After leaving the office area John froze, the chaotic echoes of the world outside momentarily silenced by the scene before him. On the cold tiled floor, amidst a scattering of overturned furniture and shredded papers, lay the gruesome remains of what was undeniably a human being. The air, already thick with the metallic tang of fear now carried an additional sickening scent. It was a visceral punch to the gut and a stark, immediate reintroduction to the new brutal reality. His breath hitched, a wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm him but he forced it down. This wasn't the time for weakness.
With a surge of frantic energy, he lunged for the nearest window, yanking down a heavy curtain. Its fabric, once a barrier against the sun now served a different purpose. Carefully, almost reverently, he spread it over the mangled form, a small, desperate act of dignity in a world stripped barren of it. "At least your pain is over." he whispered, the words hollow in the suddenly quiet office he had entered. He knew, with a chilling certainty that countless others were likely facing fates far more unimaginable, protracted and cruel. This small mercy, if it could even be called that, was the only solace he could grasp in the encroaching nightmare.
He took a moment, forcing himself to breathe, to find a semblance of equilibrium. The task at hand remained: survival. He needed supplies. Gathering his resolve, John began a systematic search of the office. He moved with a newfound purpose, his eyes scanning every nook and cranny for a backpack or a suitable bag. A flashlight, medical supplies – preferably in a dedicated box or bag – and any other item that could offer even a sliver of utility in the challenging days ahead were high priorities. The silence of the abandoned school, often punctuated by distant and unsettling sounds, pressed in on him.
"Thank god for plot armor," John faintly chuckled, the morbid humour a desperate attempt to lighten the suffocating weight of his situation. The knowledge that the 'mother dragons' might deter some of the more monstrous threats offered a fleeting sense of security. Yet, even as the thought flickered, a colder and more insidious realization settled in. The real danger, he understood with a chilling clarity, wouldn't be the fantastical beasts or the unknown horrors lurking in the shadows. It would be other people. Humanity, stripped of its thin veneer of civilization would quickly devolve. Many, he suspected, might have already succumbed to corruption, driven by fear, greed, or the darker impulses awakened by chaos and their classes. They would be the unpredictable becoming a truly terrifying element.
Speaking aloud, a habit from his pre-catastrophe life, John attempted various commands, hoping to access some vestige of a game system, a menu, controls. "Status? Inventory? Map?" he murmured, but to no avail. The world offered no helpful overlays, no comforting data points. He shrugged off the frustration; this was real life and even if it's changed it wouldn't be so easy. His search continued, methodical and urgent. Eventually, nestled in the forgotten depths of the 'lost and found' box, he unearthed a sturdy, if slightly dusty, backpack. He quickly emptied its previous contents – discarded schoolbooks and forgotten gym clothes – making space for his own grim essentials. Putting it on his shoulder and making sure it was secured he left feeling slightly happier, a small but significant victory as he exited the main office. His immediate plan was clear: scavenge the kitchens, the nurse's office and finally the gardener's shed before making his true departure from this now haunted and burnt building.
As he made his way through the desolate corridors, a creeping unease settled over him. The distant prospect of rescue seemed to dwindle with every step. Through a black ashed window he caught sight of a thick plumes of smoke, there dark tendrils reaching up into the pale sky. An ominous orange glow flickered on the horizon, accompanied by the wail of sirens, a sound that in this new context felt less like a promise of help and more like a dirge. "Sigh, would have preferred zombies, to be honest," John muttered to himself, the words tasting bitter. "At least with zombies, you know what you're up against. But I'll take what I can get." He pushed on, reaching the double doors of the kitchen. Inside, he moved swiftly, grabbing non-perishable foods – canned goods, sealed packets of crackers – stuffing them into his backpack. His eyes then fell upon the gleaming utility of the knife rack. With a grim practicality, he selected two large, heavy kitchen knives, there blades glinting menacingly. He tested their weight and their balance as a cold resolve settling in. These would be his companions now, his only form of immediate defence. He gripped one in each hand, the metal cold and solid, a stark contrast to the trembling fear in his gut.
"Now just the nurse's office and the gardener's shed. I hope everyone else who survived is okay and not around here," John said to himself, the restlessness in his spirit battling with a persistent, irrational gratitude for what he still perceived as "plot armor." He knew better, though. This wasn't a game. As he pushed open the door to the nurse's office, a chilling scene unfolded before him, dispelling any lingering sense of protective fantasy.
On one of the sick beds lay a body, crudely dismembered, oozing dark blood onto the pristine white sheets. Bent over it, her silhouette hunched and unnatural, was a woman. "Now, that should do it. No life means no more pain for you. Now I can move on to my next patient," the woman intoned, her voice a hoarse, scratchy rasp that scraped along John's nerves.
Slowly and deliberately her head turned. Her immensely long, tangled black hair, thick and matted, reached down to the floor, obscuring most of her face from his initial view. What remained visible was a torn, grotesque mask, a parody of care. Then, her eyes met his: two crimson red orbs, burning with an insane intensity that sent a primal shiver down John's spine. She was dressed in a leather nurse outfit that was stained and cracked, reminiscent of something ripped from the darkest corners of a horror film. It was less a uniform and more a costume of madness.
"Sorry to interrupt," John managed, his voice a tight, nervous strain, yet he maintained a careful, almost predatory stillness, his kitchen knives held low and kept out of her immediate sight. He forced a contrite expression onto his face, carefully choosing his words. "There was an accident in the main office. I... I wasn't sure what to do so I figured I'd come to the nurse's office to get help. Thankfully, you're here to help." He hoped his feigned helplessness would appeal to her twisted sense of purpose.
"Oh my, what happened to them? Couldn't they come here on their own?" she asked, her unnatural movements accompanied by an unsettling series of eerie cracking sounds, like brittle bones shifting or, even more disturbingly, the popping of countless air bubbles in something viscous.
"I'm sorry, but no," John quickly replied, stepping a fraction closer, his eyes locked onto her, seeking any tell. "She was on the ground and even though I probably could have carried her here, I was worried it would do more harm if there was some kind of internal injuries. So, I decided to seek the assistance of a medical professional like you. It's clear that you can help her and end her pain." He watched her intently, desperately hoping to use her madness, her distorted compassion to his advantage. A slight tilt of her head soon turned into a slow, deliberate nod that indicated she was still processing his words, her mind struggling to reconcile them with her own fractured reality. This was his opening. A mix of paralyzing fear and cold, desperate determination surged through him. He took another step, then another, closing the distance, the handle of the kitchen knife growing slick in his trembling hand. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat urging him forward. He was about to cross a line from which there was no return.
In a swift, desperate motion born of pure instinct and terror, he lunged. The heavy kitchen knife, a mundane tool now a weapon of necessity, swung in a tight arc aimed not for her chest, but her head. His aim, fuelled by adrenaline was precise, targeting her temple, hoping to end her quickly and cleanly with as little pain as possible. The blade connected with a sickening thud and he felt the resistance as the knife as it bit deep into her skull. An ear-splitting scream, raw and inhuman, tore from her throat, a sound that seemed to shred the very air. But before it could escalate, before she could fully react his eyes went wide with horror and a terrible resolve as he reacted in pure panic and fear, plunged the second knife, the one in his other hand, deep into her throat. The sound was abruptly cut short as it turned into gurgling followed by a choked gasp as a geyser of crimson blood erupted, splattering across his face, his clothes and the pristine white walls of the nurse's office.
Her hands, surprisingly strong, shot up, clawing at the knife embedded in her throat, her crimson eyes widening with a horrifying mix of terror and agony as the other reached up to grab the one in her temple. John stumbled back causing him to pull the knife from her throat and a fresh spurt of blood to start spraying over him as she slowly collapsed to the floor, his hands shaking uncontrollably but still holding it tightly in his grip. His stomach churned violently, threatening to betray him, as the full, crushing weight of what he had just done slammed into him. He had taken a life. A monstrous, depraved life, yes, but a life nonetheless. The act was swift and brutal that carried a undeniable finality. He wiped his mouth with the back of a bloody hand, fighting the bile rising in his throat. The smell of copper and death filled his nostrils, a permanent stain on his memory and soul.
He forced himself to look down at her lifeless body that lay crumpled on the floor, the knife protruding like grotesque ornament. He made himself take in every grisly detail, burning it into his mind. He wanted to remember his first kill and the chilling sensation of the blade sinking in, the sound of her scream, the splatter of blood as the second pierced her throat, the sudden and terrible silence that followed. He wanted to remember the feeling so he would never forget the colossal weight of taking another person's life. A desperate, internal debate raged: Was it truly necessary? Couldn't he have just disarmed her or restrained her? The image of the blood-soaked examination table and the mutilated corpse flashed in his mind, stark proof of the danger she posed and her utter lack of humanity. He tried to convince himself that this act was for the greater good, a brutal necessity to protect future innocent lives along with his own. Deep down however, he knew these were mere self-justifications, a desperate attempt to grapple with the harsh, undeniable reality of what he had done, what he had been forced to do.
As he stood there, the silence in the room heavy with the weight of his actions, his heart still thrumming wildly, he made a silent vow. He would never forget this moment. He would carry the memory of his first kill not as a trophy but as a stark and visceral reminder of the fragility of life, the ease with which humanity could be lost and the ever-present danger of succumbing to the darkness in a world steeped in it. And as he prayed, as hollow and futile as it would be, that it would never get easier, that the act of taking a life would always remain sickening and abhorrent even well he knew his journey was far from over. The new world, grim and unforgiving would continue to test his resolve, his morality and his very soul in ways he could not yet even begin to imagine.
But the need to push forward, to survive until the end, to make those responsible for this nightmare pay became a driving force. With a final shudder he tore his gaze from the scene. Shaken but resolute, he turned and began to search for some medical supplies. He moved with a practiced efficiency now well trying to block out everything that had happened, his senses heightened as his focus turned razor-sharp despite the trembling of his limbs. Bandages, painkillers, a few crucial antibiotics, clean gloves and some rubbing alcohol were carefully gathered and placed into his backpack alongside the kitchen knives. He found a fresh, unused scalpel—a more precise, if equally deadly tool for close range that he gripped firmly in his free hand. With a deep, shuddering breath, he shakily left the nurse's office well stepping out of the blood-splattered room and back into the desolate corridor, knowing that this was just the beginning, that far worse horrors awaited and that he had no choice but to keep pushing forward, one agonizing step at a time.