Hugo woke up feeling confident, his body finally adjusted to the constant routine of scavenging, securing, and surviving. The last few days had gone well. He hadn’t died in a while, and the apartment complex was safer than ever. He went through his morning ritual—exercising, checking the barricades, organizing his supplies, feeding Salem.

  After grabbing a quick breakfast, Hugo made his way downstairs to check in on Frank. He knocked on the door, and after a pause, Frank opened it slightly, giving him a skeptical look.

  “Morning,” Hugo said. “Just checking in before I head out.”

  Frank grunted. “You sure you wanna do that?”

  Hugo frowned. “Why not?”

  “Been watching the street,” Frank muttered. “Saw something. Not just the dead.”

  That got Hugo’s attention. “Someone alive?”

  “Maybe,” Frank said vaguely. “Could be nothing. Could be trouble. Either way, don’t be an idiot.”

  Hugo smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Frank shook his head and shut the door. The conversation was over.

  Hugo stepped outside, his bat at the ready. The streets were eerily quiet as always, only the occasional shuffle of distant zombies breaking the silence. He moved cautiously, sticking to the edges of buildings as he made his way further than he had before.

  The streets were lined with rusting cars, abandoned shopping carts, and the occasional long-dried bloodstain smeared across the pavement. Some buildings had been scorched, their windows shattered, while others remained eerily intact, their interiors dark and silent. Every so often, he spotted the slow, shambling figures of the undead in the distance, but none were close enough to be a threat—yet.

  After a few blocks, he spotted what he was looking for—a pawnshop. The windows were broken, the door slightly ajar. It had clearly been looted before, but pawnshops carried all kinds of miscellaneous junk. Maybe something useful had been overlooked.

  Stepping inside, he was greeted by stale air and the sight of overturned shelves. Glass crunched under his boots as he moved cautiously between aisles. Most of the electronics were gone, along with anything of obvious value, but in a dusty corner, he found something unexpected—an old Sony Walkman.

  It was in decent shape, though the batteries were long dead. Next to it was a small case with a collection of mixtape CDs. Someone’s personal music stash. Hugo smirked, slipping the Walkman and CDs into his bag. It wasn’t exactly a survival tool, but music might help keep him sane.

  Further down the store, he spotted something even better—a large crowbar resting against a toppled display case. He lifted it, testing its weight. It was solid, a better tool for prying open doors and a decent backup weapon. He attached it securely to the side of his backpack for easy access and kept searching.

  As he continued looking, he made his way to the back storage room. There, covered in dust and surrounded by discarded junk, was something far more valuable—a generator.

  Hugo exhaled sharply. “Now that’s a find.”

  The problem? It was way too heavy to carry back alone. He inspected it, noting that it had no fuel, but if he could get it running, it could power some serious equipment.

  “Need to come back for you,” he muttered, making a mental note of its location.

  As he prepared to leave, something caught his eye—footprints in the dust near the entrance.

  His breath hitched. Those weren’t his.

  He turned sharply, scanning the street through the broken window. For a moment, there was nothing. Then—movement. A figure, watching him from a distance.

  Hugo’s heartbeat quickened. He had been alone for so long that the sight of another person felt surreal.

  He hesitated. Should he call out? Try to approach?

  Before he could decide, the figure turned and disappeared down an alley.

  His gut twisted. Someone had been watching him. And now they were gone.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Hugo barely had time to process what happened before he heard the sound of shuffling feet behind him.

  Zombies.

  He turned, realizing too late that he had made a mistake. Maybe he had knocked something over, or maybe the watcher had drawn them toward him. Either way, they were here now—blocking his only exit.

  “Shit,” he breathed, tightening his grip on the bat.

  The first zombie lunged. He sidestepped, swinging his bat hard into its skull. The impact sent a jolt up his arms, but the creature collapsed instantly. Another one followed, arms grasping at him, and he barely managed to shove it away before cracking its head open as well.

  He kept moving, dodging and striking, but the zombies just kept coming. Sweat dripped down his back as he swung his bat again, feeling the familiar impact of bone splintering under force. Then, suddenly, a sharp crack echoed through the shop. The bat’s handle gave way, splitting right where his grip tightened.

  "Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me," Hugo muttered, barely managing to toss the broken weapon aside before the next zombie lunged at him. He yanked the crowbar from his backpack, its solid weight immediately noticeable. "Didn’t think I’d need this so soon."

  The metal tool was heavier than his bat, making each swing slower but far more devastating. The first zombie that came too close had its skull caved in with a sickening crunch, the sheer force knocking it back into a display shelf. But there were too many—at least five already inside the shop, and the sounds of more gathering outside.

  His breathing turned ragged as he assessed the rapidly worsening situation. He needed to move. Fast.

  Spotting a gap between the shelves, he charged forward, ramming into one of the zombies and knocking it aside. He stumbled into the open air, quickly turning and slamming the door behind him. He heard them crashing through the main window. There was way too much noise. It would certainly attract even more of them.

  Just as he turned to leave, another zombie rounded the corner, groaning as it lunged. Hugo swung the crowbar with both hands, the weight of it making the blow devastating. The zombie’s skull caved in, sending it crumpling to the ground.

  He turned around. He was completely surrounded. The only way out was the alley the mysterious figure went through. He didn’t hesitate and ran to it.

  The alley was narrow, lined with dumpsters and abandoned debris. He dodged a toppled cart, leaping over a discarded trash bag as the horde pressed in behind him. His heart pounded as he pushed himself forward. The sound of dozens of feet and snarling breath grew closer.

  Ahead, a chain-link fence blocked the way. Without thinking, Hugo vaulted toward it, grabbing onto the metal links and pulling himself up as fast as he could. Hands clawed at his boots just as he swung his legs over, landing hard on the other side. He stumbled but kept moving, darting through another alley.

  As he rounded the only exit, he came face-to-face with another horde of undead. He skidded to a halt, his breath catching in his throat. Turning sharply, he scanned his surroundings, heart pounding. The alley walls loomed on either side, too high to climb, and the snarling dead were closing in fast. His only real chance was above.

  His eyes darted upward, spotting a fire escape several feet away, hanging just out of reach. It was a long jump. Too long. But there was no other choice.

  He backed up, bracing himself as the horde pressed forward. With a deep breath, he sprinted, leaping onto a nearby garbage bin, using the momentum to push off with everything he had. For a terrifying moment, he was suspended in the air, arms reaching—

  His fingers barely caught the bottom railing of the fire escape.

  His grip almost failed. His boots scraped against the wall as he scrambled to pull himself up. Below, the zombies crashed into the dumpster, hands clawing at the metal, snarling in frustration. His arms strained as he heaved himself onto the platform, rolling onto his back, panting hard.

  Looking down at the mass of undead writhing below, Hugo swallowed hard. That had been way too close.

  Panting, he turned toward the window behind him. Inside, he saw movement—shadows shifting beyond the dusty glass. His pulse pounded as he quickly scanned his surroundings.

  His chest heaved as he forced himself to think. The only real option was to go inside the building.

  His chest heaved as he forced himself to think. His only real option was to go inside the building. His eyes darted around, searching for alternatives—an open door, a break in the crowd, anything that might offer a safer route. But there was nothing. The horde below stretched through the alley, more and more zombies pressing in from every direction. His escape routes were closing fast.

  He quickly scanned the building's exterior, his mind racing for alternatives. If he could climb just a little higher, maybe he’d find another way in—a window that wasn’t locked, or at least one he could pry open. His eyes followed the fire escape’s path upward, spotting a window two floors above that seemed slightly ajar. It was a gamble, but a necessary one.

  With a deep breath, he began his ascent, moving cautiously up the fire escape ladder, every step making the rusted metal groan beneath his weight. Below, the dead continued their relentless reach, hands grasping at the air as they sensed movement above them. Hugo gritted his teeth and kept climbing, his muscles burning as he pulled himself up. The higher he got, the more the city sprawled out before him, broken and lifeless under the setting sun.

  Finally, he reached the window. It was cracked open just enough to wedge his fingers in. He braced himself, took a breath, and heaved it upward.

  With one last glance at the writhing mass of undead below, he swung a leg over the windowsill and slipped inside, landing in a crouch. The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of dust, old paper, and the faint lingering of mildew. Rows of cubicles stretched before him, papers scattered across desks, overturned chairs left in haste. It was clear that this office had been abandoned in a hurry. Computer monitors sat dark, some shattered, their screens cracked from either looters or the initial chaos.

  His breath caught as he listened. Silence—except for the distant groans outside and the occasional creak of the building settling. He exhaled in relief but didn’t let his guard down.

  His fingers tightened around his crowbar as he crept forward, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. A faint glow from the shattered office windows cast jagged patterns on the floor. He moved carefully, weaving between cubicles, stepping over discarded keyboards and unplugged power strips. A dried stain of something dark marred the carpet near a toppled water cooler. He didn’t want to think about what it was.

  He edged toward the main hallway, placing each step carefully to avoid making noise. The corridor stretched out ahead, lined with closed office doors, some ajar, others shut tight. He hesitated at the threshold, listening. A slow, dragging shuffle echoed from somewhere deeper in the building. Not close, but not far enough either.

  Hugo swallowed, keeping low as he moved, hugging the wall. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he crept forward, careful to avoid anything that might make a sound. He needed to find a way out—fast. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to run, but he knew better. He’d have to be patient, methodical. One mistake, and he was done.

  A sign on the wall caught his eye—an emergency exit placard, arrows pointing toward the stairwell at the far end of the hall. That was his way out. But first, he had to make it there in one piece.

  Hugo pressed his back against the wall, breathing slowly through his nose. He took careful steps down the hallway, keeping his weight balanced to avoid making any unnecessary noise. The further he moved, the more signs of chaos he noticed—overturned chairs, dried blood smeared on the walls, broken picture frames. Papers fluttered slightly under an unseen draft, making the space feel eerily alive.

  As he reached the first office door, he peered inside. The room was a mess, the desk shoved against the wall, a chair tipped over beside it. A half-eaten sandwich sat decomposing on a stack of files, green fuzz growing across its surface. Whoever had worked here had left in a hurry.

  A groan echoed from deeper in the building, sending a chill down his spine. He tightened his grip on the crowbar and kept moving.

  He reached the emergency exit door and hesitated. Something was off. The door wasn’t fully closed—it had been pushed just slightly ajar. His stomach twisted as he slowly pressed his ear against the metal surface.

  The sound hit him instantly—shuffling, wet breaths, the occasional scrape of a foot dragging against the ground. It wasn’t just one zombie. It was many.

  He swallowed hard and carefully pulled the door open just a crack. A gust of stale air rushed past him, carrying the scent of decay. He peered through the gap and his stomach dropped.

  The stairwell was packed.