- The stakes seem to be getting higher.

  - Your normal crowbar or makeshift spear won’t cut it anymore.

  - Traps. Tossables. Distractions. Don’t leave “home” without your tools.

  ---

  I’m not a soldier. I’m a dropout with a half-passed chemistry class and a questionable understanding of physics. But the munchers don’t care.

  They’re getting smarter. So I have to get dangerous.

  It started small—like everything does. Tripwires made of fishing line and empty soda cans. Crude molotovs (thanks, wikiHow). A backpack full of fireworks from the abandoned seasonal pop-up store near old Main Street.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  It worked. Until it didn’t.

  One of the new ones—I’m calling them Variants—didn’t even flinch at the noise. Just flanked me. Almost got my ankle. Would’ve too, if I hadn’t dropped a paint thinner bomb down the stairs and prayed for combustion.

  It worked. Loudly.

  After that, I started experimenting seriously.

  Gasoline bottles with soaked rags? Too volatile.

  Ball bearings packed into pressure canisters? Too unpredictable.

  Duct-taped frying pans and nails? Surprisingly effective.

  I call them "Bangers." Toss, duck, run.

  I’ve got traps now. Hooks on the floor. Grease on the stairs. A firework that goes off if you break a trip line. One of them wandered in, slipped, and cracked its head on the fridge. First time I laughed in days.

  Then I cried. I miss the fridge. Miss not booby-trapping everything like a Home Alone reboot with more blood.

  But it’s necessary.

  I used to just survive. Now I’m learning. Testing limits. Tracking their reactions. Watching the Variants like they’re the stars of a horrible, decomposing nature documentary.

  If I’m gonna die,

  I want it to be with a bang.

  Literally.