Alex White awoke to find himself in an alien world. He barely had a chance to process his surroundings before a zombie sank its teeth into his arm. As he looked down at the bite mark and the writhing creature on the ground, a cold dread settled over him. The wound throbbed with a dull ache, spreading a numbing sensation through his arm.
The city around him was desolate and eerily silent. The zombie had lunged at him while he was cautiously surveying his new environment. Caught off guard, he'd reacted instinctively, delivering a powerful kick that resulted in a sharp crack as the creature's bones fractured. The severity of the damage surprised him, momentarily stunning him. In that brief lapse, the zombie had clamped onto his arm, its jaws locked onto his sleeve in a grotesque, determined grip. That had been only minutes ago.
Now, as he watched the zombie struggle to crawl toward him, the horror of the situation sank in. Its hair was sparse, exposing large patches of scalp. Its skeletal frame was draped in tattered clothing, with festering sores marring its decaying skin. The creature emitted a low, guttural growl, eerily reminiscent of the zombies from horror films. Alex felt his heart grow heavy.
He inspected the wound on his arm. The silver lining, if there was one, was that the bite wasn't too deep. But the fact remained—he had been bitten.
On the first day in this strange new world, he'd been attacked by a zombie.
There was no time to dwell on the bizarre shift in reality. Had some biological catastrophe occurred? The pressing concern was to find water and disinfect the wound immediately. Everything else was secondary.
The child-like appearance of the zombie did nothing to alleviate his growing concern. Was he already infected? His mind was a swirl of caution and confusion, with the pain in his arm serving as a stark reminder of the grim reality. The most hopeful scenario he could imagine was that the creature was simply a rabid, mutated human.
Yet the bleakness of the situation was impossible to ignore.
The streets before him stretched out in eerie silence, devoid of life. The sidewalks, once bustling with people, were now overgrown with dry, withered weeds, swaying listlessly in the wind.
At the end of the road, a few cars stood abandoned, their windows shattered. Weeds had sprouted through the openings, creating a strange and eerie scene. How the seeds found their way inside and managed to grow remained a mystery. The tall buildings nearby, long neglected, had lost most of their glass panes. The air was thick with the smell of decay, as if the street had been dead for a long time. Only the sunlight continued to shine, undeterred.
Alex White felt his heart sink as he picked up a stick and walked away from the zombie, heading in the opposite direction. He remained alert, scanning his surroundings for any signs of movement. If there were more zombies, they would likely be in groups. The thought of being infected and turning into one of them seemed a grim fate, yet it was still better than being torn apart and eaten.
He noticed a fast-food restaurant with its door ajar. The pain in his arm was becoming numb, and he cautiously approached, peeking inside. The interior was chaotic, with overturned tables and chairs, and the walls were stained with unidentifiable marks. Cleanliness was evidently not a priority.
He paused, listening for any sound, but there was only silence. Holding his stick, he stepped inside, cautiously checking each corner as he moved forward.
Fast-food restaurants typically followed a standard layout, with the dining area in the front and the kitchen in the back. There was often no restroom. The kitchen area was just as messy. Alex tried the faucet, hoping for water.
It seemed as if it had been left open, but no water came out. Only a squeaking sound broke the silence as he turned the handle.
Giving up on the faucet, he looked around and eventually picked up a kitchen knife from a corner. He compared it to the stick he had found outside. While a knife was certainly more practical, the thought of engaging in close combat with another zombie was unappealing. Still, he kept the knife, finding some comfort in the feeling of being armed, however minimally.
He glanced at the bite on his arm, noticing the swelling around the wound. He tightened his grip on the knife. In some cases, bloodletting or cutting a wound to release poisoned blood was a possible treatment—at least for snake bites. But with zombie or rabid dog bites, no one knew what to do.
Leaning against the wall, Alex White thought carefully for a moment. He sliced open the hem of his shirt with the knife in his hand, tore off a strip of cloth, bit down on one end, and tightly bound it around his upper arm, hoping it might do some good.
No water, no medicine, in such an unfamiliar environment, and now suddenly bitten by something that seemed like a zombie. While others who traveled through time were the chosen ones, special and unique, why was he so unlucky?
Alex White closed his eyes and sensed the changes in his body. Based on his extensive movie-watching experience, getting bitten by a zombie usually caused fever, weakness, and chills. The infection process could range from a few seconds to several days, depending on the writer's whims.
...Damn, this is bad.
After the initial shock, confusion, and wariness, he had walked some distance and reached the back kitchen of this ruined shop. Now, as he finally relaxed, the seriousness of his current situation hit him. The illusionary, unreal feeling shattered like a bucket of cold water poured over his head.
Soon, he might turn into something like what had bitten him, drooling and wandering aimlessly through these deserted streets until he attacked another unfortunate soul.
And he didn't even know where he was.
He sat against the wall for a while.
Suddenly, Alex White stood up.
"Screw it! Either I'll take it out before I get fully infected, or if I don't get infected, I'll take it out to avenge the bite."
He stepped out the door, looked up at the sunlight, and slowly walked back along the way he came. He already felt himself starting to heat up, and despite the sunlight on his body, he still felt a slight chill.
The grotesque zombie lay on the ground, dragging a wounded leg, moving aimlessly and erratically. When it saw him approaching, it let out a low growl. Its withered face made it impossible to tell its gender.
Bang! A blow with the stick.
As it opened its mouth, its growl was cut off by the sudden strike. The attack seemed to agitate it, making its movements even more frenzied.
After delivering a few more hard blows, Alex White stepped back a few paces and propped the stick on the ground. He had no intention of stopping; he was just too tired. He glanced at the wound on his arm, which was red and swollen, the infection spreading faster than he had expected.
A wave of despair surged from deep within him. He glanced again at the zombie, slowly backing away as he reconsidered, deciding to use his stick to keep his distance. If he was about to be infected and transform, he definitely didn't want to become a zombie clinging to this disgusting creature and gnawing away. He was still young, and this thing was already decaying.
He walked along the deserted street, his body growing increasingly weary. Finally, at a corner, he leaned against a wall and sat down. He slightly raised his head, squinting at the sunlight. His arm no longer hurt; it just felt swollen and numb.
Just the previous night, he had been full of ambition, celebrating a promotion and indulging himself for once. When he woke up after drinking, he found himself transported to this wretched place. All the overtime and late nights spent working on plans had been for nothing.
At that moment, Alex White thought about the long hours of overtime. The bitterness hadn't even turned sweet, and now he was about to mutate.
"I still have over eight hundred thousand in my bank account," Alex White vaguely recalled a saying: "People die, and money remains unspent." The next moment, he remembered the project he had left unfinished.
His memories were becoming increasingly fragmented, like thoughts chopped up and haphazardly pieced together. He raised his uninjured left hand to his forehead; it was burning hot.
He was turning into a zombie.