Chapter 2: First Steps in Survival
Lucien began scanning his cramped little nest for anything he could turn into a weapon. The first thing his eyes landed on was a mop propped in the corner of the balcony. A wooden handle — blunt but serviceable. In his head, the thought clicked into place: strip the mop head, sharpen the shaft, and you've got a makeshift club. He pulled the mop head off, only to realize he had no tool for carving wood. He'd need a kitchen knife.
He reached for the door to the kitchen, but Yiling cried out in a small, urgent voice. "Don't open it. Zombies are outside."
Lucien froze. "What—zombies? Already? How—" Panic prickled at the back of his neck.
"You were out for more than a day," Yiling said, rolling her eyes as if she were lecturing an old friend. "The outbreak happened while you were unconscious. That's why you couldn't hear anything."
Lucien sank back against the balcony wall. The world could end any second now, and he hadn't even had time to think, let alone prepare. "I'm not ready for this," he muttered.
"Oh, spare me," Yiling snapped. "Do you think I'd want to land on you of all people? I had to recharge with lightning after the space-time jump. It wasn't my idea to cling to some washed-up salesman." She puffed up her tiny chest and then sighed theatrically. "Life is hard."
Lucien stared at the hovering sprite, a bewildered half-smile forming. Whether Yiling had saved him or been randomly attached to him by fate, the result was the same: he had a fragile advantage. He forced himself into action. First make equipment, then kill zombies. That was the plan.
The mop couldn't be turned into a proper spear, but it could be a handle. He grabbed a small dumbbell from the corner—about 3 pounds—and lashed it to the end of the wooden shaft with duct tape. He wrapped a strip of cloth around the handle to stop it slipping. It wasn't elegant, but it looked like a hammer.
"You can check the weapon's stats on the watch," Yiling said.
He activated the holographic menu and the empty weapon slot now showed a line of text.
Homemade Poor Pole HammerAttack: 4 Durability: 5Made from a mop handle and a 3-pound dumbbell. Effective against creatures with defense under 3.
Not great. Lucien let out an exasperated breath. It was a long-handled weapon, which at least kept enemies at bay. He wasn't thrilled with the numbers, but he had to admit a long reach was useful.
Next: armor. Lucien looked around his tiny room. Leather, iron — none of that existed here. Down jackets were too bulky for moving quietly, and the season had only just cooled. His eyes landed on a stack of cardboard boxes used for moving. He thought of the silly cardboard armors in old post-apocalypse stories and, with a shrug born of necessity, began to cut and tape.
He fashioned crude plates for the chest and back, strips for limbs, and taped them tightly. When he checked the equipment menu, the watch read:
Crude Cardboard ArmorDefense: 2Simple paper-shell armor. Offers minimal protection against bites and scratches. Vulnerable to fire and water.
Lucien snorted. Two defense points. He should have been angry — he felt like one of those novel protagonists who opens a chest and finds legendary gear. Instead, his chest felt hollow with the realization that his starting kit was rubbish.
"Does this system at least give out a starter pack?" he asked Yiling with a sudden spark of hope.
"Gift pack codes are sealed in space," she said, sounding bored. "Without energy crystals, you can't open them. Go kill zombies and get a crystal nucleus. Then you'll get your pack."
So no instant miracles. Lucien swallowed that last hope and squared his shoulders. If he couldn't rely on cosmic gifts, he'd have to rely on sweat and blunt force.
He took a deep breath, gripped the homemade hammer, and eased the door open. The hallway beyond was dim; the old apartment had been carved up to squeeze more rooms out of the living space, which left the common area narrow and long. Near the front door, a dark shape was hunched on the floor, one he recognized from the house—one half of the young couple who rented next door. They were recent graduates, overly earnest and always cheerful. Now she sat slumped, and Lucien's stomach clenched.
He crept closer. The figure didn't move. He put his hammer up, closed his eyes for a moment against the nausea, and brought the weight down.
The sound of wood on skull was awful. When he opened his eyes, the woman lay motionless. He hadn't struck dead center; the blow had smashed half her head, but it was enough. She was finished.
Then he saw the boy. He was sprawled near the door, face drained of color, mouth open in a final, terrified expression. He had tried to run when the woman turned; he'd been bitten and died before he could escape.
Lucien's stomach roiled at the sight of brains scattered across the threshold. He'd played horror games long enough to be less squeamish than most, but that only meant he didn't collapse. He moved mechanically—bodies into the sack he found for moving, zip tied and dragged to the balcony. He told himself he was being practical. He said a tiny, ridiculous sorry as he shoved the sack out the window and listened as it hit the pavement below with a dull thud.
Screams rose from the street. A handful of shambling figures converged on the spot where the sack had landed. Lucien peeked out and watched them drift toward the noise like moths to a flame. Good—if their attention was down there, he could finish securing the apartment.
The cleanup left his arms noodle-weak. He realized, with a rueful half-laugh, that his endurance needed work. Still, he forced himself to keep moving. He opened the refrigerator. A few fruits, a plate of leftovers, and two bags of frozen dumplings. Breakfast taken care of, at least.
He turned the tap to rinse a bowl and paused. "Yiling, is the water still safe? Can I drink tap water now?"
Yiling folded her tiny arms in an expression that tried to be pedagogic. "After a new viral outbreak, living things and water sources are contaminated for a bit. Air contamination fades after about twenty-four hours, and water contamination takes about a month to subside."
Lucien's face fell. Tap water was a no-go for a while. He searched the kitchen and found an unopened case of bottled water sitting behind a crate—someone's late delivery, lucky for him.
He ate in a sort of stunned silence, staring at the empty refrigerator after the meal. Supplies were low. Weapons and armor were basic. If he wanted to survive, he would need to leave and scavenge. He checked the watch once more, feeling the weight of everything settling on his shoulders.
Outside, the city smelled different now—sharp and metallic, threaded with distant screams and the wet whisper of bodies moving in the dark. Inside, in a little room above the street, Lucien Voss adjusted his cardboard chest plate, tightened the cloth on the hammer, and tried to imagine the horizon beyond his doorway without seeing terror in it.
One step at a time. Make gear. Get supplies. Stay alive.
(End of Chapter)
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