Woke up early. The air was still, the world outside holding its breath. No rush today. No frantic scavenging, no desperate fights. Just a slow, careful day. A rest day, or as close as I could get to one in this new reality.
Took a bath, letting the cold water wash away the filth and exhaustion clinging to me like a second skin. The water was sharp, a jolt to my system, but it made me feel human again. Ate a small meal, though hunger had long since become just another dull sensation to ignore. Flipped through the pages of a book, letting the words pull me into a place untouched by death. Watched Life and Living—grainy recordings of a world that had already moved on, the voices of people who no longer existed still playing on a timer, unaware that no one was left to listen.
But rest didn’t mean doing nothing. I still had work to do, just not the kind that would get me killed. I geared up, not for a fight, but for survival. Today was about fortifying, about making sure this place wouldn’t crumble at the first sign of trouble. It was time to build. Time to carve out a space that felt less like a hiding spot and more like a home.
Stepped outside, hatchet in hand. The air was sharp, crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant decay. Just behind the shop, a line of trees stood untouched, waiting like silent sentinels. I tightened my grip, took a steadying breath, then swung. The first crack of wood splitting shattered the stillness. Then another. The rhythm took over—swing, crack, fall. Each strike sent a shock through my arms, my breath falling in sync with the motion. The world shrank down to the weight of the hatchet, the steady impact, the slow collapse of each tree. It was almost meditative, almost enough to forget the dead still wandered beyond the trees. Rest. Repeat.
Hours passed like that. The world shrank down to just me, the trees, and the steady rhythm of work. The crack of my hatchet against wood echoed in the silence, each strike sending a tremor up my arms. Sweat dripped down my face, my muscles ached, but I kept going. Logs piled up beside me, a growing sign of progress. Hauled them back, sawed them into planks, the scent of fresh-cut wood mixing with the ever-present rot in the air. Gathered nails, a hammer, ripped cloth for reinforcement. Every action had a purpose, every movement a step toward safety.
Began construction. Wall frames first, right outside the front door—my first real attempt at creating a barrier between me and the chaos outside. Every swing of the hammer echoed through the empty streets, a sound both satisfying and unnerving. Worked until my muscles burned, fingers stiff from gripping nails and wood, sweat dripping into my eyes. Took short breaks, just enough to eat, drink, and catch my breath before diving back in. The cycle of labor became my existence for the next three days, a relentless push to carve out a space that felt even a little safer in a world that refused to be tamed.
By Day 9, I was close to finishing. The walls were finally standing, sturdy and real, making this place feel like more than just a temporary shelter. It was becoming a fortress, a space that could keep the horrors of the world outside. I should've felt relief, maybe even a small sense of accomplishment—but then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement near the road.
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A zed. But not just any zed. A soldier.
I froze, crouched behind my van, heart hammering in my chest. Eyes locked on its slow, aimless shuffle, every step dragging like it was resisting gravity itself. What the hell was a soldier doing here? No signs of a military camp nearby. No wrecked convoy. Just this lone, broken figure wandering in silence, like a ghost who had long since forgotten its purpose.
Its uniform was barely holding together, the fabric torn, shredded, caked in dirt and dried blood. The insignia, whatever it once was, had faded into nothing. But what sent a shiver down my spine wasn’t the uniform—it was the absence of hands. Both severed. Jagged stumps where fingers should be. Torn off, or cut? Did someone do this to him? Or did he do it to himself before he turned?
I crouched lower, watching, waiting. The soldier’s head twitched slightly, as if sensing something, but it didn’t turn toward me. It just kept shuffling, a slow, meaningless march to nowhere. For a second, I thought about letting it pass. Just another lost soul in a world of the dead.
But I had to know.
I waited, heart pounding, until it was close enough. Then I struck—quick, clean, decisive. The soldier collapsed, lifeless. Just another body in a world full of them.
I crouched, searching its remains. The uniform was ruined, the fabric barely holding together. Nothing useful—except for a military poncho. Torn, reeking of sweat and rot, but still functional. I grabbed it, knowing it would keep the rain off my back when the weather turned. That was all that mattered.
I lingered for a moment, staring at the body. The questions swirled—where had he come from? Why was he alone? Who had taken his hands? The sight of his mutilated form sent a chill through me, but I swallowed it down. Questions wouldn’t keep me alive. Answers wouldn’t change what had already happened. The dead were just echoes of the past, empty shells with nothing left to say.
I exhaled sharply and forced myself to move. Wasting time on this wouldn’t help. The world wouldn’t pause for my curiosity. I turned away and got back to work. No time to wonder. No time to waste. There was still too much to do.
Shoved the questions out of my mind and got back to work. Finished the walls by sundown. Stood back, looking at what I had built. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A step toward security. Toward control.
Back inside, I let the relief settle in, though it didn’t come easy. My body ached from days of relentless work, my muscles heavy, my hands sore from gripping tools and weapons alike. I forced myself to eat, though every bite tasted the same—bland, just fuel to keep going. Flipped through the pages of a book, but the words blurred together, my mind too restless to focus. Took a shower, letting the water run cold over my skin, washing away sweat and grime, but not the unease settling in my bones.
For the first time in days, I felt... stable. Maybe even comfortable.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
A part of me knew this was dangerous, this moment of peace. The world wasn’t kind to those who got too comfortable. But right now, I let myself have it. Just for tonight.
Tomorrow, I’d be ready again.
Plans for Tomorrow:
- Plan a trip to scavenge for more supplies.
- Search for another fuel source.
- Restock on food and water.
End of Day 7-9