When Sunny woke, the world was still pitch black.
He reached for his lighter. The small flame flickered weakly—barely enough to see.
He didn't bother checking the time. He knew instinctively it was right.
Opening the cupboard, he took out one and a half slices of bread and four thin pieces of beef, eating in silence. The radio crackled beside him, but no voices answered his search.
> "My supplies will last only a few more days," he thought. "Better to move before it's too late."
He packed his black bag—crackers, canned food, what little water he had—and slipped the army knife into his belt.
The boots he wore were military-grade, scavenged from a ruined barrack.
No gun. Just the knife.
He removed the barricades from the door, opened it quietly, and stepped into the dim hallway. Dried blood painted the walls. Doors were smashed. The air reeked of death.
Down the stairs, six zombies roamed lazily.
He had to kill them—quietly.
Sunny tied a rope to the staircase handle, tested it, then gripped it tightly. Holding the knife, he swung down silently—like a shadow.
His blade flashed.
One head rolled.
Then another.
Within twelve seconds, all six were down.
No sound.
No mercy.
He searched their bodies, hoping for orbs—none. Only disappointment.
---
Outside, darkness swallowed him whole. The cold bit deep, forcing him to pull his hood tighter.
He moved through the ruins toward a convenience store he used to work at before the world ended.
It would've been a thirty-minute walk once.
Now, it would take three cautious hours.
Jumping over a collapsed car, Sunny froze mid-air.
The ground beneath writhed—thousands of black worms twisting violently.
He grimaced.
> "Yeah... no thanks."
Taking a detour, he climbed down the car. His boot snapped a branch.
A groan.
Then movement.
Beneath a wrecked car, a half-crushed female zombie clawed toward him, her skin stretched tight over bone.
Sunny sighed, pressed his boot on her head, and pushed.
A crunch.
Silence.
> "Sorry," he muttered.
Lady Luck favored him that night. After hours of silent travel, he reached the store with little resistance.
Inside, four zombies lurched toward him.
He dispatched them swiftly, then moved deeper.
The shelves were barren.
Lonely.
Kneeling, he pushed aside broken tiles, revealing a hidden hatch. Descending the narrow stairs, a wall of rot and decay hit his nose.
> "Damn..."
He scanned the room.
Rotten food everywhere.
If only he'd come earlier.
Still, not all was lost. Some canned goods, crackers, and compressed bread remained intact. He packed them tightly, filling every inch of his bag.
Then, among the debris, something glimmered—
A Black Eagle Pistol. Loaded.
> "Finally..."
He pocketed it, along with a small box of ammunition.
But just as he prepared to leave, every hair on his body stood on end.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.