He didn't sleep.
Sleep was an invitation, not a necessity. An open door for nightmares he hadn't yet earned the courage to process. Instead, Elias lay on the cold floor, back against the wall, watching the hallway through the small gap in his barricade. His bat rested beside him. His heart didn't beat fast anymore, just steady — like a metronome counting the seconds until something finally reached for him.
There was no noise. No breathing. No scratching at the walls. But silence wasn't comfort. Silence was potential. That was the difference between yesterday's Elias and the one who now sat staring into the dim dark — he had started to feel the world's rules.
And the world didn't speak anymore. It listened.
At dawn, he moved.
He didn't eat yet. He needed to ration, and besides — hunger grounded him. Hunger made the stakes real.
He opened his bag and pulled out the "Basic Crafting Recipes" again. His fingers brushed over the corners carefully. As if turning the pages too quickly would damage more than paper. There was a recipe near the middle that stuck in his mind like a splinter. One that didn't promise power, but safety.
Tripwire Alarm – Requires: Thin cord, metal can, nails, bottle caps, wood board (optional)
He didn't have all of it. But he had nails. A roll of twine. And cans? Those were everywhere. He could improvise. And if it failed, it wouldn't kill him. Hopefully.
That's how Elias began to plan — not for success, but for minimum risk of failure. That was his edge. Not speed. Not muscle. Just careful math between dying and surviving.
He moved through the apartment again and gathered what he had. Broke off wood from the back of a cabinet. Found an old shoe box and stripped it for parts. It wasn't much. But as he assembled the pieces, hand shaking slightly while threading nails through a can lid, he felt something he hadn't in days.
Control.
Not peace. Not hope.
Just the quiet certainty that he was no longer reacting.
He was building.
By noon, the tripwire was set across the doorframe leading into the hallway. Anyone pushing the door open would knock the can loose, trigger the rattle, and buy him seconds. Not a wall. Not a weapon. Just a warning.
It was enough.
It had to be.
He finally ate. Half the remaining canned peaches, now soured slightly. He didn't care. Food was food. He washed it down with warm water from a bottle he had found near the elevator shaft — not clean, but filtered through fabric.
Then he moved to the window again.
It had been quiet all morning. No screams. No gunshots.
That bothered him more.
This city wasn't supposed to rest.
Rest meant someone was cleaning up.
Or hunting.
He checked his inventory.
• Improvised Shiv (12/20 durability)
• Wrench
• Flashlight (low battery)
• Lighter
• Bandages (x2)
• Aspirin (expired)
• Note (from gas station)
• Book: Basic Crafting Recipes
• Food (1.5 cans)
• Water bottle (60%)
• Gloves
• Tripwire alarm (deployed)
It looked small. Still pitiful.
He needed more.
He needed answers.
Because the world hadn't just broken.
It had shifted.
And whatever brought this sickness… hadn't shown its face yet.
Which meant Elias had time — a dangerous, priceless amount of time — to prepare before the rules changed again.
He left the apartment just after one in the afternoon. Quietly. Wore gloves. Covered his mouth with a strip of torn shirt. Not because of the virus — it didn't spread through breath anymore. But because it helped him feel less exposed. The illusion of armor, even if it was just cotton.
Today's goal was different.
Not scavenging for food. Not weapons.
He wanted to find books.
Maps.
Anything that could tell him what had changed while he was dead.
The world had fallen fast. He hadn't seen it all. Just the start. The headlines. The panic. The pounding fists on the door. Then the teeth. The blood. The dark.
He deserved to know what came next.
He moved through the side streets again. Avoided main roads. Took a long path past a schoolyard that now sat lifeless, rusting swings creaking in the breeze like ghosts still wanted recess. He paused once, hearing the crunch of something underfoot, but it was just a crushed phone. No signal. He didn't bother pocketing it.
Then, at last — the small bookstore.
He had seen it from the rooftop the day before. Thought it would be looted. But it was still intact. Windows cracked but not shattered. Door slightly ajar. A handprint smeared down the glass — long, almost artistic in its despair.
He entered slow.
Bat raised.
No movement.
Just the thick, overwhelming scent of paper. Like dust and memory and time had all been left to rot together.
"Anyone here," he whispered, and regretted the sound instantly.
He waited.
Nothing answered.
He stepped inside.
The shelves were mostly intact. A few books on the floor. A dropped backpack near the register, contents spilled. He approached it. Slowly. Knelt. Checked inside.
Blank notebook.
Pencil stub.
A child's drawing of a house and three stick figures.
He didn't touch it again.
Instead, he searched the shelves. The categories didn't matter anymore. Fiction wouldn't save him. Fantasy was a luxury now. He needed reality. He needed knowledge.
He found an old copy of "First Aid Essentials." Pocket-sized. Dog-eared. Pages marked. He took it. Found an atlas from ten years ago. Still useful. Grabbed a book on wilderness survival — probably a joke gift, but now invaluable. Finally, a thin, dense manual called "Chemical Reactions You Can Do At Home."
He didn't know why that one pulled at him.
But it felt right.
He packed them all and turned to leave.
Then the floor creaked.
Not his step.
Something else.
Behind the counter.
He froze.
Waited.
Then he saw it.
A face.
Pale. Hollow. Rot creeping into the jaw.
But the eyes.
Still blinking.
Still crying.
A woman.
Bitten.
Not dead yet.
She whispered something — her voice barely air.
"Run…"
Then her eyes rolled back.
And her arms twitched.
And her mouth opened too wide.
Elias ran.
Didn't think.
Didn't fight.
Just ran.
Out the door. Into the street. Nearly tripped over a body in the gutter. Kept going.
Behind him, the sound of shattering glass.
Then a scream.
Not hers.
His.
Inside his head.
[System Warning: First Encounter – Mutated Carrier Detected]
[New Entry: Mutation Tier 1 – "Singers"]
He didn't stop running until his lungs burned.
Didn't stop until the apartment building was in sight.
Didn't stop until he had locked the door, slammed the barricade, and sat with his back against it, heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out.
He opened his bag with shaking hands.
Pulled out the survival book.
Turned to a random page and stared at it without reading.
He needed to pretend there was a next step.
Because what he'd seen — that woman — that thing—
It hadn't been undead.
Not fully.
It had been thinking.
And that meant the virus wasn't finished evolving.
The system hadn't explained everything.
But now he understood the truth.
He hadn't been reborn to fight monsters.
He had been reborn to witness what came next.
And survive it.