The Beginning of the Zombie Apocalypse – Part 3

Today I feel really good. Maybe it’s because for the first time since “it” started, I actually slept for twelve hours.

I truly fell into such a deep sleep that I probably wouldn’t have heard a bomb exploding right under my window.

I decide to use this surge of energy and go on a small reconnaissance.

I can move across the balconies to a few neighboring apartments. But I won’t be able to reach those located one floor above or below. I’m not that athletic.

So I leave the balcony route for another time.

Preparing to leave our hideout takes me ten minutes.

At the end, I grab my basic weapon from the cabinet, a hard, reliable baseball bat.

In a few brief sentences, I explain the standard plan to my fiancée, finishing by asking her to stay by the front door.

She nods, confirming she understands everything and is ready to carry out her part.

During today’s outing, I act a bit more boldly.

I fully agree with the saying that a person can get used to anything.

The nerves and slight tension in my whole body are still there, but nothing compared to what I felt last time.

After the massacre in the stairwell, I didn’t sleep for over a day.

I don’t need to describe how I felt. I can sum it up in one word. Terrible. That’s exactly how I felt.

Now I feel good, so I can finally talk about what’s been on my mind.

Natalia’s words stuck with me so deeply that I actually started wondering about the humanity of the undead.

I have no idea if they can be cured. I have no idea what we’re even dealing with.

But one thing is obvious. Either I kill them, or they kill me. There’s also the more “optimistic” scenario of becoming one of them.

I spent several hours thinking. In the end, I reached a conclusion that leaves no room for any mercy toward those degenerates.

If there is anything human left in them, it’s only the fact that they walk on two legs. Nothing more.

I don’t intend to talk about them with my girlfriend anymore.

In general, we don’t talk much. That’s not good. But neither of us is an extrovert. Whenever there are problems, stress, anything, we just shut down and retreat into ourselves.

In the morning I saw her sitting on the bed, flipping through a book back and forth. It’s a very worrying sign. But talking wasn’t an option. She brushed me off immediately.

This whole situation is tightening an invisible noose around our minds. I realize that if this continues, we might simply go insane.

Meanwhile, as I step out of the apartment, I notice changes.

Most of the gray walls on the floor are smeared with blood.

This macabre graffiti is made up of handprints, blood streaks reaching the ground, and stains of different sizes.

It looks like someone wounded leaned against the walls, fighting with the last of their strength.

I’m afraid that someone searching for help might have made it this far, only to die right near my door.

I head toward the stairs. On the way, I pass two pools of blood.

There is no trace of the bodies that were lying on the stairs and the landing. Only long, dragged streaks of blood leading downward. Nothing else.

I’m sure I killed them back then, so they probably didn’t come back.

I go down a few steps and reach the floor marked “7”.

Immediately I feel a stronger stench.

I understand that my sense of smell is a kind of gift, warning me about danger nearby.

So I become more alert.

Even though I don’t see anyone. My nose can’t be wrong.

I move toward one end of the stairwell.

From there I carefully move forward, checking one by one whether the doors of the apartments I pass are open.

That’s how I reach the first unit whose threshold stands open before me.

This is where the freaks came at me last time.

I decide to search the apartment later. First, I’ll go around the entire floor.

At the third set of closed doors, I hear the creak of hinges coming from the other end of the corridor.

Sunlight streaming through the large windows casts a shadow exactly over the part of the stairwell where I’m standing. I immediately press my back against the wall.

The door opens. A moment later I see two heavily mutilated corpses stepping out.

They must have fought a hellishly hard battle not long ago.

I slip into a small recess in the wall, crouching down at the same time.

The bastards don’t notice me as they pass by.

Only a few meters farther do they stop. They lift their heads, as if trying to catch a scent with their nostrils.

I have no choice. Assuming the best defense is attack, I immediately land three hard blows to one of their heads.

The creature drops, but I know I didn’t kill it. When it tries to get up, I strike the second one four times. The situation is exactly the same as before.

The infected one falls, but after a moment starts getting back up. In the meantime, I manage to crush the brain of the first one.

While finishing off the second, I don’t notice another undead approaching.

Just as I deliver the final blow, the newcomer jumps onto my back.

Completely caught off guard, I lose my balance and fall.

By sheer luck, it doesn’t manage to bite me.

Everything happens as if in slow motion. Including my own movements.

Panic completely takes over.

Seconds feel like minutes. Finally, struggling and blindly swinging both arms, I somehow manage to throw the attacker off my back, freeing myself from its grip.

Dozens of bright spots flash before my eyes. With what little strength I have left, I deliver more blows. I’m exhausted, I have no strength, so they aren’t very powerful.

The theory about their sluggishness during the day proves correct.

If this had happened during their evening activity, I’m sure I would have died.

The beast positioned so perfectly on my back would have torn into my neck without hesitation, more than once.

Even the thick turtleneck I’m wearing today wouldn’t have helped.

But this time, I come out on top.

The first four blows stunned the attacker enough for me to look at it.

It’s a girl. A young girl. Her face, though deformed by the virus or disease or whatever the hell this is, still shows the beauty she once had.

She must have been beautiful.

As I look at her, she shifts slightly toward me on her back, then swings her right leg, nearly sweeping me off my feet. I strike again, delivering killing blows.

At the end, I take a few steps back, unconsciously leaning against the wall. My knees start to give in.

A few seconds later, I’m sitting on the floor.

My heart feels like it’s about to burst out of my chest. My fingers, especially on my right hand, ache from gripping the bat.

Fortunately, it seems like there’s no one else. The characteristic stench disappears as well.

For the next two minutes, I struggle to catch my breath.

My overconfidence was instantly crushed. If even one more undead had followed that girl, I’d be dead. No doubt about it.

The attack was a bad decision. I have to avoid fighting at all costs.

I look at the girl once more.

I’m about to leave when I notice something clearly standing out against her mangled head.

I step closer, taking a better look.

A moment later, I roll her from her back onto her stomach.

The undead girl has a sheath strapped to her back, holding a samurai sword.

So I start removing the elements that secure the weapon to her body.

Four minutes later, I’m holding what I think is a real samurai sword. I’m not an expert, but it looks authentic.

It’s wonderful. Beautiful. Incredible.

But I’ve never used anything like it, so I prefer to rely on the bat I hold with both hands.

It’s much simpler to use.

I glance toward the open door, as if it’s inviting me to step inside.

But I hesitate.

Honestly, I still haven’t recovered from the fight.

I know it’s pointless. After all, the whole reason I came here was to search open apartments.

Easy to say, harder to do. I truly have no strength left.

The last few minutes have drained me significantly. All I want is to be back in the safety of home.

If we didn’t have only five cans left, I would have given up on going in there.

The threat of hunger wins. Fifteen seconds later, I’m standing in the hallway.

The absence of any smell calms me down.

Both the room I’m in and the next two look like something straight out of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Blood. I see blood everywhere. On the floor, on the walls, on the ceiling.

I also come across fifteen or maybe more headless bodies lying around.

After making sure I’m alone, I close the door and lock it.

To my great relief, I find a few cans in the fridge. But that’s not the most important part.

On the bed there’s a large backpack stuffed with dried meat, canned food, and sliced bread.

It must have belonged to one of the people I killed just minutes ago.

Back when they were still among the living.

The scenario becomes real. Someone must have made it here alive after the catastrophe. Only… that someone was either already infected or dragged a whole pack of the undead in behind them. Either way, they lost the fight and became one of them.

I make it back home without any trouble.

Once again, I start thinking about securing the entrance door to the stairwell.

The method will depend on the condition of both the door and the locks.

But how do I even get there safely? No matter how I count it, I’d have to go six floors down. And honestly, who knows what might be lurking on each of them.

Then again, maybe that unfortunate samurai girl managed to lure all the undead into one apartment and deal with them there, chasing her between floors, before she finally died herself.

The lack of that characteristic stench supports that theory.

Either way, there are still a few hours until dusk, and it’s always better if no freak gets inside here.

First, I decide to carry all the “treasures” I found back home.

Fifteen minutes later, after talking it over with Natalia, I give up on that idea.

“Think about it. What if there are ten of them down there? What then? Can you handle them alone? Just because your nose didn’t fail you ten times doesn’t mean it won’t fail the eleventh,” my fiancée explains.

She’s right. You have to measure your strength against the challenge. The chaos in my head makes me forget that again and again.

And what happens to her if I die?

If I take any risk, I have to think about her first.

Leaving her here alone would be sentencing her to death. Possibly death by starvation.

So I drop the idea. For now, I don’t have to risk anything for a good two weeks. We have enough food to last roughly that long.

We’ll just reduce our daily portions a bit.

In the backpack I find a few candles, two lighters, and matches.

It feels good in the evening to sit in the hallway with a lit candle. It calms my nerves.

The joy from finding the backpack doesn’t last long. Already the next day I start coming up with more or less sensible plans.

It makes no sense to wait until supplies are almost gone and then run around under pressure and stress looking for anything edible.

I know. It’s another contradiction in my thinking. But that’s just how it is. That’s how my mind works.

One moment I’m happy I don’t have to leave the apartment for days, and the next I’m torturing myself over where and how I’ll get more food.

I can’t stop the thoughts constantly swirling in my head. They won’t leave me alone, bringing endless questions.

Some of them I simply can’t answer.

More and more often I feel like life in this world is beyond me.

I constantly monitor what’s happening outside the window.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing suggests the situation will improve. The city is quiet and dead.

In the evenings, the undead run through the streets like starving packs of wild beasts, searching for food.

They’re faster than the ones that chased me that day at the cemetery.

It also seems like they have a good sense of smell.

It’s unbelievable, but it feels like they’re adapting to their bodies. I can’t explain it any other way.

Their appearance doesn’t change, at least not yet.

At night they hunt, but during the day they fall into something like a vegetative state. They just sway from side to side or drag their feet from place to place. You have to act carelessly and make noise to get their attention.

It looks terrifying. The only comfort is that none of them seem to be entering our stairwell.

The situation in the building across the street is completely different. There, movement never really stops.

Twice I saw a few of them somehow make it onto the roof of a seven-story building.

They wandered around aimlessly, and after no more than ten minutes, they stepped over the edge and fell down.

Of course, many of them didn’t stay there.

Packs of stray dogs also run through the streets.

Not long ago they were pets. Now they’ve turned into dangerous, aggressive animals focused only on survival.

For a long time now, I haven’t seen a single survivor.

Curtains moving in the wind in most windows show that the homes have been abandoned. And the countless abandoned cars blocking the roads are the final proof of the apocalypse that has clearly ended the era of mankind.

I have no idea what kind of organisms these are.

Logically speaking, they should be decomposing, undergoing decay, falling apart due to parasites, temperature, and all that. But nothing like that is happening.

Logic… yeah, logic. But how do you logically explain all of this?

Exactly. You can’t. There’s no way.

Natalia sometimes loses touch with reality.

I don’t know what to do. Maybe leaving the building wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

There’s no point expecting help. I don’t believe it’s any better a few streets away, but maybe in one of the buildings a few families have gathered. And you know how it is, there’s strength in numbers.

It would also be easier for a group to put up resistance against the undead coming from all sides.

And you could organize group runs for food. Alone, I don’t see it working.

My thoughts are interrupted by sleep. Once again, I manage to fall into a deep one.

I wake up at seven in the morning the next day. Right away, I hear howling, smacking, and slurping sounds coming from beneath the apartment windows.

I quietly step out onto the balcony to get a sense of the situation.

The bastards must have caught someone, because there are about twenty of them kneeling over a body on the grass.

I go back inside.

Sleep hit me so suddenly the night before that I didn’t even make it to bed. I fell asleep in the armchair.

The first thing that bothers me is the deathly silence filling the apartment and the sight of our shared bed, empty and perfectly made.

“Natalia! Natalia!” I shout twice.

Driven by a bad feeling, I rush to the kitchen first, then to the bathroom.

Both rooms are empty. A wave of heat hits me instantly.

“Where did she go?” I mutter to myself.

Fuck. I check the entire apartment. She’s gone.

I go back to the room.

This time I notice an envelope lying on the desk with my name written on it in big letters. My hands trembling, I open it.

Tears fill my eyes immediately.

It’s a farewell letter.

My girlfriend killed herself. She couldn’t take it anymore. The world crushed her.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. How could she do this?

Then I realize whose body those beasts were feeding on outside. I break down crying.

That’s it. A knockout blow.

I sit in the armchair, crying like a child. When the tears finally run out, I fall into complete numbness. I only come back to myself in the evening. Until the end of the day, I drink just two glasses of water.

I don’t care about anything anymore.

The next few days follow the same pattern.

Sitting mindlessly in the chair, staring into nothing.

I don’t know how many days have passed. I didn’t keep track. I completely lost count of the date and even the day of the week.

An electronic watch helps me.

As long as its battery lasts, it will show me the day and the date.

I have no idea what to do next. My whole world has collapsed and lost all meaning.

Everyone close to me is gone.

I don’t care what happens tomorrow. More than that, I want to die. I swear I want to die.

I even made some preparations to end it.

I brought an extension cord and attached it to the doorframe between the room where I found Natalia’s letter and the hallway.

But it turns out I can’t do it. I don’t know how. Or maybe I just don’t have the courage.

And somehow, I’m still alive.

I know. If I can’t hang myself or jump out of the window, maybe I’ll try starving to death.

I’ll stop eating, get weaker and weaker until finally…

In the meantime, I search through the cabinet, but I don’t find a single pill.

If I could take something, maybe it would be easier to make the decision.

That’s it. This isn’t life. This is just existence.

My thoughts about ending it are interrupted by the sound of machine gun fire coming from outside.

I come alive again.

Could it be help? Could the situation finally start stabilizing somehow?

Then again… let the whole world burn in hell.

Despite the dark thoughts, I step out onto the balcony.

Today is one of those very sunny days. Not a single cloud can be seen in the blue sky.

I don’t see a single undead nearby.

What I do feel, though, is extreme weakness, topped with dizziness.

Of course. I haven’t eaten for several days, and on top of that I’ve been in a constant mental slump. I’ve drained my body.

The sound of gunfire is clearly getting closer. I wait in tension for what happens next.

Despite my personal tragedy, deep down I still want to see people.

Living, normal people.

A few minutes later, from around the corner of the building, an amphibious vehicle appears, ramming through all the abandoned cars blocking the road. Behind it follow four delivery vans and a small bus adapted for transporting people.

Every wreck standing in its way bounces off the vehicle like a ping pong ball, landing several meters away. At the front, a machine gun spits out bursts of bullets.

The vans keep a safe distance. It’s obvious they’re meant for transporting gathered supplies.

The last vehicle in the convoy is reinforced with metal plates.

From every second side window and the rear, the barrels of machine guns or pistols stick out, constantly reminding of their deadly purpose.

Short bursts are mixed with single shots.

The convoy moves slowly, steadily pushing forward.

I’m convinced their target is the local hypermarket.

Unable to hold back, when they’re roughly at the height of my balcony, I start waving my arms and shouting at them.

They might not hear me over the noise, but I’m almost certain that two guys in the last vehicle notice me.

Still, they give me no signal, no sign of taking me with them.

I know they won’t just stop in the middle of the street and spend several minutes evacuating me.

But maybe on their way back, if I was already waiting, ready to jump in, it could work.

Unfortunately, without even slowing down, they drive past and disappear from view.

In all the chaos, I don’t notice the army of undead following them dozens of meters behind.

No wonder I didn’t see any of them when I stepped onto the balcony.

Like moths to a flame, they all followed the convoy.

Every now and then, one of them drops dead, hit by a bullet that shatters its head.

But most of the bullets hit their torso, neck, or limbs, doing absolutely nothing.

There are thousands of them. Crawling out of every possible corner of the streets and courtyards, blindly chasing the humans.

For the first time since Natalia’s death, I start thinking clearly.

“They didn’t stop because of the incoming hordes of undead,” I conclude.

But they will be coming back.

One thing keeps bothering me. Why didn’t they signal that they saw me?

I would have immediately started preparing for a quick evacuation.

Still, I decide to pack everything I need and stay ready in case I get the chance to get out of here.

Since they cleared this exact route from wrecks and abandoned cars, they’ll definitely come back the same way. A clear, open street will allow them to return much faster.

I decide to eat breakfast.

Three minutes later, I devour seven sandwiches with canned meat and three with pâté.

Normally, that single meal would last me two days.

An entire six-hundred-gram can is gone. I also make myself some coffee.

Three weeks ago, I wouldn’t have even thought how valuable a small camping stove would be.

I feel alive again. My body gets some nutrients, and the caffeine sharpens my mind.

I decide to turn one of the bedsheets into a flag, attaching it to a vacuum cleaner pipe.

When the convoy comes back, I’ll signal from the lower window of the stairwell that I’m ready to evacuate.

Making the flag takes me five minutes. I pack everything, focusing mainly on food.

From clothes, I only take a few sets of underwear.

Fueled by a sudden burst of energy, I head out into the stairwell, determined to reach the ground floor no matter what.

I’m greeted by emptiness. The only thing I notice is water dripping steadily from the ceiling.

Mixed with dried blood, it forms a large red puddle covering almost a third of the floor.

The stench seems to have faded.

Of course. All the deadheads followed the convoy, as if guided by some kind of collective awareness. Or maybe not awareness, just instinct.

Thanks to that, I make it safely all the way down.

Every floor is empty.

I can’t tell what the situation is like inside the apartments, but my so far reliable sense of smell tells me there’s nothing here that threatens my life.

The building’s entrance door is slightly open.

Most likely, the neighbors, while escaping, were loading everything they could carry into their vehicles.

That’s why they opened the second wing of the door.

The first thing I do is close one wing, then the other.

The doors are solid. I don’t think the dead would be able to force them open on their own.

Maybe during their nighttime frenzy they could try, but during the day that doesn’t seem likely.

Besides, to get inside they would need a reason. And as long as I stay unnoticed, nothing should threaten me here.

Anyway, I’m hoping to be picked up by the convoy when it comes back.

When I hear the unmistakable sound of gunfire, I run outside.

I was supposed to wave the improvised flag from the half-landing between the ground floor and the first floor, but I let my emotions take over and rushed out instead.

With my backpack stuffed to the limit and a travel bag, I block the door. Holding the white flag, I start waving like a madman.

A few bullets flying right past my head give me something to think about.

I duck. “They’re definitely shooting at me,” I think as I step back from the street.

Standing under the stairwell entrance, I keep waving the flag, hoping maybe they mistook me for one of the dead at first.

The convoy drives past me without even slowing down. From the rear window of the last vehicle I hear only:

“Fuck off or you’re dead!”

Great. I’m completely stunned. Picking me up would have taken a few seconds.

What was the problem with stopping and letting me in?

It takes me a few seconds to snap back to reality. The stench hitting my lungs helps with that.

I look to the right and see hundreds of corpses walking straight toward me.

Every now and then, one of them drops, hit by a bullet. I run back into the stairwell and slam the door shut. The infected are so fixated on the departing convoy that, thankfully, they don’t even notice me.

At least that’s how it looks. Not a single one approaches the building I’m in.

From the half-landing window, I watch a parade of the dead passing beneath my block.

There are hundreds, thousands of them.

Dragging their feet, moving slowly but relentlessly forward.

I double-check that the doors are properly closed, then start carrying all my packed gear back upstairs.

I’m not angry. I don’t even have the strength for that. I’m frustrated, disappointed, let down.

Taking advantage of the situation, unable to sit still for the rest of the day, I move through the floors.

In a few open apartments I find nothing interesting. I expect the same from the locked ones anyway.

People fleeing surely took all their food supplies. And right now, that’s the most valuable thing there is.

Money, valuables, everything that once mattered… now completely worthless.

Over the next two days, I search every apartment.

If I have access to one unit on a floor, I move to the next via the balconies.

The only exceptions are ground-floor apartments without balconies.

Their front doors, especially the locks, turn out to be weak enough that I manage to break into all of them.

But it doesn’t come without moments that will haunt my worst nightmares.

I stand in front of apartment number two hundred eighteen.

I found the keys in a cabinet in the neighboring unit. It’s on the third floor.

Neighbors often leave spare keys with each other for emergencies.

As I step inside, I feel a faint stale smell. All the interior doors are closed.

Just to be sure, I shout, “Hello! Anyone here!?”

Silence answers me. I expected that.

I head toward the room. Its entrance is covered by sliding folding doors.

I count to three, then shove them open.

For a few seconds, I lose my breath and drop into a crouch from the shock.

Three bodies hang in front of me. Their feet dangle several inches above the floor. Their bulging eyes are empty. But the worst are the swollen, bluish tongues.

Only now do I smell the stench of excrement. All the windows were open, which is why I didn’t notice it at first.

On the windowsill, I see several black crows watching me closely.

One of them, the biggest, stares at me with its black, glossy eyes, standing on the slumped head of a man sitting by the radiator. The bird has already pecked his eyes out. Dried streaks of blood mark both empty sockets.

The man was probably the head of the family and chose to die last, after making sure the others were already dead.

Suddenly, the crows let out a horrifying screech that makes me flinch.

Then they take off and fly away.

The desperate family must have done this no more than a dozen hours ago.

Their bodies are slightly swollen, but if they had been hanging longer, they would be in a far worse state.

I didn’t know these people. They had moved in recently.

The worst sight is the two eight-year-old children hanging there.

It takes me until the end of the day to recover.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of the horrors.

The next day, in apartment number two hundred one on the first floor, I find the body of a woman in her twenties lying in the bathtub.

I remember her well. She used to smile at me whenever we passed each other in the courtyard or by the entrance. I always returned the smile.

The poor girl had slit her wrists.

There’s little or no food left in any of the apartments.

The meat in the freezers has thawed and spoiled.

I find some edible things. Chocolate, candy bars, loaves of toast bread, stale rolls, cereal, peanuts, dried fruits like raisins and plums.

I also take a few useful items.

I get my hands on a long bayonet, two freshly filled gas canisters that fit my stove, a hunting shotgun with five shells, and military clothing with boots that look indestructible.

I also find a brand-new tactical vest and a very functional military backpack.

But the most interesting thing is a severely weakened bull terrier I come across in one of the apartments.

I recognize the people who lived there, but I’ve never seen them with a dog.

Maybe they were just taking care of it for a few days.

The dog is young, clearly healthy, and managed as long as it had food.

It knew where its owners kept its food.

After breaking into a cabinet, it got access to two large bags of dry food.

It also managed with water by chewing through two five-liter containers in the kitchen.

But everything runs out eventually.

If I hadn’t found it, it probably would have died within hours.

I bring it a bowl with three soaked rolls mixed with some oats.

In another bowl, I give it half a can of meat.

It devours everything so greedily I worry it might harm itself.

Three hours later, I have a companion following me step by step.

It knows I’m the only reason it’s alive, so it obeys me like it’s trained.

I name my four-legged friend “Ace.”

I also secure the stairwell doors, barricading them just in case.

The last few days help me take my mind off Natalia’s suicide, at least a little.

I didn’t see my parents die. Somewhere in my head, I keep thinking they survived, that they’re somewhere safe, waiting for this apocalypse to end.

I know the chances are slim.

But then again, if I survived, maybe they did too. Hope dies last.

Natalia, though… her death is certain. I didn’t see her, but…

I read her final words again:

“My love, I know my decision will hurt you.
But I can’t go on anymore. Every day is more than I can bear.
I don’t want to be a burden to you. I don’t want to drag you into the dark abyss I’m in.
What I’m about to do has no justification.
But I’m suffering so much… Forgive me. Your little N.”

Tears run down my face again. I ask myself the same questions. Did it have to be this way? Maybe if I had talked to her more?

But I can’t answer any of them.

Never, not even for a second, would I have thought she was capable of this.

It happened. I didn’t stop it. Life goes on. I have to live, to fight.

If I fall, so be it. But I won’t go down cheap.

I fold the letter and put it into my vest pocket.

I will never come to terms with this.

My new plan is to leave the apartment and follow the direction the convoy went.

I have to get there. I already know they’re not government forces.

If they were, they would have taken me.

Most likely, they’re just people who managed to form a unit.

If they have access to weapons, there must be soldiers or police among them.

I plan to leave tomorrow, right after sunrise.

So I can use the whole day for the journey.

In the meantime, I gather everything I might need, not forgetting the samurai sword.

It’s incredibly sharp. Deadly.

I spend dozens of minutes practicing with it in the stairwell. The results are poor.

I think about the shotgun. It’s heavy, inefficient, and the noise would attract every undead in the area.

I decide to leave it behind.

Ace is unstoppable. He runs through the floors, constantly chewing, tearing, dragging things around.

He’s got it good. I feed him everything I can’t take with me.

Let him eat.

Soon we’re heading into something extreme.

And then we’ll both have to tighten our belts hard.