbor had been. Working in a restaurant meant he had always kept the opposite schedule of most people in the building, rarely crossing paths with them. Now, in this eerie silence, it felt strange to be stepping into a place that had once been occupied by someone he had never met.
If anyone—or anything—was inside, he needed to be ready to run. His pulse hammered in his ears as he reached for the doorknob. The door seemed closed, but it was slightly ajar. He pushed it open a little further, and the stench of blood and putrefaction hit him like a wall. Something had definitely died in there. He composed himself and creaked the door open further, shining his flashlight inside, ready to run. The beam illuminated flies buzzing over dust-covered furniture, but there was no sign of movement.
Taking a deep breath, he decided to step in, careful not to make a sound. He closed the door behind him, sealing himself inside. At least this way, nothing could sneak up on him from the corridor.
If anyone—or anything—was inside, he needed to be ready to run. His pulse hammered in his ears as he reached for the doorknob. The door seemed closed, but it was slightly ajar. He pushed it open a little further, and the stench of blood and putrefaction hit him like a wall. Something had definitely died in there. He composed himself and creaked the door open further, shining his flashlight inside, ready to run. The beam illuminated flies buzzing over dust-covered furniture, but there was no sign of movement.
Taking a deep breath, he decided to step in, careful not to make a sound. He closed the door behind him, sealing himself inside. At least this way, nothing could sneak up on him from the corridor.
The apartment was unmistakably that of an old woman. The living room, which was visible from the entrance, was cluttered with gaudy floral wallpaper, faded from years of exposure to sunlight. A plastic-covered couch sat in the center, the cushions sunken from decades of use. A collection of porcelain figurines lined a dusty shelf, their glassy eyes seeming to watch him as he moved. A lace doily-covered coffee table stood in front of the couch, its surface cluttered with old magazines, some yellowed with age.
To the right, the kitchen was cramped, its walls lined with outdated wooden cabinets. A tacky, fruit-patterned tablecloth covered the small dining table, now coated in dust. The faint scent of stale perfume lingered in the air, mingling with the putrid stench of decay. A single plate sat abandoned in the sink, its last meal long since rotted away.
The apartment had two bedrooms, both doors wide open. The stench was stronger near one of them, an undeniable mix of rot and death. Hugo's stomach churned, and he decided against checking that room first. Instead, he turned toward the kitchen.
As he stepped inside, the first thing he spotted was a bowl filled with hard candy, sitting on a commode to his left. The wrappers were faded and brittle with age. The sight was almost surreal, a small remnant of normalcy amidst the decay. He scanned the room cautiously, his flashlight revealing more details—the dust-coated countertops, the worn-out linoleum floor, and a rusting faucet with a single droplet clinging to its tip, as if mocking his desperation. He had to stay focused. There might still be something useful here.
He reached out and grabbed a few pieces of candy from the bowl, unwrapping one and popping it into his mouth. The sugar was stale, but it was something, a small comfort in the middle of this nightmare. Stuffing a few more into his pocket, he turned his attention to the kitchen cabinets.
Carefully, he opened the first one, mindful of any sudden movements that could send objects tumbling and alert anything lurking nearby. Inside, only neatly stacked plates and glasses greeted him. He frowned and moved to the second cabinet—more dishes, untouched and useless. The third yielded the same result, only dust-covered mugs and an old teapot sitting in the back.
He exhaled in frustration. So far, nothing edible.
Turning toward the fridge, he hesitated before gripping the handle. He already had a bad feeling about it, but he needed to check. Bracing himself, he pulled the door open—and immediately gagged. The overwhelming stench of rot and spoiled food poured out, nearly making him retch. He slammed the door shut, turning away as he wiped his watering eyes. Nothing in there was salvageable.
Regaining his composure, he looked around for anything else. His eyes landed on the top of the fridge. Stretching on his toes, he reached up and felt around. His fingers brushed against something. He pulled it down—an old can of chicken soup. His heart leapt. He kept searching and found a pack of crackers, slightly crushed but still sealed.
After searching a little longer, he crouched and pulled open the cabinet beneath the sink. His eyes landed on a bag tucked into the corner—cat food. He frowned, holding it up. If there was cat food, then maybe the cat was still around. Just as he examined the bag, a noise came from the corridor where the bedrooms were. He froze, his breath catching in his throat. Something was there.
Heart pounding, he took a cautious step forward, but pain shot through his foot as he slammed his toes into a piece of unseen furniture. He clenched his jaw to keep from cursing aloud, the sudden noise echoing in the silent apartment.
He stood completely still, listening. The noises from the room continued—shuffling, a faint creak. Something, or someone, was definitely there.
Not daring to move any closer, he swallowed and softly called out, "Here, kitty…" His voice was barely above a whisper, but in the eerie silence, it felt impossibly loud.
The noise from the room intensified—more shuffling, a faint thump. Whatever was inside had heard him. His grip tightened around the flashlight, his muscles tensing, ready to bolt if needed.
Then, just as he braced himself for the worst, a soft, familiar sound broke the silence. A meow.
His breath hitched, and he spun around, the beam of his flashlight darting across the room. The light reflected off a pair of glowing yellow eyes—wide, unblinking. The black cat stood there, watching him, its fur slightly raised. Relief flooded him, but it was short-lived. If the cat was here… then what the hell was making noise in that room??