Hector stood at the edge of the roof, the familiar weight of his handgun resting on his hip and the distant sound of the infected stirring far below. For the past two weeks, he had avoided the chaos and death lurking on the lower floors. His days had been spent training, recovering, and planning. The roof became his sanctuary, a place where he practiced firing his weapons, using suppressors to minimize the sound, though even suppressed shots echoed faintly in the eerie silence of the city.
At first, his aim had been shaky. He'd never handled a gun before waking up to this nightmare, but desperation had proven to be an effective teacher. Now, after countless hours of practice, he could hit center mass reliably and even pull off headshots at short distances. He wasn't a sharpshooter, but he no longer feared the idea of aiming a firearm in the heat of battle.
During his downtime, Hector had spent time tinkering with the system's store, poring over the array of items available to him. The selection was vast, offering everything from survival gear to blueprints for advanced weapons, but the price of most high-value items left him hesitant. He quickly concluded that relying on the store for basic supplies was inefficient. Resources like food, water, and tools could still be scavenged from his surroundings, so spending precious LP on them seemed wasteful.
Instead, Hector resolved to focus his LP on items that could prepare him for the inevitable escalation of danger. The system's warnings about the infection stage and world stage lingered in his mind, a reminder that the relative calm he had experienced over the last two weeks wouldn't last forever. He needed to prepare—not just for the infected, but for whatever else the system had in store.
One question haunted him during the quiet hours of the night: Was he truly alone?
The memory of the blood-curdling scream from weeks ago was a stark reminder of the fate that awaited anyone who faltered. In all his patrols and scavenging missions, he hadn't seen a single other survivor. The apartments were empty save for the infected, and the city outside was eerily silent, broken only by the groans and shuffling of the dead.
Hector didn't know whether to be relieved or devastated. On one hand, the absence of people meant fewer risks of betrayal or competition for resources. On the other hand, the thought of being the last living soul in this district gnawed at him.
Among the things he had scavenged were pamphlets distributed by the Health Ministry Disease Directory (HMDD), likely from the early days of the outbreak. The pamphlets painted a grim picture of how the virus had spread—first through contaminated water, then through airborne transmission. It explained the rapid collapse of society, as millions succumbed and turned into the ravenous monsters that now prowled the world.
One particular pamphlet caught his attention. It described a controversial military decision: high command had refused orders to bomb cities and deploy chemical weapons, arguing that such measures would only bolster the infected's ranks by wiping out survivors who might otherwise endure. Instead, the pamphlet urged survivors to band together, endure the hordes, and preserve hope for a distant future, even if it meant starting from scratch.
Hector admired the sentiment, but it felt hollow now. If there were other survivors, where were they? If they had banded together, why hadn't he found any trace of them?
Hector sighed as he pushed those thoughts aside. He couldn't afford to dwell on questions without answers. He had spent the last two weeks resting and preparing, but now it was time to act. The second and ground floors remained uncleared, a glaring hole in his otherwise secure domain.
The infected below represented a significant risk. If they wandered up the stairs, the safe haven he had worked so hard to build would be compromised. Hector knew it was time to descend once more into the depths of the building and face whatever awaited him.
He gathered his gear—a handgun, the suppressed submachine gun, and the combat knife that had become an extension of his arm. His new armor fit snugly, the tactical vest offering some measure of comfort against the unknown.
The storm outside continued to brew, wind rattling the windows and thunder rumbling in the distance. Hector paused for a moment at the stairwell leading to the second floor, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He wasn't the same man who had cowered in fear two weeks ago. He was stronger, smarter, and more determined.
But even so, the challenges ahead would test him in ways he couldn't yet imagine.
With cautious steps and his weapon at the ready, Hector began his descent.
The second-floor hallway stretched before Hector, dim and oppressive, with debris scattered across the floor and the faint stench of decay lingering in the air. His grip tightened on the submachine gun, the suppressor affixed to its barrel offering a false sense of security. He'd practiced with it on the roof, learning to control short bursts to conserve ammo. Now, that practice would be put to the test.
As soon as he stepped fully into the hallway, a low groan echoed from the shadows. Hector froze, his breath caught in his chest. Then came the sound of scraping footsteps—dozens of them.
Undead poured from both ends of the hallway, their guttural snarls filling the confined space. Hector wasted no time, aiming down the iron sights and squeezing the trigger. Short bursts, just as he'd practiced. The SMG's muffled retort echoed faintly, each burst tearing into the closest infected.
His shots were precise, calculated, and methodical. Years of watching action movies and his recent weeks of training coalesced into this moment of survival. He moved steadily, sweeping from one cluster of infected to the next, ensuring none closed the gap.
But the suppressor, though effective at reducing the noise, wasn't perfect. Its faint sound still carried, a low hum in the otherwise dead silence of the building. Something else heard it.
A blood-curdling shriek shattered the momentary calm as Hector cleared another room. His heart sank—he knew that sound. The Stalker.
Hector spun around just in time to see the creature emerge from the shadows, its sinewy form slinking unnaturally low to the ground, its sharp claws scraping against the walls as it moved with eerie speed.
He raised the SMG, tracking the predator's erratic movements. The Stalker zigzagged, almost taunting him with its agility. Hector fired a burst, the shots going wide as the creature darted left, then right, then leaped into the air, claws extended.
With no time to think, Hector rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the Stalker's strike. His mind raced—if he wasted more ammo, he'd be left vulnerable. He needed to switch tactics.
Dropping the SMG onto its sling, Hector drew his hunting knife, the blade gleaming in the dim light. The Stalker snarled, its sharp teeth bared as it crouched low, readying itself for another attack. Hector braced, his breathing steady, his heart pounding in his chest.
The creature lunged, claws slashing toward his chest. Hector blocked the blow with his left arm, the reinforced armor absorbing the impact. The claws scraped against the durable fabric but didn't penetrate. He drove his knife upward, plunging it into the Stalker's side.
The creature howled in pain but didn't relent, clawing wildly at his arms and torso. Hector held firm, using his armor as a shield while forcing the creature back against the wall. With a final surge of strength, he drove the knife into its throat, silencing its cries.
The Stalker went limp, collapsing to the floor in a heap. Hector staggered back, panting, his knife dripping with the creature's dark blood. His arms ached from the blows, but the armor had held up. He couldn't help but feel a small sense of gratitude for the investment.
As he wiped the blade clean, Hector stared down at the creature. Its lean, predatory form reminded him just how dangerous the world had become. It wasn't just the hordes of infected he had to worry about—it was these predators, these anomalies that could hunt and kill with terrifying efficiency.
He tightened his grip on the knife, his resolve hardening. Never again would he underestimate the Stalkers. Fighting more than one of these would be suicide.
With the hallway quiet once more, Hector resumed his grim task, clearing the remaining rooms one by one. His movements were more cautious, his senses heightened by the encounter. The second floor was finally cleared, but the toll it had taken on him was evident in the sweat dripping from his brow and the tension in his muscles.
Hector stood in the now-empty hallway, the silence pressing down on him. This was no video game. There were no extra lives, no second chances. Every decision, every action had consequences, and every enemy he faced had once been human.
He made his way back to the stairs, determined to regroup and rest before taking on the next challenge. The second floor was his now and he was determined to keep it that way later he would barricade it clear the corpses and loot whatever is valuable before facing his final challenge in the building and perhaps the hardest yet, the ground floor.
Hector slumped against the stairwell wall, his breath ragged and his arms trembling. The brief respite was a necessity, but not a luxury he could afford for long. He wiped his face with a gloved hand, smearing a mix of sweat and grime, before peering back into the second-floor hallway. The Stalker encounter had rattled him, but the job wasn't finished.
Determination burned in his chest as he pushed himself back to his feet. The second floor needed to be secured. With his hunting knife cleaned and his SMG reloaded, Hector stepped into the hallway once more, moving with renewed purpose.
The aftermath of his earlier battle was evident: bloodstains streaked the walls, and the still forms of the infected littered the floor. The occasional shudder of a dying light fixture cast unsettling shadows, but Hector pressed on, systematically checking each apartment door for stragglers.
His vigilance paid off when a low growl came from a partially opened door. Hector tightened his grip on his SMG, nudging the door open with the barrel. Inside, a lone infected shuffled aimlessly, its back turned to him.
Hector acted swiftly, stepping forward and driving his hunting knife into the base of the infected's skull. It dropped instantly, the thud muffled by the thick carpet. He exhaled, relieved that the encounter hadn't drawn more attention.
The hallway led him to the southern stairwell, where he found another handful of infected that had likely wandered up from the ground floor. They stumbled toward him, their movements uncoordinated but relentless. Hector took a calculated risk, raising the SMG and firing in controlled bursts. Each shot landed true, dropping the infected before they could close the distance.
Once the immediate threats were neutralized, Hector set to work. He scoured the stairwell and the hallway for anything he could use to create a makeshift barricade. The infected were a constant threat, but funneling their movements was key to his survival.
A heavy dresser from one of the apartments served as a blockade for the northern stairwell entrance, while a broken kitchen table and some chairs formed an improvised barrier for the southern end. It wasn't perfect, but it would slow any wanderers and give him an early warning if they tried to break through.
Hector stood back, surveying his handiwork. The barricades weren't pretty, but they'd hold for now. His mind raced with thoughts of how to reinforce them further—perhaps some nails, screws, or even better, something he could buy from the system store.
With the hallways finally secured, Hector allowed himself a moment to sit on a nearby chair, his SMG hanging from its sling. The second floor was secure and for now, he'd carved out another small piece of safety in this hellish world. Hector's eyes drifted to the southern stairwell leading to the ground floor, his next inevitable challenge. For now, though, he'd return to his base, rest, and plan his next move. He'd need all his strength and wits to face what waited below, little did he know that thought would sooner manifest itself into a new nightmare.
Hector woke with renewed determination. After a hearty breakfast of an MRE and a hot cup of instant coffee, he donned his armor and slung his rifle across his shoulder. His suppressor-equipped handgun rested snugly at his side, and the SMG was securely strapped to his chest. He double-checked his supplies, ensuring he was ready for whatever awaited him.
Descending the stairs, Hector paused briefly at the second floor, inspecting the barricades he'd erected. They remained intact, holding firm against any stray infected from the floor below. Satisfied, he continued his descent toward the ground floor.
Reaching the ground floor, Hector was struck by the eerie silence. The emptiness unsettled him; he had anticipated encountering hordes of infected, but the hallways stood unnaturally still. The air felt heavy, and every sound he made seemed amplified in the quiet. His instincts screamed for caution as he began a slow, methodical patrol of the area.
As he turned a corner, the silence was broken by a faint, pitiful sound—a soft whimpering, almost like a child crying. Hector froze, his heart racing.
"Is that... someone alive?" he whispered under his breath, the idea filling him with a flicker of hope.
The sound was coming from a blood-stained door at the far end of the hall. Hector moved cautiously toward it.
The cries grew louder as he neared the door, shifting into desperate, muffled sobs. Hector's grip on his handgun tightened. Every step felt heavier than the last, his mind wrestling between hope and the fear that something was terribly wrong.
As he reached the door, he noticed subtle details: blood smeared on the frame, scratch marks on the wood, and a faint stench of rot emanating from inside. His Sixth Sense perk suddenly flared, a sharp jolt of danger surging through him.
He froze, muscles tense, eyes darting toward the shadows in the room beyond. The sobbing continued, more urgent now, as if sensing his presence.
Hector crouched and adjusted his grip on the handgun. Instead of bursting in, he slowly leaned his shoulder against the wall beside the door, craning his neck to peer through the cracked opening.
Inside, his blood ran cold.