The relentless pounding on the door pushed Nathan's nerves to their breaking point. His hands gripped the nail-studded baseball bat so tightly that the leather of his gloves creaked audibly. His breathing was rapid and shallow, his chest rising and falling in time with his anxiety. He knew there was no escape: he either had to face them now or trap himself inside the apartment, waiting for the zombies to leave or disperse—something he knew was impossible.
Each impact on the door felt louder than the last, or perhaps it was his heightened senses playing tricks on him. The wood visibly shook, and the makeshift spear he had used to wedge it shut groaned under the relentless pressure. The sound repeated like a grim metronome, marking the final moments before everything fell apart.
Nathan swallowed hard, his throat as dry as sand, and tightened his grip on the bat. He knew it was coming: the spear would give way at any moment, and when it did, he'd have no choice but to face whatever was on the other side.
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At last, the moment he had been dreading arrived. The spear snapped with a loud crack, and the door burst open violently. Nathan instinctively stepped back, his muscles tensed, ready to strike.
The first zombie stumbled through the entryway, moving clumsily. The narrow hallway only allowed them to come through one at a time, granting Nathan a small, fleeting advantage. Without hesitation, he raised the bat and swung with all his strength.
The sound of the impact was sickening—a wet smack followed by the crunch of bone. Blood and dark matter splattered onto the weapon, staining his clothes, but Nathan didn't stop to process it. He pulled the bat back immediately, repositioning for the next strike.
The second zombie appeared, and Nathan repeated the motion. This time, however, something went wrong. The bat's nails got stuck in the creature's flesh and skull. Nathan yanked hard, trying to free it, but precious seconds slipped away, and it wouldn't budge.
Time wasn't on his side. Seeing the next zombie advancing toward him, he let out a frustrated grunt and released the bat, retreating several steps as he drew one of the knives from his belt. His grip was solid, but his hands were slick with sweat.
He assumed a defensive stance he had seen countless times in movies, the knife held ready to strike. His eyes stayed locked on the zombies, which continued shuffling forward one by one, each drawing closer and closer.
"There are too many," he thought, a shiver running down his spine. The pressure of the moment made him hesitate, but he had no other choice. He had to fight—with or without fear.
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One of the zombies that had just entered moved close enough for Nathan to act on pure instinct. Without a second thought, he raised his left arm and pressed his forearm against the creature's chest, keeping it at a minimal distance. With his right hand, gripping the knife tightly, he drove a precise blow toward its head.
The blade pierced the zombie's eye, sinking all the way to the hilt. Dark, viscous liquid oozed from the wound as Nathan quickly pulled the knife out. He immediately shoved the body backward with all his strength.
The zombie's weight caused it to fall onto its back, taking down the two behind it in the process. The others stumbled briefly but didn't halt their advance. Stepping over the fallen bodies, they continued their relentless march toward Nathan, entirely unfazed by the pile of carnage accumulating on the floor.
Nathan repeated his tactic: using his forearm to keep the creatures at bay and stabbing them in the head with swift, deliberate motions. The strategy worked for several of them, but the growing heap of corpses in the hallway was beginning to limit his space to move.
Amidst his focus on fending off the advancing zombies, Nathan made a critical mistake—he forgot about the first two zombies that had fallen earlier in the fight. One of them, crawling amidst the bodies, managed to grab hold of his leg with both hands. The sudden pull threw him off balance, and Nathan stumbled backward, landing hard on the floor with a dull thud.
The impact momentarily stunned him, but the sound of shuffling feet snapped him back to reality. Before he could fully react, another zombie was already on top of him. In desperation, he raised his forearm to shield himself, but it was too high—nearly putting it right in the creature's mouth.
The zombie didn't waste the opportunity. Its teeth tore into the reinforced sleeve covering Nathan's arm. Although he felt a heavy pressure against his skin, there was no immediate pain. Terrified at the thought of infection, Nathan acted swiftly. With all his strength, he drove the knife into the zombie's head, piercing its skull.
Using the blade as leverage, he pushed the body off him, but the knife became stuck in the corpse.
Panting heavily, he scrambled to his feet as quickly as he could. He reached for the second knife on his belt and took a defensive stance. His eyes locked onto the remaining zombies as they pressed forward. His breathing was ragged, sweat dripping down his face, but he managed to maintain enough composure to evaluate his next move.
With careful steps, Nathan began retreating, ensuring he didn't trip again. Every muscle in his body was tense, ready to strike at the next enemy that got too close. "I can't afford another mistake," he thought, his mind racing to find a way out of the worsening situation.
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Minutes passed, and the zombies seemed endless. One after another they advanced, and one after another, Nathan took them down. But the exhaustion was starting to take its toll. His arms grew heavier with every move, and the accumulated stress clouded his mind.
He didn't know exactly how much time had passed since the fight began, but he was thankful for the narrowness of the hallway. The confined space forced the zombies to come at him one by one, and the pile of corpses made their progress even more difficult. He was also grateful they were slow. If they moved as fast as some of the zombies he'd seen in movies, he'd already be dead.
Despite the exhaustion, Nathan didn't stop. He kept using the same technique: forearm against chest, knife to the eye. Now, after each pair he took down, he'd retreat, making sure to keep his distance and avoid another mistake that could cost him his life.
Slowly, with unwavering determination, he took them down one by one. Until, finally, the last zombie fell to the ground.
The sound of the body hitting the floor echoed down the hallway, and Nathan, far from relaxing, stayed still. He didn't want anything to catch him off guard. He remained in complete silence, listening intently. His patience paid off.
Amid the dense silence, he picked up muffled, weak growls coming from the pile of bodies. Tense and alert, he began moving toward the sound, holding the bloody knife firmly in his hand.
When he reached the source of the moans, he saw them: two zombies trapped beneath the corpses. He recognized them instantly. They were the ones that had fallen at the beginning.
Both zombies tried to move toward him, their arms flailing erratically, but the weight of the bodies on top of them prevented them from advancing. Nathan looked at them coldly. He remembered how one had caused him to trip, nearly getting him killed.
A surge of hatred flooded over him. Without thinking twice, he raised his foot and slammed it down forcefully on one's head. Again and again, he struck with all his rage. The sound of something breaking filled the air, followed by a wet sensation beneath his boot. It was as if he had stepped on a ripe watermelon.
He turned toward the other zombie, but the fatigue was already taking its toll. He opted for a quicker approach: he placed his foot on the creature's back and drove the knife into its skull, ending its life with a single blow.
Nathan pulled the knife out and stood there for several minutes, staring at the entrance to the stairs. The growls and thuds had stopped, and it didn't seem like any more zombies were coming. He let out a sigh of relief, and with heavy steps, he began to make his way back to his apartment.
He pushed the sofas back into place, blocking the entrance, and walked straight to his room. Before lying down, he stopped in front of the mirror.
His reflection returned a grotesque image: his clothes were soaked with blood, his face splattered with dried droplets, and the knife in his hand was still dripping. He looked at the part of his forearm where the zombie had bitten him. The fabric was torn, but the makeshift armor had done its job; the bite hadn't gone all the way through.
A small smile tugged at his lips as he thought about his luck. He removed the bloodstained clothes, let them drop to the floor, and crawled into bed.
"I'll just sleep for a bit," he murmured, as exhaustion pulled him into slumber. At least for tonight, he had survived.