As he escaped the sewers, he ran into a café to hide himself for the time being. But, Max had thought securing himself inside the café would be enough to keep him safe until morning. He had chosen the spot carefully, barricading the doors with overturned chairs and tables, ensuring he had multiple escape routes if things went south. But nothing could have prepared him for how different the city became after dark.
The moment the sun disappeared beyond the crumbling skyline, the streets came alive with the dead.
The groaning started first—low, guttural sounds that echoed through the concrete jungle like a warning. Then came the shuffling of countless feet against the pavement. The distant crashes of metal hitting the ground. The occasional scream.
Max stayed low behind the café counter, gripping his hunting knife in one hand and his makeshift rusted pipe in the other. His body was tense, every muscle coiled like a spring, his heartbeat hammering in his chest. He had no idea how many walkers were outside, but judging by the chorus of hungry groans, it was far more than he wanted to deal with.
He had made the right call by staying hidden.
At least, that's what he thought.
Then, something outside crashed.
A loud, metallic clatter.
Max's head snapped toward the window. That wasn't a walker. Walkers didn't knock over trash cans by accident. They didn't panic.
This was a person.
Carefully, he peeked through a crack in the grime-covered glass.
Down the street, barely illuminated by the faint moonlight, was a man.
He was limping, his right leg dragging behind him, his hands clutching at his torn shirt. Blood seeped from a wound on his side, staining the pavement as he stumbled forward. His face was twisted in panic, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
And just behind him, turning toward the noise—
Were at least a dozen walkers.
Their rotting heads snapped up, their decayed nostrils flaring at the scent of fresh blood. Their groans grew louder as they zeroed in on the injured man.
The man realized his mistake too late.
"Shit—no, no, no!" he gasped, trying to pick up his pace. His bad leg buckled under him, sending him sprawling onto the pavement.
The walkers surged forward.
Max's grip tightened on his knife.
He could help. The man was only a short sprint away. A few quick, clean kills, and he could save him.
But the logical part of Max's mind screamed at him to stay put.
Helping meant exposing himself.
He had no idea if this guy was armed, dangerous, or even infected. If Max ran out now, he'd be throwing himself straight into a feeding frenzy.
His stomach twisted as the man clawed at the pavement, desperately trying to crawl away.
Then, in a horrifying instant—
A walker pounced.
It landed on his back, rotting teeth sinking into his shoulder. The man's screams pierced the night.
The rest of the horde descended upon him, tearing, biting, ripping. The sickening sounds of flesh being pulled from bone filled the air, the grotesque squelching noise making Max's stomach churn.
The man flailed weakly for a few more seconds before his body finally went still.
Max turned away, pressing his back against the counter.
His knuckles were white as he clenched his knife.
He had made the right choice.
But it didn't feel like it.
The night dragged on.
The walkers continued to roam, their grotesque moans filling the ruined city. Every few minutes, Max could hear them sniffing the air, their decayed brains still processing the last remnants of human scent lingering in the streets.
At one point, a single walker wandered toward the café window.
Max froze.
Its milky, unfocused eyes stared inside, its bony fingers scraping against the filthy glass.
He didn't breathe. Didn't blink.
If it noticed him—if it even so much as tapped on the window—the entire horde outside would turn its attention toward the café.
A few agonizing seconds passed.
Then, as if losing interest, the walker groaned and shuffled away.
Max exhaled slowly, relief washing over him.
By the time the sky began to lighten, the city was silent again.
The dead had started to scatter, retreating into the shadows and alleyways.
Max could finally move.
His muscles ached from staying in one position for too long. His stomach growled, reminding him that he still hadn't eaten. His throat was dry. He needed water, food, and—most importantly—a better shelter.
The system hadn't issued him a new quest yet, but it didn't matter.
He already knew what he needed to do next.
Slowly, Max stood, rolling his shoulders to shake off the stiffness.
His first night had been a brutal wake-up call.
And if he wanted to survive the next one—
He had to be stronger. Smarter. And faster.
This was clearly a sign that he should be as cautious as possible as to not end up like that dude. So he vowed to only make moves after being sure he can do it without failure. Things wouldn't matter if he got bit and died.