Adam stopped at the door. The neon sign above the entrance flickered weakly, and the letters forming the word "PHARMACY" looked like they were moments away from crumbling into dust. He grimaced and slid his back along the wall until he reached the doorframe.
The door was ajar. The interior was steeped in semi-darkness, as if the light itself was afraid to enter. The air beyond the threshold stood still—thick and tense, like the moment before a thunderclap. Nothing moved inside. No sound, no sign of life—only an oppressive, sticky silence that seemed to squeeze around his throat.
He reached out and pushed the door carefully. It creaked, as if eager to betray his presence to the world.
He stepped inside, slowly, almost on tiptoe.
The smell hit him immediately—mustiness, plastic, dried blood, and something else... chemical, biting. The floor was littered with medicine packages, overturned shelves, and shattered glass.
Something gleamed on the tiles in the light spilling in from the entrance. Dark red streaks led from the depths of the pharmacy, winding between scattered bottles and boxes like narrow streams. Beside them were footprints—deep, irregular, as if left by someone limping. The blood was partially dried but still sticky. Something or someone had come through here recently.
Adam pressed himself against the wall and peeked behind the first shelf.
He froze.
Behind the counter, hunched low to the ground, sat something that might once have been human. Now it was just a shadow, a ragged shell with dead eyes staring blankly into the void. Another shadow stood by the back wall, swaying slightly, as if fighting against gravity.
Two zombies.
And no emergency exits.
Adam backed away silently and knelt behind the shelf. His heartbeat pounded so loud in his ears that, for a moment, he thought the entire room could hear it. His hands trembled, clenched against his knees. He felt sweat trickle down his neck—cold, unpleasant. He tried to breathe shallowly through his nose, controlling each inhale.
He closed his eyes for a split second and forced his body into stillness. One breath. Then another. Only silence and the stench of decay. For a moment, his thoughts began to clear.
Should he retreat? Find another pharmacy? But where? This city was one giant graveyard. If there were two here... there could be ten elsewhere. Or an entire street full.
No. This place was relatively enclosed, and more importantly—he knew how many there were. Two zombies. No more. He could see them, count them. This wasn't a blind decision. Not like running through the streets where an ambush could lurk around any corner. Here, he had the advantage. He knew what he was dealing with.
Better to risk a quick fight than stumble straight into a horde.
He just needed a weapon. Anything that could help him survive those few crucial seconds that would decide whether he walked out alive or ended up with his throat torn open by a corpse.
Then he remembered the key.
That damn key he'd left on the floor after the fight with the fly.
He clenched his jaw, cursing under his breath. What kind of idiot leaves their only weapon behind? Fool. Absolute fool.
He closed his eyes, drew in air through his nose, and exhaled slowly through his mouth. Anger wouldn't help. Yelling at himself wouldn't either.
All he could do now was learn. Accept the situation. Here and now.
I need to pull myself together. Think, even when the body panics. Or I won't last long.
What was done no longer mattered. Only one question remained: what can I do to kill these two zombies?
He looked around. In the corner, between the shelf and the wall, he spotted a metal IV stand, knocked over and partly wedged beneath a box of bandages. One of its hooks was bent, but the base looked stable.
He pulled it out cautiously, testing its weight. Heavier than expected—solid. The metal was cold to the touch but felt strong. Not an ideal weapon, but better than nothing.
He tightened his grip. A deep breath.
The one behind the counter first.
It was closest. If it moved first, it could reach him before he had time to react. And if he started with the other one, the one behind the counter might cut off his escape.
So, that one first. Fast, silent, a surprise.
Then—ready for a reaction. The second one would likely move as soon as it heard noise. Adam needed to have space and distance ready to intercept. The shelves could help.
The plan wasn't perfect. But it was the only chance he had—a simple, brutal, executable plan.
He crawled forward, moving along the side of the room. The zombie didn't react.
Adam raised the pole and lunged forward in a single motion, striking from above. The metal hook hit the skull with a dull thud, like hitting something hard but not quite brittle. The zombie's head jerked back, but its body stayed still for a split second before convulsing violently, a hiss escaping from its open mouth.
It shrieked and lunged toward him.
Adam growled through clenched teeth and lifted the hook again. The second blow was stronger, aimed at the side of the head. The zombie staggered, slamming its shoulder against the counter, but still moved. The third hit landed squarely on its forehead with such force that Adam felt the vibration down to his elbows. Blood and something thicker splattered across his clothes. But the corpse kept fighting, groaning like a broken machine.
Only the fourth blow stilled the monster.
Before he could catch his breath, the second zombie was already moving toward him. Heavy, dragging steps echoed off the walls, its figure swaying with urgency, as if instinct drove it to attack. A low growl spilled from its mouth, and its arms stretched forward, ready to grab anything alive.
Adam gripped the pole with both hands and backed into the shelves.
He toppled one over, creating a path for himself and slowing the creature down. Before it could push through, Adam leapt onto the counter and dropped down behind the zombie, striking its neck with the pole.
He swung wildly, with all his strength, until his arms began to go numb and his breath caught in his throat. The blows were clumsy, chaotic—driven more by fear than skill. He felt the metal hook bounce off bone, his grip slipping with sweat and blood. This wasn't a warrior's fight. It was a desperate slaughter by a man who wanted to survive at any cost.
One hit landed deep, and the zombie jerked in place, losing its balance. Adam didn't give it a chance. He raised the hook again and struck, over and over, until the creature fell to its knees, then collapsed sideways. Blood and fluids splashed across the floor, and Adam felt his arms pulse with exertion and tension. He didn't stop until the body stopped twitching.
When it was over, his hands shook. His knees buckled. His whole body was sticky with sweat and blood.
[Essence Record — Kill Confirmed]
[Target: Normal Zombie (LVL 2)]
[Target: Normal Zombie (LVL 2)]
[Reward: +2 STR | +1 VIT]
A blue window flickered before his eyes, but he didn't have time to focus on it.
He listened.
Standing motionless amid blood and broken glass, he waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. No sound beyond the doors, no footsteps outside, no distant groan.
Silence.
Only then did his shoulders drop. Muscles taut as strings began to loosen. His breath returned, though still shallow. He let himself breathe.
For now, he was safe.
He began searching the pharmacy. Bandages, alcohol, anti-inflammatory drugs. Pills he didn't even recognize but took anyway. Anything that might be useful.
Between overturned chairs and a crumpled box, he found a bag. Black, fabric, with a red cross on the side. He nudged it with his foot to check for damage, then picked it up and looked inside.
Empty.
Without a word, he knelt by a shelf and began stuffing it with anything useful: bandages, bottles of disinfectant, ointments, boxes of medicine with names he didn't understand but sounded professional.
In the corner of the room stood an old, battered sink. Adam approached, setting the bag on the counter. He took a deep breath, then, with a hint of hesitation, pulled off his bloodied hoodie and tore the sleeves from the shirt underneath. His skin beneath the clothing was sticky, dirtied, cut in places, and bruised.
He prepared a few gauze pads, grabbed a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and clenched his jaw.
He poured the liquid onto the wound on his calf. The hiss that escaped his lips drowned out his breath for a moment. Foam bubbled on his skin, and Adam winced, staring at the red-and-white pattern trickling down his leg.
He grabbed a bandage, wrapped it tightly around the calf—tighter than intended. Then he repeated the process on his arm. His hands trembled, but he forced himself to move methodically, step by step. Every action mattered.
When he finished, he sat for a moment by the wall, holding the bag in his lap. His breathing slowed, steady. He hoped nothing was approaching outside.
But then he heard it.
From behind the backroom door—a creak.
Behind the door... something was breathing. Unnaturally. Too fast. Too shallow.
As if its lungs were full of water.