Alex staggered into the makeshift safe zone, his legs aching with every step. The world around him was quiet, almost too quiet. The distant hum of the wind was interrupted only by the occasional groan of a mutated creature somewhere beyond the rusted barricades. The safe zone was a cluster of old military trucks and shanty tents, nestled in what used to be a suburban neighborhood—now a war-torn ghost town.
His stomach growled, a painful reminder that he hadn't eaten in over two days. He barely noticed the ragged clothes clinging to his thin body, nor the fresh dirt smeared across his face. Hunger was his only companion now. His throat was dry, and his energy was running on fumes. All he could think about was food.
His eyes scanned the area, and his mind worked quickly to assess the situation. This safe zone wasn't the most secure—it never was. The infected, the mutated zombies that once had been human, roamed the outskirts, a constant threat just beyond the horizon. But here, for now, Alex was safe. Safe enough to think, to breathe, and—he hoped—safe enough to find food.
As he moved deeper into the area, he noticed the remains of old fire pits, the remnants of some long-gone effort to cook food. A few scattered cans of food lay in the dirt, abandoned and forgotten. Some were crushed, others dented, but none of that mattered to Alex. The hunger was too strong, and his focus was sharp as a knife.
He knelt by a nearby tarp, lifting it cautiously to check underneath. His fingers, trembling with anticipation, brushed across a rusted metal can. He grinned, though the expression felt foreign on his face. Cans of beans. They'd been left behind, probably by someone too weak to carry them further.
Alex grabbed the can with both hands, his fingers raw from the constant friction of holding onto weapons and supplies for days on end. He stood, his knees popping with effort, and he moved to the fire pit at the center of the safe zone. The old embers still smoldered faintly, and the surrounding stones had a dull, grayish hue from years of use. There was nothing to cook on, but he had no choice—he'd have to open the can without heat.
He used a sharp piece of metal he found on the ground, prying the lid off. The sound of metal scraping echoed in the stillness, and Alex paused for a moment, listening. Silence. It wasn't the oppressive kind, the silence that came before danger, but a stillness that settled in the air. He let out a breath and resumed, the lid finally giving way with a soft pop.
The beans inside were cold and slimy, but to Alex, they were a godsend. He didn't hesitate. He shoved his hand into the can, scraping up the thick, gelatinous contents and shoveling them into his mouth with desperate hunger. It was hardly the meal he dreamed of, but it was fuel. It was enough.
With every bite, the strength in his body began to return. His muscles, stiff from days of tension, loosened a little. His vision cleared, and the haze of exhaustion that had clouded his thoughts started to lift. The world, though still dangerous, seemed a little less bleak with the food in his belly.
He sat down on the ground, his back resting against a nearby car, eyes scanning the desolate landscape. The remnants of the world seemed to stretch endlessly before him. Some of the buildings in the distance were half-collapsed, their windows shattered, their frames twisted and broken. Here, in the silence, Alex found a fleeting moment of peace, his body and mind focused solely on the present.
For a few minutes, he allowed himself to rest. To simply exist.
But there was no time for true rest. Alex knew better than to get too comfortable. The infected—mutated, grotesque versions of humanity—were always drawn to movement, to sound, to life. And the safe zone wasn't immune to their hunger.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, pushing the empty can aside. The small meal had bought him some time, but it wouldn't last long. He had to keep moving.
Alex stood and surveyed the horizon. There were still places he needed to get to. He needed to find more supplies, more food, and maybe even something resembling safety. The safe zone might hold for a while longer, but nothing was permanent in this world. It was a fragile existence, always hanging on by a thread.
The hunger had subsided for now. But survival? That was a different story.
With a final glance at the emptiness around him, Alex turned away. His boots crunched against the broken asphalt as he walked, each step a quiet reminder that the fight for his life wasn't over. It had only just begun.
He scanned the area for a place to rest, eyes darting to a dilapidated building nearby. The roof had collapsed in parts, but it offered shelter. A chance to close his eyes for a moment without the constant threat of exposure. He made his way toward it, every step measured, every sense alert.
Inside, dust hung in the air like a shroud. Alex found a corner, tucked between some old furniture and debris. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep him out of sight. He huddled into a ball, wrapping his jacket around himself for warmth. His body screamed for rest, but his mind wouldn't let him fully relax. Sleep would have to wait. For now, he could close his eyes, just for a few moments, before the world came crashing back. As his eyelids fluttered shut, his thoughts wandered back to the past, to a time before the world fell apart, when everything felt normal—safe.