The sun had just begun to peek over the horizon, casting a gloomy orange hue over the abandoned gas station. There, among rusted pumps and debris, Alan had spent the night. Not by choice, but because moving around at night was a death sentence.
In the early hours, silent as a shadow, Alan had taken out several infected that lingered nearby. There weren't many, but enough to become a problem if not dealt with quickly. He burned their bodies, following the one rule he demanded of survivors over the radio: leave no trace of the infection. Abandoned corpses turned into breeding grounds for disease... or worse, food for something bigger.
"I still have some time..." Alan muttered as he rinsed his face with stagnant water from a salvaged container. He glanced at himself in the cracked, dusty mirror of an old truck and sighed.
His hardened face, weathered by years of combat, still invited prejudice. During his military career, he had been called arrogant, insubordinate—even unstable. But the truth was something else: Alan simply didn't trust anyone. He never had. And now, in this rotten world, that distrust was what kept him alive.
He looked like his brother, at least physically, though their eyes told different stories. Alan's were filled with blood, betrayal, and impossible choices. Unlike his brother, Alan wasn't trying to save the world. He just wanted to survive one more day—to keep his brother alive in memory.
That was the rule they had made: survive at all costs, so the other could live on in the memories.
Now that Alan had made a decision, he got rid of unnecessary weight—backpacks, extra ammo, the plates from his vest. Everything would be hidden among the rubble of the station, alongside his motorcycle. If he was lucky, it'd be there when he returned. If not, it would just be another obstacle.
Today he would move on foot. He needed to travel through infested urban zones, search for supplies, scout escape routes. He would carry only the essentials: his protective suit, his pistol, a reinforced mask resistant to viral fluids... and his axe.
He didn't need anything else—not against what he was about to face.
With firm steps, Alan walked away from the gas station, leaving behind ashes and smoke. Dawn had come, and with it, another day fighting not to become one of them.
As he advanced, he could see many infected on the streets, most of them inside vehicles. From what he could tell, they had all entered the second phase of infection, meaning that as long as he stayed quiet and out of sight, they wouldn't react.
Even so, Alan had to draw them away from his position. But first, he needed to ensure there were no survivors in the zone he planned to redirect them toward.
About ten minutes later, something suddenly fell from a third-story window, making a loud noise. The nearby infected immediately started moving toward the sound.
Alan had set up an improvised trap worthy of a battlefield. Using his knowledge and the materials at hand, he built a homemade delayed-detonation bomb. The night before, he had silently pushed a television—stand and all—up to the window of a nearby building and secured it with a strong rope he'd found. The other end was tightly tied to a roof support, creating strategic tension.
At dawn, after checking every detail before heading into the city, he placed a small candle just beneath a gasoline-soaked cord. This wasn't just any candle—it was the trigger. Alan knew exactly how long it would take to melt enough for the flame to reach the cord. Once it ignited, the whole trap would go off.
Of course, Alan hadn't known if it would actually work, so he was surprised when it did.
At this point, Alan became more cautious.
Watching the agitated infected converging on the building, he dared not make a single careless move. There were too many—at least hundreds. He crouched low, slowed his breathing, and hunched down as much as he could.
The infected were moving quickly, so Alan used that to his advantage, slipping forward whenever a window of opportunity appeared.
What disturbed him most, though, was the diversity of the infected in the streets—people of all shapes and sizes. Judging by their torn clothing, you could guess their former lives: elderly shoppers, office workers, young men and women.
But now, with black blood oozing from their mouths and fungal growths sprouting from their skin, Alan—once a soldier—saw them as something else. The infected weren't human anymore. Not even close.
Alan noticed there were no children, but there were bones scattered in the street. He was deeply confused. Didn't the virus only infect the living? Then why were there so many bones?
These questions flashed through Alan's mind but were quickly discarded. What mattered now were the infected in front of him.
Some infected with leg wounds began slowly moving toward the building.
The gathering of infected was truly something to behold. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of runners and stalkers piled up at the building's entrance, surging like rabid dogs.
At that moment, Alan was about twenty meters away, crouched behind a car near a parking lot by the street.
Alan wasn't afraid, but he knew that even the slightest noise would get him killed. Facing this many infected was nothing like the handful he had dealt with the day before.
If he were attacked now, even with all his combat experience, he'd have no choice but to run.
That's why he remained crouched, hoping to sneak away once the infected moved on. But now, all he could do was press his back against the vehicle and wait for his moment.
Alan clenched his teeth to avoid making a sound and gripped his fire axe tightly with both hands—so tightly that his knuckles turned white and the veins on his arms bulged visibly.
Alan had killed dozens of infected. He knew how nightmarish it was to fight a crowd. But what stood before him now defied any definition.
He wanted to laugh at the irony, maybe even drop the axe in his hands—useless against what he faced.
This wasn't even a main street, just a narrow two-way lane. On a normal day, it wouldn't have been crowded. But now, over two hundred infected gathered here—far beyond anything Alan had anticipated.
He watched as infected burst from cars parked on the street.
Their aggression was terrifying—they were bloodthirsty beasts, devoid of fear or pain, worse than animals.
Creatures like this were nothing humanity was prepared to fight. Alan understood now why they were losing.
The movement of the infected created a lot of noise. Alan watched them closely. Most had entered the building. Finally, he allowed himself to move a bit faster.
Argh!
But at that moment, one of the infected hiding beneath a car saw Alan creeping along the line of vehicles.
Immediately, its growl alerted the remaining infected still lingering outside.
The nearest Stalker leapt toward him.
Alan didn't hesitate. Realizing he'd been exposed, he swung his axe and split the infected's head in two.
"Damn it." Alan pulled two grenades from his vest. But with his back turned, he didn't notice another Stalker sneaking up on him from behind.
Bang!
Just then, a rifle shot rang out from a distance, and the Stalker's head exploded like a melon.
Alan looked toward the sound and knew immediately: a survivor.
But there was no time. The horde from the building was now spilling into the street. Acting fast, Alan spotted a tipped fuel tanker nearby and didn't hesitate.
Clang!
Pulling the pins from his last two grenades, he hurled them toward the tanker and ran as fast as he could.
The person helping him seemed to understand and fired at a nearby car alarm to draw the infected.
With the horde shifting direction, and the sniper's cover, not a single infected followed Alan.
Seconds later, the grenades ignited the tanker.
Boom!
Flames engulfed the area, burning hundreds—maybe over a thousand—infected.
But Alan didn't escape unscathed. The shockwave sent him flying, even though he'd run more than a hundred meters.
The last thought that passed through Alan's mind before blacking out was wondering if the one who helped him... was military.