Hey everyone,

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Chapter 3 - Robbery and Start of Knighthood

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You make your way up the creaking steps, each groan of the wood beneath you amplifying the unease clawing at your chest. The hallway ahead is cloaked in darkness, the shadows stretching endlessly. Your hand brushes against the cracked wall, the rough texture grounding you until you reach the door. You stop, frozen, your breath hitching as your gaze drifts into the room beyond.

Your knees buckle, and you collapse to the floor. Tears spill freely, hot and relentless, as your hands grip your head. This can’t be happening. But as your vision sharpens, pulling in every detail against your will, the truth becomes undeniable.

Two bodies lie on the bed. Decomposed. Their skin is mottled gray, patches missing where time and nature have ravaged them. The air reeks of decay, and your stomach churns. You can’t look away, though every fiber of your being screams at you to run.

Then you see it—the gaping void where your father’s head should be. The realization hits you like a physical blow: he chose this. He ended it before the virus could claim him fully. A mercy, perhaps, but one that leaves an open wound in your soul.

Christmas mornings. Birthday celebrations. The good and the bad, all replay in your mind like a cruel slideshow. Times you were a bad son. Times you should have been there instead of hanging out with friends or losing yourself in video games. You always thought there’d be more time. More chances. But now, those chances are gone. Forever.

With trembling legs, you force yourself to stand and step into the room. Your face is blank, the tears running unbidden as you stare at what remains of the people who raised you.

“I—I’m sorry, Mom and Dad,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of the moment. A tremor ripples through your body as you force yourself to look at them—truly look at them. Their faces blend in your mind, flickering between the vibrant life they once had and the hollow shells before you now.

You grit your teeth, feeling the sadness begin to dull, replaced by something colder. The numbness offers clarity, a strange reprieve from the overwhelming grief. But it doesn’t last. You know this image will follow you, haunting every corner of your life. From the days you survive after this moment to the woman you’ll love, the children you’ll raise—there won’t be a single night where your parents’ ruined corpses won’t invade your dreams.

And then you feel it. Something dark and foreign stirs within you. It burns, filling your chest with a strange, twisted strength. But it carries a rage so vast, so unrelenting, it terrifies you. Is this what the apocalypse has reduced you to? Is strength enough to carry you through this nightmare?

Sanity -1. Strength +1.

Negative Perk Gained: No Sleep

The trauma of seeing your parents’ decomposed bodies has left you forever scarred. Nightmares and insomnia will plague you, stealing peace from your nights. This can be mitigated through certain choices and habits, but the weight of this moment will never fully leave you.

You turn away from the sight, your stomach churning as a sneer twists across your face. Without a word, you move to your father’s side, kneeling by the bed. The gun is still there, resting near him like an unspoken testament to his final act. You pick it up, your fingers running over the cool, smooth metal.

Without hesitation, you sling the shotgun over your shoulder. The other gun sits on the table nearby, along with boxes of ammunition. You take those too, your movements mechanical, almost detached.

For a moment, you hesitate before leaving the room. Something in you itches to look back. Maybe you need closure. Maybe it’s just morbid curiosity. Your gaze catches on the mirror in the corner, and you freeze.

There you are, reflected in the tarnished glass, but your breath catches in your throat. For the briefest moment, like a flicker of a wisp in the wind, they’re there—your parents. Smiling. Staring at you.

The illusion shatters, and you burst from the room. You’re sprinting, reeling, barely keeping your footing as you stumble down the stairs. Isaac and Demarcus whip their heads toward you, alarmed.

“Jesus Christ, man, what the hell was—” Isaac starts, his voice edged with panic.

Demarcus cuts him off with a sneer. “Told you we shouldn’t have let him go up there alone. I knew he was taking too long to grab the—”

“You’re the dumb fuck who let him see his parents’ dead bodies!” Isaac fires back, his voice rising.

“Oh, so now it’s my fucking fault?” Demarcus snaps, his tone venomous.

“Guys!” Your voice slices through their argument, sharp and raw.

You’re standing there, sweat dripping down your face, the tears pooling in your eyes betraying your attempt at composure. One shotgun is slung over your shoulder, the other clutched by the barrel in your trembling hand. You force a smile, but it’s broken, fragile.

“I got the guns,” you say, your voice cracking as you nearly choke on a sob.

Demarcus steps closer, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Listen, man, it was a bad move. I should’ve—”

“No,” you interrupt, shaking your head and brushing his hand away. “I had to confront it. They were my parents. It was the least I could do.”

Demarcus nods, but the regret in his eyes is unmistakable.

“Okay, so… what now?” Isaac asks, his voice hesitant, as if afraid to break the fragile calm.

“We look around,” you say firmly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“So we’re not going to town anymore?” Demarcus asks, his voice heavy with uncertainty.

“I didn’t say that, but right now we don’t even know how fucked the roads are,” you snap, the expletive slipping out with raw frustration. Your tone rises, the weight of everything pressing down on you. “Let’s just look around first.”

“All right, all right,” Isaac says, raising his hands in mock surrender.

Demarcus sighs, his expression softening. “Listen, I know you don’t want to talk about it, but me and Isaac both get it. If you want to stick around for a bit and bury your parents… we’ll help. Of course, we’ll stick around and help.”

Your eyes widen. “You will?” you ask, your voice trembling as your mind reels back to what you saw upstairs—the mirror, their faces, their bodies. Moments ago, your father was alive, shouting orders to keep you safe and urging you to find Ulyana. Now, barely an hour later, he’s nothing more than a decaying corpse lying beside your mother.

How could you face that again?

“T-there’s still work to do,” you say, your voice unsteady. “When I was upstairs, I noticed some of the windows are cracked. They’re letting in air. It makes us less secure. We should leave.”

Isaac and Demarcus exchange startled glances.

“Leave?” Isaac repeats. “You want to find a better place?”

“…better somewhere else than here,” you reply, your voice quieter now as you set the weapons down and wrap your arms around yourself.

Before Isaac can respond, Demarcus nudges him with an elbow. Isaac shoots him an annoyed look, but Demarcus’s expression says it all.

“We can leave and find a new spot,” Demarcus says, his voice measured. “Outside, there are houses in better condition than this one. But... like I said, your parents were good to us. Especially your dad. He saved us. He let us stay here.”

You let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I get what you mean, but there’s a genuine zombie apocalypse happening. Remember what the military said before we went under? About how the infected react to the moon?”

Both Demarcus and Isaac nod slowly, their expressions darkening.

It’s Isaac who breaks the silence. “Dude, it’s your choice.” He pauses, raising his hand and ticking off his fingers. “We can help you bury your parents, or we can leave now, like you said. It’s night, but you’re going to have to make the call.”

You stand at another crossroads. Will you confront your parents’ corpses once more, this time with your friends—brothers in this new, brutal world—and give them the peace they deserve? Or will you use the remaining time to loot, scavenge, and prepare for what’s to come before night falls? The decision is yours. Choose wisely.

Your friends would understand. You told yourself that. But deep down, the gnawing truth was simple: you had nothing to give but time. And even that felt borrowed. Extra time—extra chances—were all that mattered now.

“Fucking brutal, man. Fucking brutal,” Isaac muttered, shaking his head as the three of you finally stepped through the front door of your house. You cast one last, somber look behind you. A horrible, lingering feeling settled in your gut—this was the last time you’d ever see the place that had once been your home.

The sight of the dilapidated walls gnawed at you, dragging you through memories you didn’t want to confront. It felt like another life—because it was another life. Back in the pods, it had all been a dream. Everything was so warm, red, and sunlit. If you’d known waking up would mean stepping into this nightmare, would you have wished to stay asleep?

You adjusted your gear: sweatpants, sneakers, and a bomber jacket. Your old college bag now hung empty on your shoulder, its contents of textbooks long gone. That thought gave you a fleeting moment of joy. No more textbooks. No more assignments. And, hell, no more student loans!

But then, like a flicker, she came to mind—Ulyana. Her brown skin radiant, her doe eyes wide and seductive, looking up at you. Your grip tightened on the shotgun. You should’ve been with her. Instead, here you were, shivering in the late September air. At least, you hoped it was still September.

Pulling your hoodie lower over your face, you scanned the area, the shotgun trained in all directions.

“You guys ready?” Demarcus asked, slinging a duffel bag over his shoulder that he’d lifted from your garage. Isaac adjusted his own school bag, nodding.

“As ready as we’re gonna be,” you muttered under your breath, your voice edged with exhaustion.

Your eyes roamed over the remnants of your hometown. The streets you’d grown up on. The houses you used to know. It all felt familiar yet foreign, like you’d stepped into a twisted Silent Hill version of your world. Everything was dead—muted, overgrown, rotting.

“There weren’t that many people left here anyway,” you murmured as you started walking. “Not after the military swept through.”

Your house faced a thick expanse of woods bordering a dead highway. In the distance, the skeletal remains of clustered cars dotted the horizon, silent witnesses to the chaos that had unfolded.

Ahead, more houses lined both sides of the road, a few with cars still parked in the driveways. Isaac squinted and smiled faintly. “We might be in luck,” he said, his voice carrying a fragile optimism.

“Hopefully we don’t run into an infected or something,” Demarcus muttered, his tone grim as his eyes darted toward the shadows pooling between the houses.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” you mutter, scanning the eerie stillness around you. “Honestly, the infected are scary, but right now, I’m more worried about running into another person. It’s quiet—strangely quiet.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The three of you continue walking, your footsteps echoing faintly against the cracked pavement. Eventually, you stop in front of a modest house with the first car you’ve seen parked beside it. The windows are shut tight, and mild overgrowth creeps along the walls, giving the place an almost haunted vibe.

“Bro,” Isaac says, nudging your shoulder with his elbow. You glance at him, but his eyes are fixed on the shotgun slung across your back.

You click your tongue, unlooping the gun. Tossing it to him, you say, “Here. Happy now?”

Isaac catches it with a smirk and walks toward the front window, leaning close to peer inside.

“You see anything in there?” Demarcus asks, his voice low but tinged with curiosity.

Isaac snorts. “Nothing except your mother’s fat ass,” he says, laughing loudly at his own joke.

You can’t help it—you laugh too, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade.

“Oh, shut the hell up,” Demarcus grumbles, rolling his eyes. “Christ, this is why I can’t get shit done with you two numbskulls tagging along.”

Isaac shifts, craning his neck to check different angles through the window. Finally, he shrugs. “Looks clear. Let’s go in here.”

He slings the shotgun over his shoulder and waves you forward. “Come on, give me a hand, will ya?”

Holstering your own firearm, you walk over and help him work on the window. It doesn’t give easily at first, groaning and creaking as the frame resists your combined effort. But finally, it budges.

Demarcus whistles from behind you. “Really that easy, huh?”

You’re still catching your breath. “You call that shit easy?” you retort, wiping sweat from your brow.

Isaac, also winded, smirks. “You’re one to talk.”

Demarcus chuckles as he steps through the now-open window and into the room. “All I’m saying is—”

His words cut off as something lunges at him. A tumult erupts inside—a blur of movement, a muffled cry, and then Demarcus is yanked out of view.

“Demarcus!” you and Isaac shout in unison, your voices raw with panic.

Isaac raises his shotgun, his hands trembling, sweat slicking his brow. But before he can fire, you grab the barrel and shove it down.

“No,” you say firmly, your voice sharp as steel.

“That fucking thing got him!” Isaac hisses, his teeth clenched in rage and fear.

“I said no, Isaac.” Your eyes lock with his, unwavering. “The infected are here. If you fire that thing, we’ll attract more of them. We need shelter and supplies—we can’t risk it.”

“How do you expect us to fight them, then?” Isaac asks mockingly, his tone laced with skepticism.

You stare him down, your voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “…By getting into melee with them.”

Without waiting for a reply, you rise, flipping the safety of your shotgun on with a practiced motion. Both hands grip the weapon tightly as you steel yourself.

Stepping into the house, your eyes sweep over the carnage. Blood stains the floor in grotesque patterns, stretching out in big and small puddles. A matted, decaying corpse sprawls in the corner, its lifeless body a reminder of what you’re up against.

And then you see him—Demarcus.

“Get this fucking thing off me!” he shouts, his voice frantic, raw with panic.

You sneer, a storm of emotions flashing through your mind: your parents’ corpses, Ulyana’s face, school, the future—all the things you could have had, now reduced to ash. Gritting your teeth, you lunge forward, the butt of your shotgun swinging hard into the infected’s head.

The blow frees Demarcus, sending the zombie crashing into one of the wooden kitchen drawers. The impact snaps the creature’s nose cartilage with a sickening crunch. It struggles to rise, snarling through broken teeth, but you don’t hesitate. You’re not afraid. You’re not disturbed. You’re furious.

“Jesus Christ, he’s fucking dead!” Demarcus’s voice roars in your ear, snapping you back to the moment.

You freeze, crouched like some primal creature, your hands locked tight around the shotgun. The head of the infected is caved in, a ruined mass of flesh and bone, blood dripping from your hands and weapon.

“What the fuck was that, bro?” Demarcus asks, his voice somewhere between shock and concern.

“I-I… I needed to be sure it was dead,” you stammer, the words tumbling out without thought. It’s all you can think to say.

Demarcus stands, brushing himself off as he recalibrates. “Dude, you can’t be doing this kind of shit. I get it, you hate them—I hate them too—but if we were rolling with another group or—”

“It won’t happen again,” you cut him off, your voice firm, unyielding. Your gaze locks with his, a silent promise burning in your eyes.

“Whoa, you really fucked that guy up!” Isaac exclaims loudly as he stumbles through the window, nearly tripping into the house.

He dusts himself off, striding over to clap you on the back with a grin. “That’s number two…”

“Number three, actually,” you correct, your voice low but steady.

“Enough of that—it’s time to loot,” Demarcus declared, brushing off the tension as he turned toward the kitchen cabinets.

You and your friends followed, fanning out through the dark, cramped space.

“It’s so damn dark in here,” Isaac muttered, squinting as he fumbled around.

“It’s a fucking miracle the sun’s pouring in through that busted window,” you said, nodding toward the sliver of light cutting through the gloom.

“Why don’t we just flip on the lights or something?” Isaac asked, his tone almost flippant.

Demarcus froze, his eyes going wide. “…Are you fucking retarded?” he snapped, glaring at Isaac before gesturing out the window. “Look around, man. Does any of this look like it’s ‘contained’ to you?”

Unfazed, Isaac ignored the jab and began feeling along the kitchen wall. “What’re you doing now?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Trying to find the damn light switch,” Isaac replied, his fingers trailing over the cracked plaster. “Maybe these rich folks have a backup generator or something—damn it!”

Before you could respond, Demarcus stepped over and flicked a switch near the doorway. Light bathed the room, sudden and bright.

“Huh. Look at that,” Demarcus deadpanned, folding his arms.

Your gaze shifted to the lit room, the flicker of normalcy unsettling in the post-apocalyptic wreckage. Instinctively, you wandered to the sink, twisting the knob. Clear water gushed out, the sound filling the quiet space.

“Fresh water… and power during the apocalypse?” you murmured, the words slipping out before you could catch them.

Demarcus joined you, leaning against the counter. “Maybe we weren’t in there as long as we thought,” he said, his voice thoughtful.

“Yeah, so we didn’t get Futurama’d,” Isaac quipped, grinning as he elbowed you in the side. “Hey, that means Ulyana’s probably still waiting for you.”

You sneered, brushing him off wordlessly as your gaze drifted back to the corpse on the floor. Something about it gnawed at you, a reminder of how quickly life had turned into this nightmare.

Pushing away from the sink, you let Isaac and Demarcus take over. They tore into the cupboards with enthusiasm, Demarcus quietly focused while Isaac’s commentary filled the air.

“Fucking sweet,” Isaac said, grinning as he laid out cans and boxes on the counter. “Looks like this guy didn’t touch his stash. Probably one of those COVID nuts who hoarded everything.” His laughter echoed through the room.

Meanwhile, Demarcus broke away, his focus shifting to you as he knelt beside the corpse. The man—once a middle-aged guy with a generic dad look—was now barely a shell. His brown mustache was matted with blood, his eyes bulging and bloodshot.

Demarcus studied the body with a hard, detached expression. “This guy didn’t stand a chance,” he muttered.

“You know this guy?” Demarcus asked, his voice cutting through the quiet.

You shrugged, glancing back at the body. “Looks familiar, but nah. I was never rich… this guy was probably loaded.”

“Shit, you know what that means,” Isaac said, his grin stretching wide. “Who knows what kind of goodies this guy stashed around his crib?”

The house creaked faintly as the afternoon light slanted through broken blinds. Despite the surreal calm, you still felt the lingering effects of sleeper sickness—a dull ache in your head and an unsettling weight in your limbs. You’d made the call to stay the night. After the day you’d all had, it made sense. Besides, everyone deserved a break.

Now, you were nestled on the couch in the living room, the familiar voice of Indiana Jones crackling from the TV. The glow of the screen flickered across your face as you idly flipped through the channels.

“How’s dinner going, wife?” Isaac called from the couch, legs propped up like he owned the place.

“Shut the fuck up,” Demarcus shot back from the kitchen. The tantalizing aroma of pasta and simmering sauce wafted through the air, teasing your empty stomach.

“I’m fucking starving,” you muttered, rubbing your belly. Still holding the remote, you cycled through the channels. “Full Indiana Jones series, Harry Potter movies, Rambo… it’s all here, free to watch. Someone out there’s still broadcasting, but all the live shows are just—”

Isaac cut you off with a loud chuckle. “That’s the perks of the American military, sorting this shit out quicker than we thought.” He leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head. “Before you know it, we’ll be out of this mess.”

You clicked on one of the Harry Potter movies, settling deeper into your seat. Moments later, Demarcus emerged from the kitchen, carrying a steaming pot of noodles coated in rich red sauce. The aroma alone was enough to make your mouth water.

You got up, heading for the silverware drawer to grab forks and utensils. Meanwhile, Isaac pulled the coffee table closer, clearing space as Demarcus set the pot down with a satisfying clatter.

“I know it’s gotta be, like, a week or something,” Demarcus said, spooning a hefty serving into his bowl.

“What makes you think that?” Isaac asked, chuckling between bites.

“All the meat in that guy’s fridge was spoiled to shit,” Demarcus explained, wiping his hands before looking your way. “What about you, man? How long you think it’s been? With all this decay, you’d think years, but if the government’s still active, then maybe…”

“Maybe we can win this,” you said, the words spilling out before you realized it. There was a flicker of something in your voice—a spark of hope.

Isaac and Demarcus both looked at you, their faces softening as smiles crept in. For a moment, the weight of it all seemed to lift. A sense of vigor coursed through your veins.

Grabbing your bowl, you shoveled the pasta into it, the smell even more intoxicating up close. Your stomach growled as you pressed the first bite to your lips. It was warm, familiar—a reminder of something good, even in the midst of everything that had gone wrong.

You finished two bowls before exhaustion finally claimed you and your friends. With the shades pulled tight, the house plunged into near-total darkness, you each found your spot on separate mattresses scattered across the room. Sleep came quickly, and with it, the weight of dreams—heavy, strange, and vivid.

In the stillness of the night, as you slumbered, something stirred. Not in the room, but within. A reawakening, deep in the tendrils of your blood, began to take shape. Something old, yet undeniably new.

You were back there again, your eyes closed, but your mind alive, navigating the wisping currents. This time, it felt different, like you were being guided. The black currents shifted, thinning into a dense fog that wrapped around you. It was heavy but not suffocating, nothing like the oppressive weight of the pod. Instead, a warmth cut through the mist—a comforting light, carrying no guilt or regret.

Ahead, by the glow of a fire, sat a man. His silhouette was stark against the flames as he perched on a log, steady and deliberate. He wore thick plate armor, its surface dulled with age and use, covered by a plain, smoke-stained tabard. His hands worked methodically, cleaning a bloodied greatsword.

As you approached, the man turned, his gaze invisible beneath the shadow of his templar-style helmet. Yet, you could feel the warmth of a smile emanating from him, as if he knew you.

“It’s been a long time,” he said, his voice calm and content. “I’ve heard much about you.”

You raised an eyebrow, instinctively lifting a hand as if to ward off the strangeness. The tabard and his other details seemed to blur within the haze of smoke and flickering firelight. “I think you’ve got the wrong guy. I’d remember meeting a knight in full armor—or anyone wielding a sword that size.”

The knight laughed, the sound crackling like the fire before him. Then, without warning, he drove the greatsword into the earth with a force that made you jolt backward.

“Good reflexes,” he said, his tone almost approving. “You’ll need those if you’re going to survive. If you’re going to continue the bloodline.”

“Bloodline?” You stared at him, the absurdity of the situation pressing down on you. “What the hell are you talking about, old man? And seriously, do you know how ridiculous you—”

“Enough,” he interrupted, his voice sharper now. “Time is short, and there is much to learn. What skill do you wish to master, young one? I can teach you many things, but tonight, we have time for only one.”

You turned away for a moment, taking in the strange expanse of this place. Fog swirled endlessly around you, and the fire burned steady, despite the lack of wind or wood to feed it. You didn’t know if this was life or death or something in between.

“Fine,” you muttered, your shoulders slumping. If this was some bizarre fever dream, you’d play along. “Sure, Sir Knight,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “What do you have for me? Enlighten me with your wisdom.”

The knight either didn’t notice or didn’t care about your tone. He gestured grandly, his armored hand sweeping over an array of possibilities that seemed to appear before you, suspended in the mist.

“Have a look, young one,” he said.

Choice Number 1: Sword, Shield, and Mace. The classic knight’s arsenal. You will start as a squire, learning the fundamentals of discipline and combat. Over time, you’ll grow into the Knight Path, mastering your tools and embodying the legacy of a protector.

Choice Number 2: Long Arms. Greatswords and Polearms. These are weapons of reach, power, and precision. Skills forged in the fires of the Crusades linger in your blood, ready to awaken. With this choice, your expertise in battlefield weapons begins.

Choice Number 3: The Way of the Scrap Knight. Latent memories ripple within you, whispers of a life spent surviving and adapting. Choose this, and you’ll start with a moderate proficiency in small arms, but your true strength will be in crafting. Salvaged weaponry, scrap-built armor—your tools will be born of ingenuity and necessity. Knightly discipline meets modern survival.

However, choose wisely, Templar. You can only claim one path… for now.

As the choice crystallized in your mind, the world around you trembled. Your equilibrium wavered, and a sudden roar yanked you from the haze.

“Damn it, Isaac!” Demarcus’s voice shot through the air, sharp and raw. “What the hell is going on?”

Isaac loomed over you, his face twisted in fury. “We’ve been fucking robbed!” he barked.

Your eyes widened. “W-what? We haven’t even been here that long—”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “We should’ve had someone on watch.”

“Fuck that! Fuck this! Fuck them!” Isaac exploded, pacing in a fury. “I’m angry as hell!”

“Me too,” you muttered, your teeth grinding. Anger coiled tight in your chest like a spring ready to snap.

Demarcus ran a hand over his face, his voice strained but measured. “Guys, I know you’re pissed, but there are people out here just trying to survive. We get our stuff back, sure—but we keep our heads straight.”

“Straight?” Isaac snarled, whirling on Demarcus. “Fuck straight. I want revenge! I want that bastard to bleed.”

Isaac’s gaze snapped to you, wild and electric. “Come on, man,” he said, slamming his fist into his palm. “You wanna be a soft-ass like Demarcus, or do you wanna make this fucker regret crossing us?”

The tension hung thick in the room. Both of them stared at you, their energy like live wires sparking around you. And once again, the weight of choice bore down.

Choice Number 1: Some asshole stole your supplies while you were asleep. Isaac wants payback, plain and simple. If you follow this path, you’ll be ruthless and relentless in your search. But when you find the thief, how far are you willing to let Isaac go?

Choice Number 2: Demarcus urges caution. He’s right—this world has changed, and keeping your humanity might count for something. Still, they stole from you, and food is life now. Can you let this go?