3rd July 2026
I woke up from a drilling pain in the stomach. It was hunger—it had gained on me. To the point, I could not ignore it anymore. I shrunk myself in the cold corner of the room. This was it—I had hit the limit. All I could think of was food and water.
Trying to distract myself from these alarms of the body, I turned my gaze to the monitor before me, hoping watching something might help. The time on the screen displayed "6:40 AM." Hunger was a better alarm than my phone—there was no snooze button for it.
"Focu... Focus on the ne-news!" I mumbled to myself, thinking it might help me pass at least two or three hours. For a moment, I thought it was working. I don't remember much of what was on the news, but the pain dulled slightly. I continued, clinging to the illusion of progress. After what felt like an eternity, I decided to check the time again, hoping for motivation to push through.
"6:45 AM," the screen displayed. At first, I couldn't see it clearly—everything was blurry—but by squeezing my eyes, I focused on the time. That realization broke me. Only five minutes had passed. The hunger struck again, stronger and more merciless, as if mocking me for daring to hope. It kicked me when I was already down.
I tried to push myself against the walls. My hands clutched my stomach, my back pressed into the intersection of the walls, and my legs forced me into the corner as if trying to merge with it. My body moved on its own, possessed by a primal need. I could see it happening but was powerless to stop it.
Then it came—a faint smell, cutting through the rotting stench that filled the air. It was like it was calling me. I didn't know how I could even smell anything pleasant in all this decay, but it was there. The moment it hit me, I knew it was real.
Yet my body refused to move. Moments passed, and finally, my body gave out completely. Even hunger couldn't animate a body with no energy left. I lay there, helpless, as the world grew dimmer. Survival felt like a distant dream.
But the smell came again.
The human body has survival instincts—not like Spider-Man, but real ones. My senses seemed to heighten. I could feel the faint disruption of air currents in the still room caused by my shallow breaths. I could hear the zombies dragging their feet, the squelch of each step like wet shoes on a soaked floor. And most vividly, I could smell something familiar amidst the rot.
With effort, I traced the scent to its source—the trashcan beside the desk. I didn't care why food might be in the trash; I only knew I had to get to it. My body, however, refused to cooperate. I couldn't even sit upright.
I hit my head against the wall in frustration. Then, swinging my shoulders against the walls, I banged myself repeatedly until I managed to slide down to the floor. The impact jarred something loose in me. After a few more attempts, I could move my arms. I dug my hands into the ground and dragged myself toward the trashcan.
A distance of less than ten feet felt longer than an ultramarathon. One agonizing inch at a time, I inched closer. When I finally reached it, I grabbed the trashcan's rim and smashed it on the floor, spilling its contents. I pawed through the refuse, desperate.
There it was—a chunk of crumpled foil. Tearing it open with trembling hands, I found my prize: pieces of bread crust, the discarded edges of a sandwich. I shoved them into my mouth without a second thought. It was the most satisfying meal I had ever had.
Those tiny scraps gave me just enough strength to pull myself up and lean against the desk. My gaze shifted to the monitor.
"China Closes Borders, Declares Total Lockdown."
A message from the Chinese government scrolled across the screen: "We shall fight this war in our home and hope you do the same."
First the USA, now China. It was clear things were spiraling out of control. China's sudden retreat was out of character. Normally, they were aggressive, seeking to infiltrate other nations during chaos. Their withdrawal hinted at something worse—perhaps they had suffered more damage than they were willing to admit.
"It's not going well," I muttered, my eyes drifting to the time.
"8:50 PM."
"What?! How the hell can that happen?" I shifted my gaze toward the window. The sun had set, and moonlight spilled through the glass. I had been crawling for hours without realizing it.
Panic gripped me as I thought about venturing out. My earlier resolve to search for resources faltered. Fear kept me rooted in place. "Tomorrow," I whispered. "I'll go out tomorrow."
But I wouldn't sit idle until then. I grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen from the desk and began making a plan:
Things I Need:
Food
Water
Weapons
How many zombies are left
Should I look for survivors?
Will anyone come to save me?
Should I go to the rooftop?
Is Johan still there?
The list grew longer as my thoughts spiraled into questions. When I wrote the last question, a chill ran down my spine. Memories of Johan and everything that had happened flooded back, overwhelming me.
I crushed the paper in my hand and sat by the window, staring at the empty streets below. Thoughts of escape filled my mind—what it would be like to roam the streets, scavenging for supplies, living as if in a movie.
Those thoughts gradually turned into dreams, and I drifted into them, waiting for another day to come.