"Survival is the art of staying alive, no matter how difficult the path." – Bear Grylls
...
|September 15, 2010|
Glenn adjusted the backpack on his back, the fabric torn from the last frantic run. He was dirty with dirt, sweat, and blood – none of it his, at least for now. The afternoon sun was cruel, scorching the deserted road that seemed to stretch on forever. The motorcycle he had borrowed from the motel had broken down a few hours ago, forcing him to continue on foot. Atlanta was just over 100 kilometers away from there, or at least that's what the rusty sign said.
The silence was deafening. Not the tranquil silence of a calm afternoon, but the kind that made his hair stand on end, as if at any moment something could emerge from behind a tree or an abandoned car. He could still hear the echoes of the screams in the motel, the sound of bones breaking and doors being smashed.
That had been his first real experience with horror. Before that, the apocalypse was something distant, something he saw on TV or heard about on the news on the car radio while making his deliveries. That night, just four days ago, he was delivering a pizza to a house on the other side of the city, unaware that it would be the last order of his ordinary life.
The strangers with whom he had escaped from the motel were a temporary salvation. They had a strange synergy – unlikely, but efficient. The kind of bond that only forms when survival depends on it. However, the world outside was more relentless than any bond formed. They parted ways as soon as they reached the road, each seeking a different destination.
Glenn, however, had a plan: to return to Atlanta. The idea of a refugee center was more hope than certainty, but he needed to believe it was real. He needed to believe that there was a safe place, that survivors still existed, and maybe – just maybe – answers.
Walking along the deserted highway, Glenn passed by abandoned cars and remnants of interrupted lives. A teddy bear lurked from a back seat; unopened suitcases lay beside open doors. A light breeze made the trees sway, casting shadows that seemed to dance on the cracked asphalt.
He was not alone, of that he was sure. The sound of dragging footsteps came from afar, but the treacherous regularity was unmistakable. I didn't know how many there were, but I knew they would come. They always came.
Glenn tightened his grip on the crowbar he was holding. It wasn't the best weapon in the world, but so far it had been enough. He knew that, to survive, he would need to be faster, smarter, and quieter. But, above all, he knew he had to keep going.
Atlanta was still far away, but it was his only chance to find what remained of normalcy – or at least to survive another day.
...
|September 16, 2010|
The sun was beginning to rise on the horizon when Glenn, exhausted, opened his heavy eyes. It wasn't exactly "waking up"; it was more like escaping from an uneasy stupor. His muscles were sore, his mind numb, and fatigue threatened to pull him back into unconsciousness. Last night had been a frantic run for his life. He had lost the crowbar, his only decent weapon, when he was ambushed by a horde of undead that emerged from an abandoned warehouse. What should have been a quick supply run turned into a disaster. He didn't know how he had escaped, but he promised himself never to underestimate the danger hidden in every shadow again.
Now, beside a deserted road, he found himself in an old house, fragile and deteriorated in appearance, which seemed to have been abandoned for years. The door creaked as he closed it behind him, and with trembling hands, he piled furniture against it to create an improvised barrier. Despite being a makeshift construction, the broken walls and shattered windows offered some relief. It was a refuge, however fragile it might be.
Searching the interior, he found only wreckage: empty shelves, ruined furniture, and a kitchen that could barely be called a kitchen. However, on top of a fallen table, something caught his attention. An old, rusty kitchen knife, with a loose handle and a blade stained with rust. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than nothing. Carefully, he picked it up, testing its weight in his hand. Even fragile, that knife was now his only ally.
Climbing the stairs with silent steps, he chose a room on the second floor, whose broken window overlooked the entrance of the house. From that point, he observed the dead still wandering outside. Each of their erratic movements made his heart race, but over time, the zombies began to disperse, seemingly losing interest.
When the last one disappeared from sight, Glenn locked the bedroom door and curled up in a corner, where the cold floor seemed to embrace him. The body begged for rest, but the tension wouldn't let it give in completely. Even so, the fatigue was stronger. With the knife tightly held in his hand, the fragile symbol of security in a chaotic world, he finally let sleep take over.
With each moment of silence, he knew it was just a pause. The nightmare was still out there, waiting. When he woke up, he would need to be ready to fight, flee, or simply survive another day, another hour, perhaps just another minute.
...
Glenn floated in an infinite void, a pulsating space of flickering lights that seemed to dance between the stars and the nothingness. There was no ground beneath his feet, nor sky above his head. Just that vast ocean of indefinable colors, where time and space seemed to have no meaning. He knew he was dreaming, but at the same time, everything was absurdly real. He felt the weight of his consciousness, but without the physical body that used to carry it.
Suddenly, a holographic screen emerged before him, as if it had been shaped by the very space around him. The edges glowed with a subtle light, while intricate runes and mysterious symbols danced along its surface. In the center of the screen, a message began to form, with luminous letters that pulsed softly:
-SELECT YOUR SKILLS.-
Below the message, seven blank spaces appeared aligned in a horizontal row, each with a golden outline, as if waiting for something precious to fill them. Glenn instinctively raised his hand, noticing that its form was translucent, almost ethereal. Upon touching the screen, another window opened, revealing an endless list of skills. The words shone before him, floating in clear and hypnotic writing.
"Mastery of Krav Maga"
"Cardiovascular Surgery"
"Bushcraft (Wilderness Survival)"
"Advanced Astrophysics"
"Explosives Handling"
"Architecture of Megastructures"
"Stage Illusionism"
The list seemed endless, growing every time he thought of something. It was as if the screen were directly connected to his mind. Glenn focused on the first skill that caught his attention: "Mastery of Krav Maga." As soon as he selected it, a wave of energy coursed through his body. He felt his muscles strengthen, his posture change, and his mind fill with combat techniques. It was as if he had spent years training, facing enemies in intense battles, even though he had never done any of that before.
Curious, he chose another skill: "Bushcraft (Wilderness Survival)." This time, knowledge flooded him like a torrent. He knew how to find clean water, build shelters, start a fire without matches, track animals, and even identify edible plants. It was as if he had lived an entire life in the forests, facing the dangers of nature and thriving despite them.
As I processed this new information, an icon flashed in the upper corner of the screen. A message appeared:
-WARNING: ONLY SEVEN SKILLS CAN BE SELECTED.-
Glenn looked at the golden slots again. Two were already filled. He had only five choices left. A sense of urgency overwhelmed him, as if he knew these choices would be permanent, shaping his destiny in a world on the brink of collapse.
Recent news echoed in his mind: reports of people who had lost their humanity, attacking others with irrational violence. The army insisted that everyone stay at home, protected, but Glenn knew that waiting defenseless was not an option. He needed to prepare for the worst.
With determination, he made his next choice: "Handling Firearms." Immediately, a surprising calm took over his mind. He knew how to handle pistols, rifles, and shotguns with lethal precision. Each weapon felt like an extension of his body, and the responsibility of using them safely was as clear as the urgency to survive.
"Trauma Medicine" was next. A detailed medical knowledge flooded his mind. Glenn now knew how to treat severe wounds, stabilize hemorrhages, improvise bandages, and even perform minor emergency procedures. He felt the weight of that knowledge — lives could depend on his skills.
"Automotive Mechanics" came right after. He could disassemble and reassemble engines as if it were second nature. Each part of a vehicle made sense to him, and he knew how to turn scrap into something functional, adapting cars and motorcycles to survive in extreme situations.
"Practical Engineering" was his sixth choice. His mind became a well of creative solutions. He could think of ways to reinforce barricades, create improvised devices, and even build traps to protect vulnerable areas.
Finally, he chose "Military Tactics." Strategies and tactical planning began to flow naturally. He knew how to organize defenses, anticipate enemy movements, and react with precision to high-tension situations.
When he filled the last slot, the screen shone brightly. The symbols and runes around began to spin at high speed, forming complex patterns. Then, a new message appeared in the center:
-AUXILIARY SKILL AVAILABLE.-
Glenn tried to understand what that meant, but before he could react, the words began to tremble, blurring before his eyes. The emptiness around him began to fade, as if he were being pulled back into reality.
He woke up with a start in the abandoned house where he was hiding. The sound of zombies wandering outside was still a constant threat, but something inside him had changed. He felt a new sense of clarity and confidence. Glenn knew that whatever had happened in that dream, it was more than an illusion. He was different — more prepared, more capable. The chaos around him was still real, but now he had the tools to face it.
He got up from the cold floor, the dust of the house still clinging to his sweaty skin. With an automatic gesture, he rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the stupor that still insisted on lingering. As soon as he fully opened his eyelids, his gaze turned to the window, dirty with dust and cracks. On the other side, the world seemed still, quiet, but with a strange weight in the air. He observed the orange sky, where the sun was beginning to descend towards the horizon. "It will be nightfall soon," he murmured in a low tone, more to himself than to anyone else.
Without wasting any time, he gripped the old knife that lay in his hand. The worn handle was no stranger to his hand, a natural extension of his calloused fingers. "That's fucking crazy," he cursed softly, in astonishment. He observed her for a brief moment, feeling a strange familiarity that now bordered on comfort, something he had never imagined feeling for a weapon.
With determined steps, he crossed the narrow hallway of the old house, whose peeling walls seemed to hold echoes of a less somber time. He pushed the door, which creaked in protest, and stepped outside, smelling the dry earth and dying vegetation. He had strayed far from Atlanta, fleeing the undead who seemed to chase him at every corner. But there was no time for lamentations. He needed to make up for the time he had lost. Adjusting the backpack on his back and the cap on his head, he began to walk hurriedly along the cracked asphalt road.
...
Glenn was exhausted. The walk to that point had been long, marked by miles of desolate terrain in his attempt to return to Atlanta. The sky was already filled with dark tones, announcing the arrival of night. Along the way, he encountered some undead. There weren't as many as on other occasions, but enough to test the limits of his endurance and his old knife, which finally gave in as it embedded itself in the skull of the last zombie. That's how they were eliminated, as Glenn had discovered in his first encounter with these creatures: a precise blow to the brain.
After leaving an abandoned house, he spotted one of the dead wandering alone down the deserted road. The sight stirred a mix of repulsion and determination within him. It was the perfect opportunity to test his theory, although the idea of using the body of someone who was once human as a guinea pig deeply troubled him. Even so, he decided to act.
With the Krav Maga skills he possessed, Glenn quickly took control of the situation. He made the corpse stumble, bringing it down to the ground with a swift movement. Without hesitation, he broke the creature's right leg. The sound of the bone breaking echoed in the silence: "Crack!" Then, he broke the other leg with the same ease: "Crack!" The creature, indifferent to pain or the loss of mobility, continued dragging itself, driven only by the instinct to bite. It seemed that his entire world was reduced to the incessant hunger.
Glenn, methodical, also broke the dead man's arms, but the behavior didn't change. Still, the creature kept advancing, crawling in a pathetic manner. To prevent it from trying to bite him, Glenn tore a piece of the zombie's tattered shirt and improvised a gag. Even so, the creature remained restless. He then decided to go further, piercing the heart, the lungs, the kidneys, and even cutting the throat. None of these wounds had any effect. There was no pain, fear, or any trace of emotion in the undead. They did not react like living beings; they were simply walking corpses.
Finally, Glenn took his old knife and drove it directly into the creature's brain, through the temple. The body stopped moving instantly, as if the strings holding a marionette had been cut. He could have done it from the beginning, but he needed to be sure of two things: they were no longer human and had no weak point other than the brain.
Even though he knew that being was completely dead, Glenn felt the need to give the scene a dignified end. He dragged the corpse to an imposing oak tree by the roadside. There, he arranged the broken limbs, trying to give them a more natural appearance. He removed the cloth from the dead man's mouth and used it to cover his eyes, as a kind of final gesture of respect.
He stood up, without looking back, and resumed his walk. After some time, he arrived at a small desolate village. The place was engulfed in oppressive silence, broken only by the hungry moans of some undead wandering among the abandoned buildings. There was a bar there, along with other dilapidated houses. Glenn hid behind a dumpster near the bar, carefully observing the movement of the zombies.
He waited patiently until three of them passed, checking that the area was relatively safe. He stood up, being careful not to make any noise, and took quick and silent steps to the bar door. With every movement, his senses were on high alert, ready to act if necessary.