He turned away, locking the window and taking a deep breath. One thought consumed him now: stay inside, avoid those things, and survive—at all costs.
Cooper stood behind the door of his apartment, his hands gripping the doorframe tightly as his heart thundered in his chest. The moment he had slipped back inside from the hallway, he could almost hear the pounding of his pulse in his ears, mingling with the low, guttural groans of the zombies that seemed to chase him in his mind.
Forcing himself to stay calm, he pressed his back against the door and took several deep breaths, lifting a hand to his burning forehead. The air was stiflingly hot, as though the entire world's temperature had inexplicably risen.
The events from just moments ago replayed relentlessly in his head: the zombie's lunge, its frenzied movements, its cold, lifeless gaze. Those twisted figures advancing step by step, their eyes as empty as stagnant pools, their mouths oozing rotting blood.
Gritting his teeth, Cooper whispered to himself, "Stay calm, stay calm…"
But as he crouched slightly to peer through the peephole on his door, the sight on the other side made his breath catch in his throat.
The zombie was still there. It stood outside his door, its back to the peephole, head bowed as if searching for something. Its movements were slow and stiff, its decayed body clad in tattered clothes. Its face had long since lost any semblance of humanity—its eyes sunken deep into its skull, its grayish-white skin almost blending with the oppressive stillness of the air.
Cooper's breathing stopped abruptly. The zombie hadn't left; it was lingering at his door. It showed no signs of thought or reason, just standing there, a discarded husk of a being—silent yet menacing.
His fingers tightened involuntarily, nails digging into the doorframe. Every second stretched unbearably as the pale face outside seemed to loom closer in his vision, almost as though its lifeless eyes were staring straight back at him through the peephole.
"Does it know I'm in here?" Cooper muttered under his breath, his throat so dry that the words barely escaped.
Suddenly, the zombie's hand began to rise. Its movements were agonizingly slow, as though dragged by some unseen force. Its long, jagged nails, sharp as blades, crept closer to the door, inching toward it.
Cooper could hear the unmistakable sound of its nails scraping against the wooden surface, the harsh rasp echoing unnervingly in the dead silence of the hallway. For a moment, he thought he could feel the faint vibration of the door, as though that cold, lifeless hand might soon tear through the fragile barrier.
Unable to bear the sight any longer, he closed his eyes tightly, his body frozen as if turned to stone.
Seconds passed. The scratching stopped.
Tentatively, Cooper opened his eyes and glanced through the peephole again. The zombie was still there, standing motionless. It seemed to have lost its direction, its hollow eyes unfocused and its labored breathing uneven. Blood dripped from its slack mouth, mixing with decayed flesh, creating a grotesque and nauseating sight.
"Is it waiting for me?" The chilling thought gripped Cooper's mind.
The zombie seemed anchored to the spot, as if held there by some dark force. Its stiff movements and oppressive presence felt like an invisible hand was squeezing Cooper's heart, threatening to crush him completely.
Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to step away from the peephole. Sliding down to the floor, he leaned against the door, cold sweat beading on his forehead. His body trembled uncontrollably, but the image of that pale, decayed face stayed burned into his mind.
He buried his face in his hands, taking several deep breaths to calm himself. It took a while, but eventually, his racing thoughts slowed, and he looked around his apartment.
The sight wasn't comforting. The food in his fridge was limited, and he only had a few bottles of water left. Even if he wanted to go outside, the danger in the hallway made it impossible to summon the courage. A single question kept echoing in his head: If I don't act, can I really stay here forever?
"No," he muttered, clenching his teeth. "I can't wait any longer."
Standing up suddenly, Cooper began scouring the apartment for anything that could help him survive. He no longer hesitated—he had to act.
His eyes landed on a baseball bat propped against the wall. Once a tool for casual recreation, it had now become his only weapon.
"This swing… it has to finish it," Cooper muttered, gripping the bat tightly. The cold, solid wood pressed against his fingertips as he stood in the corner of his apartment, taking a deep breath. His fear and anxiety began to transform into a steely resolve.
"If it stays out there, I'll never survive." His voice was low, almost growling.
Cooper knew he wasn't physically suited for close combat with a zombie, but leaving that threat at his door while others could potentially show up was a gamble he couldn't afford to take. Tightening his grip on the bat, he steeled himself, his mind filled with a single, reckless thought: Take it out. It's the only way.
Quietly, he approached the door again, peering through the peephole.
His heart nearly stopped.
The zombie had pressed its face against the door, so close that its decayed features filled the peephole completely. Its hollow eyes were fixed on the door, its mouth slightly open, as if trying to sniff out the scent of the living inside.
Cooper staggered back, his mind blank. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. The zombie's lifeless gaze seemed locked onto the door, waiting, anticipating his next move.
"This… can't be real…" Cooper whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible.