章節 1: Survive the End

"Survival is the art of staying alive, no matter how difficult the path may be." – Bear Grylls

...

|September 15, 2010|

Glenn adjusted the backpack on his shoulders, the fabric torn from the last frantic run. He was covered in dirt, sweat, and blood, none of it his, at least for now. The afternoon sun was cruel, burning down on the deserted road that seemed to stretch on forever. The motorcycle he had taken specifically from the motel had broken down a few hours ago, forcing him to continue on foot. Atlanta was just over 100 miles away, or at least that's what the rusted sign had said.

The silence was deafening. Not the peaceful silence of a calm afternoon, but the kind that makes your hair stand on end, as if something could appear at any moment from behind a tree or an abandoned car. He could still hear the echoes of the screams from the motel, the sound of bones breaking and doors being smashed open.

That had been his first real encounter with terror. Before that, the apocalypse had seemed distant, something he saw on TV or heard about on the car radio while making deliveries. Just four nights ago, he had been delivering a pizza to a house on the other side of town, unaware that it would be the last order of his ordinary life.

The strangers he had escaped the motel with had been a temporary salvation. They had a strange synergy, unorthodox but effective. The kind of bond that only forms when survival depends on it. But the world out there was more ruthless than any bond. They had split up as soon as they hit the road, each one heading for a different destination.

Glenn, however, had a plan: to get back to Atlanta. The idea of a refugee center was more hope than certainty, but he needed to believe it was real. He needed to believe there was a safe place, that survivors still existed, and maybe, just maybe, answers.

Walking along the desolate highway, Glenn passed abandoned cars and remnants of interrupted lives. A teddy bear peeked out from the back seat; closed suitcases lay beside open doors. A light breeze made the trees sway, casting shadows that seemed to dance on the cracked asphalt.

He wasn't alone, of that, he was certain. The sound of shuffling footsteps came from afar, but their treacherous rhythm was unmistakable. He didn't know what they were, but he knew they were coming. They always came.

Glenn tightened his grip on the crowbar he carried. It wasn't the best weapon in the world, but so far, it had been enough. He knew that to survive, he needed to be faster, smarter, and quieter. But above all, he knew he had to keep moving.

Atlanta was still far away, but it was his only chance to find what was left of normalcy, or at least survive another day.

...

|September 16, 2010|

The sun was beginning to rise on the horizon when Glenn, exhausted, opened his heavy eyes. It wasn't exactly "waking up"; it was more like escaping an uncomfortable stupor. His muscles ached, his mind was numb, and fatigue threatened to pull him back into unconsciousness. The previous night had been a frantic run for his life. He had lost his crowbar, his only decent weapon, when he was ambushed by a horde of undead that emerged from an abandoned warehouse. What should have been a quick supply run had turned into a disaster. He didn't know how he had escaped, but he promised himself never to underestimate the danger lurking in every shadow again.

Now, by the side of a deserted road, he found himself in an old, fragile, and decayed house that seemed to have been abandoned for years. The door creaked as he closed it behind him, and with trembling hands, he piled furniture against it to create an improvised barricade. Despite its haphazard construction, the broken walls and shattered windows offered some respite. It was a refuge, fragile as it was.

Searching the interior, he found only wreckage: empty shelves, broken furniture, and a kitchen that could barely be called a kitchen. Yet, atop a fallen table, something caught his attention, an old, rusty kitchen knife, with a loose handle and a blade stained with rust. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than nothing. Carefully, he picked it up, testing its weight in his hand. Fragile as it was, that knife was now his only ally.

Climbing the stairs with silent steps, he chose a room on the second floor, its broken window overlooking the house's entrance. From that vantage point, he could observe the undead still wandering outside. Each of their erratic movements made his heart race, but over time, the zombies dispersed, seemingly losing interest.

When the last one disappeared from sight, Glenn locked the bedroom door and curled up in a corner, where the cold floor seemed to embrace him. His body begged for rest, but the tension wouldn't let him fully give in. Even so, exhaustion proved stronger. With the knife firmly gripped in his hand, the fragile symbol of security in a chaotic world, he finally let sleep take over.

With every moment of silence, he knew it was only a pause. The nightmare was still out there, waiting. When he woke, he'd need to be ready to fight, flee, or simply survive another day, another hour, maybe just another minute.

...

Glenn floated in an infinite void, a pulsating space of flickering lights that seemed to dance between the stars and nothingness. There was no ground beneath his feet, no sky above his head. Only that vast ocean of indefinable orbs, where time and space held no meaning. He knew he was dreaming, but at the same time, everything felt absurdly real. He could feel the weight of his consciousness but lacked the physical body he was used to having.

Suddenly, a holographic screen materialized before him, as if molded by the space around him. The edges glowed with a subtle light, while intricate runes and mysterious symbols danced along its surface. At the center of the screen, a message began to form, its luminous letters softly pulsing:

-SELECT YOUR SKILLS.-

Below the message, seven blank spaces aligned horizontally, each outlined in gold, as if waiting for something precious to fill them. Glenn instinctively reached out his hand, noticing that his form was translucent, almost ethereal. As he touched the screen, another window opened, revealing an infinite list of skills. The words glowed before him, floating in clear, hypnotic script.

"Mastery in Krav Maga"

"Cardiovascular Surgery"

"Bushcraft (Wilderness Survival)"

"Advanced Astrophysics"

"Explosives Handling"

"Mega-Structure Architecture"

"Stage Illusionism"

The list seemed endless, growing each time he thought of something. It was as if the screen was directly connected to his mind. Glenn focused on the first skill that caught his attention: "Mastery in Krav Maga." As soon as he selected it, a wave of energy surged through his body. He felt his muscles strengthen, his posture shift, and his mind fill with combat techniques. It was as if he had spent years training, facing enemies in intense battles, even though he had never done any of it before.

Curious, he selected another skill: "Bushcraft (Wilderness Survival)." This time, the knowledge flooded into him like a torrent. He instantly knew how to find clean water, build shelters, light a fire without matches, track animals, and even identify edible plants. It was as if he had lived an entire lifetime in the forests, facing the perils of nature and thriving despite them.

As he processed this newfound information, an icon blinked in the upper corner of the screen. A message appeared:

-WARNING: ONLY SEVEN SKILLS CAN BE SELECTED.-

Glenn glanced at the golden slots again. Two were already filled. He had only five choices left. A sense of urgency overtook him, as if he instinctively understood these choices would be permanent, shaping his destiny in a collapsing world.

Recent news echoed in his mind: reports of people losing their humanity, attacking others with irrational violence. The military insisted everyone stay home and secure, but Glenn knew waiting defenselessly wasn't an option. He needed to prepare for the worst.

With determination, he made his next selection: "Firearm Handling." A surprising calm settled over him as the knowledge took root. He now knew how to handle pistols, rifles, and shotguns with lethal precision. Each weapon felt like an extension of his body, and the responsibility of using them safely was as clear as the urgency to survive.

"Emergency Medicine" was his next choice. A wealth of medical knowledge flooded his mind. Glenn now knew how to treat severe injuries, stabilize bleeding, improvise bandages, and even perform minor emergency procedures. The weight of this knowledge settled on him, lives could depend on his skills.

Next came "Automotive Mechanics." He could now take apart and repair engines as if it were second nature. Every part of a vehicle made sense to him, and he knew how to turn something broken into something functional, adapting cars and motorcycles to survive extreme situations.

"Practical Engineering" followed. His mind became a wellspring of creative solutions. He could now devise ways to fortify barricades, create improvised devices, and even build traps to protect vulnerable areas.

Finally, he selected "Military Tactics." Strategies and strategic planning began to flow naturally. Glenn now knew how to organize defenses, anticipate enemy movements, and react with precise solutions under high-stress scenarios.

When he filled the final slot, the screen glowed intensely. The symbols and runes around him spun rapidly, forming intricate patterns. Then, a new message appeared in the center:

-AUXILIARY SKILL AVAILABLE.-

Glenn tried to grasp what this meant, but before he could react, the words began trembling, blurring before his eyes. The void around him started to dissolve, as if he were being pulled back into reality.

He woke up startled in the abandoned house where he had been hiding. The sound of zombies wandering outside remained a constant threat, but something inside him had changed. He felt a newfound clarity and confidence. Glenn knew that whatever had happened in that dream was more than an illusion. He was different now, more prepared, more capable. The chaos around him was still real, but now he had the tools to face it.

I rose from the cold floor, the dust from the house still clinging to my sweaty skin. With an automatic gesture, I rubbed my eyes, trying to shake off the stupor that clung stubbornly. As soon as I opened them fully, my gaze fell on the window, smudged with grime and riddled with cracks. On the other side, the world seemed frozen, quiet, yet weighed down by an eerie tension. I watched the orange-tinged sky, where the sun was dipping toward the horizon. "It's going to be night soon," I muttered under my breath, more to myself than to anyone else.

Without wasting time, I grabbed the old knife lying next to me. The worn handle felt natural in my calloused grip, an extension of my hand. "That's fucking crazy," I swore softly, marveling at the strange sense of familiarity I now felt with the weapon, something I never thought I'd associate with a tool of violence.

With deliberate steps, I moved through the narrow hallway of the old house, its faded walls echoing remnants of a less grim era. I pushed open the door, its creak protesting the movement, and stepped outside, breathing in the scent of dry earth and dying vegetation. I had come far from Atlanta, fleeing the undead that haunted every corner. But there was no time for regrets. I needed to make up for lost time. Adjusting the backpack on my shoulders and the cap on my head, I began to walk briskly down the cracked asphalt road.

Glenn was exhausted. The journey had been long, marked by miles of desolate terrain as he made his way back to Atlanta. The sky had deepened into dark hues, signaling the onset of night. Along the way, he had encountered a few undead. Not as many as in the city, but enough to push his stamina and test the limits of his old knife, which finally gave out as it buried itself in the skull of the last zombie. Glenn had learned early on: a precise strike to the brain was the only way to end them.

Emerging from an abandoned house, he spotted a lone walker shuffling down the deserted road. The sight stirred a mix of disgust and determination within him. It was the perfect opportunity to test his theory, though the idea of using what was once a human body as an experiment unsettled him deeply. Still, he acted.

Using the Krav Maga skills he'd honed, Glenn quickly took control of the situation. He made the corpse stumble and fall to the ground with a swift motion. Without hesitation, he stomped on its right leg. The bone snapped with a resounding "Crack!" Then, he targeted the other leg with the same precision: "Crack!" The creature, impervious to pain or loss of mobility, continued to crawl forward, driven solely by its instinct to bite. Its entire existence seemed limited to an insatiable hunger.

Methodically, Glenn disabled its arms as well, but the behavior didn't change. The undead kept writhing, dragging itself forward pathetically. To prevent it from trying to bite, Glenn tore a strip of fabric from the zombie's tattered shirt and improvised a gag. Still, the creature remained restless.

He decided to push further. Piercing its heart, lungs, kidneys, and even slashing its throat yielded no results. None of the damage had any effect. There was no pain, no fear, no hint of emotion. These were not living beings—they were nothing more than animated corpses.

Finally, Glenn drew his old knife and plunged it directly into the creature's brain through the temple. The body went limp instantly, as if the strings of a puppet had been severed. He could have done this from the start, but he needed to be sure of two things: they were no longer human, and their only weakness was the brain.

Even knowing the walker was truly dead, Glenn felt compelled to bring some dignity to the scene. He dragged the body to a towering oak tree by the roadside. There, he arranged the broken limbs, giving them a more natural posture. He removed the gag from its mouth and used the fabric to cover its lifeless eyes, a small gesture of respect for what it once was.

He walked away without looking back, resuming his journey.

After some time, Glenn reached a small, desolate village. The place was shrouded in an oppressive silence, broken only by the occasional groans of undead wandering among the dilapidated buildings. There was a bar in the center, flanked by crumbling houses. Glenn crouched behind a dumpster near the bar, carefully observing the movements of the undead.

He waited patiently as three walkers shuffled past, ensuring the area was relatively safe. Moving swiftly and silently, Glenn made his way to the bar's door. Every step was deliberate, his senses heightened, ready to react to any threat that might arise.