Chapter 3: First Kill
Ethan's breath caught in his throat.
Something was in the storage room.
The low, gurgling sound sent a chill down his spine. He could hear it shifting, the rustle of plastic bags and the scrape of something heavy against the floor.
An infected.
His hands clenched around the metal pipe, his pulse hammering in his ears. He knew he should run, but his legs refused to move. His back pressed against a shelf as he stared at the storage room door, waiting, listening.
Then, it moved.
A slow, unsteady shuffle. The door creaked as something pushed against it.
Ethan sucked in a sharp breath. His fingers tightened on the pipe until his knuckles turned white.
The door swung open.
A figure lurched forward.
The stench hit him first—rotting flesh, sweat, and something metallic. The infected had once been a man, maybe in his late thirties, dressed in a torn store uniform. His skin was pale, his veins dark like ink spreading through his body. His mouth hung open, lips peeled back over bloodstained teeth.
Then, he lunged.
Ethan reacted on instinct. He swung the pipe. Hard.
A sickening crack echoed through the store as the metal struck the infected's skull. The force sent the creature stumbling back, but it didn't stop. It growled—a deep, wet sound—and lunged again.
Panic surged through Ethan. He swung again, this time with both hands. The pipe connected with the side of its head, sending it crashing into a shelf. A can rolled onto the floor, clattering loudly.
The infected twitched, trying to rise.
Ethan didn't let it.
He raised the pipe and brought it down.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The sickening crunch of bone and flesh filled the silence. The creature spasmed, then went still.
Ethan staggered back, gasping. His hands were shaking, his heart pounding so hard it hurt. He stared at the lifeless corpse, his mind struggling to process what he had just done.
He had killed someone.
No—something.
It wasn't human anymore.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry. He could still feel the impact of the pipe vibrating through his arms. His stomach twisted, nausea creeping in, but he forced it down.
He couldn't afford to break down. Not now.
Taking a shaky breath, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve and forced himself to move. He searched the storage room, grabbing whatever supplies he could find—bottled water, canned food, a flashlight.
His hands still trembled as he stuffed them into a backpack he found near the counter.
This was survival now.
And he had just taken his first step into the new world.