The city was in ruins.
A thick column of black smoke rose from a collapsed apartment building on the horizon. The once-busy streets were now filled with burnt cars, shattered windows, and eerie silence. The distant echo of groans occasionally pierced the quiet — the groans of the infected.
Arden knelt beside the window of his third-floor apartment. His rifle rested across his knees. He scanned the surroundings through the scope.
"Nothing new today... or at least nothing alive."
He was a former soldier, 26 years old. Years of training and field missions had taught him patience, caution, and the art of survival. And now, all of that was being tested in a world that had turned upside down.
It had been three weeks since the outbreak.
The government had collapsed within days. The military attempted to intervene at first, but they were quickly overwhelmed. Communication lines went dark. Cities turned into graveyards, and the survivors became hunters — or prey.
Arden wasn't interested in becoming either.
"I'm not dying in this shithole," he muttered to himself.
He stood and turned toward the living room of his apartment, now transformed into a survival bunker. He'd boarded up the windows with metal plates and furniture. One room was filled with supplies — water, canned food, medical kits. His bedroom now resembled an armory. On the wall hung his M4 carbine, a Glock 19, a few hunting knives, and even a tactical vest.
He had been prepared — somewhat.
After leaving the army, Arden had returned to his hometown and never fully adjusted to civilian life. He kept his gear, kept training. People thought he was paranoid. But paranoia had turned into preparation.
The real problem was time.
He knew this place wouldn't stay safe forever. The noises outside were getting louder every night. The infected — they were changing. At night, they moved faster, stronger, more aggressive. He'd seen one tear apart a car door with its bare hands.
"The sun goes down, they go berserk. Fucking monsters," Arden said through clenched teeth.
It was daytime now. His best chance to scavenge. He pulled on his black cargo jacket, strapped his knife to his thigh, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and opened the door slowly.
The hallway was dark. Most lights had gone out days ago. He moved quickly but quietly, avoiding the broken glass and debris. The stairwell smelled like death.
When he stepped outside, the sun was blinding for a moment. The silence of the city was unnatural. He headed toward a nearby hardware store — he needed materials to reinforce his doors and maybe start working on a more secure shelter.
He stuck to alleyways, always checking his corners.
"Clear. Move."
Old habits die hard.
After ten minutes, he reached the store. The glass front had already been shattered. Arden stepped through the broken entrance, stepping over a body lying motionless on the floor.
He moved quickly through the aisles. Nails, planks, duct tape, tools. He filled his backpack carefully. Then he heard it — a soft sound, like something dragging across the ground.
He froze.
"Shit… not now."
The noise was coming from the backroom. Arden raised his rifle, slowly advancing. His breath slowed. Heartbeat steady.
When he turned the corner, he saw it. A man — or what used to be one — crawling with its arms, its lower half missing. Its eyes met Arden's, and it let out a shriek.
Arden fired. A clean shot to the head.
The shriek echoed through the building.
"Shit, shit, shit. That'll bring more."
He turned and sprinted toward the exit. As he stepped back into the sunlight, he could already hear the screeches. Two, maybe three infected were coming down the street.
Arden didn't panic. He fired three quick shots, hitting one in the chest, another in the leg. The third kept running.
"Damn it!"
He turned and ran through a side alley, losing them in the maze of the city. After five minutes of weaving between buildings, he reached home again and locked the reinforced door behind him.
Breathing hard, he dropped the backpack.
"Too close," he whispered.
That night, he sat by the window again. The infected were howling somewhere in the distance. Arden cleaned his rifle and checked his gear.
"I need to build something better. This place won't hold for long."
He thought about the future. About maybe finding others. But trust was dangerous. People were desperate. Violent.
Still… he couldn't survive alone forever.
His eyes scanned the street again.
And for a moment, he swore he saw a shadow move between buildings — not infected. Not like them.
"Someone's out there…"