As soon as Azlan opened his eyes, what he saw was a cracked cream-colored ceiling covered with water stains. A fluorescent lamp without a shade hung by worn cables.
"Where is this...?"
His voice was hoarse, almost like a whisper. His head throbbed faintly. Slowly, he sat up, his body feeling stiff and sore. His eyes swept the room warily, full of confusion.
The room was small and cramped. Just one main room functioning as both bedroom and living room. In one corner, there was a thin mattress where he had been lying—a mattress whose pillow smelled musty and whose sheets were full of dust.
Clothes were scattered on the floor, some clean, some dirty, mixed with magazines and empty food containers. A small table near the window was piled with dirty dishes and moldy coffee cups.
In another corner, there was a mini kitchen with a small greasy stove and a sink full of unwashed utensils. The smell of mustiness, dust, and leftover spoiled food filled the air.
A slightly open door revealed a small bathroom that looked damp and dirty.
This was clearly the room of a messy and neglected bachelor, and most importantly, it appeared to have been abandoned for a long time.
"Ugh...!!!"
Suddenly, a severe headache attacked him. Azlan groaned silently, not screaming to avoid attracting attention. He rolled around on the dusty mattress. In his head, he saw again the last seconds of his life—the pain in his shoulder, the flowing blood, and the faces of the dogs and cats he had fed.
The pain subsided after ten seconds that felt like forever.
"That's right, I should have died from blood loss after my shoulder was hit by a sniper's bullet."
His hand reflexively touched his right shoulder. His eyes widened.
"The wound is gone...?"
There was no scar, no pain, only intact skin. As if the gunshot wound was just an illusion.
"It's pointless to think about it. Whatever the reason, I'm still alive, that's something to be grateful for."
Forcing logic to overcome confusion. Living under constant threat had taught him to accept strangeness and focus on survival.
Azlan got up from the mattress, his feet stepping on the dusty floor.
"The decoration of this room doesn't look like Middle Eastern people's style. And also, this place hasn't been inhabited for a long time."
Dust covered everything like a gray blanket. Azlan wiped his finger across the table, leaving a clear trail.
He opened a small wardrobe beside the mattress. Its contents were messy, but one object caught his attention: a novel with a worn cover. Then, he opened it.
"This isn't the alphabet, it looks like characters used in East Asia. China? Japan? Korea? They all look the same to me."
Those foreign characters were completely unreadable to him, deepening his sense of alienation.
*CLANG!*
A dull and unnatural metallic sound came from outside the window.
Azlan approached the dirty window. Carefully, he peeked from behind the torn curtain, and the view below made his breath catch.
On the street, terrifying creatures wandered. They staggered, emitting eerie groaning sounds.
On the street, terrifying creatures wandered. Their bodies were rotting, their skin torn, and some organs were visibly hanging. Their empty eyes and hungry stares sent shivers down the spine. They staggered, emitting ear-piercing groaning sounds.
They were zombies.
"Zombies?!"
An ordinary person might scream hysterically, but Azlan wasn't ordinary. He was used to living among death. Shocked, yes. But panicked, no. He calmed himself, not making noise that could attract the attention of those creatures.
"This pain is real. That means I'm not dreaming."
Azlan pinched his thigh. The pain convinced him that this was all reality.
"This can't be a prank, right? The scale is too large."
From his window, as far as the eye could see, all he saw was destruction and walking corpses. No cameras, no film crew. This was real.
"What actually happened?"
His eyes were still fixed on the horrifying view outside the window.
"Could it be that the outside world experienced a biochemical crisis and ended up with a zombie apocalypse?"
His country, besieged and isolated from the outside world, made him completely blind about global developments. Information coming in was always filtered, diverted, or stopped altogether by the occupiers.
"The world I knew has vanished. I woke up in a different hell."
Azlan thought death would give him freedom from one form of apocalypse—war and occupation—but he was immediately thrown into another apocalypse, completely foreign and possibly more dangerous.
"Humanity hasn't gone extinct, right? No, humans are like cockroaches, they won't go extinct that easily. Maybe the survivors who made it are hiding in safe shelters."
He tried to convince himself, but then decided to focus on more pressing matters.
"Rather than worrying about other people's situations, I should think about how I'll survive."
Knowing the danger outside, Azlan became more careful. He moved slowly, trying not to make the slightest sound. His top priority was to find basic necessities: food and water.
He approached the sink in the mini kitchen. With careful hope, he turned the faucet. Only the hissing sound of air came out, not a single drop of water dripped. Azlan sighed, but wasn't surprised.
"I thought so. This is a zombie apocalypse, it would be strange if electricity and water were still flowing normally."
His search continued. He opened every cupboard, drawer, and even the already foul-smelling refrigerator. The result was nil. Only empty food wrappers and rusted cans.
"Not a bit of food."
His stomach began to comment, reminding him that the fullness from sausages and milk in his previous life had disappeared.
"Looks like I'll have to take the risk of looking for food outside. For that, I need a weapon."
His search this time was more focused. Behind a pile of dirty clothes in the corner of the room, his eyes caught something long: a baseball bat.
Then, behind the nearly collapsed wardrobe door, something else reflected dim light.
A katana in its simple yet elegant sheath. Azlan pulled it partially from its sheath. A sharp and gleaming steel blade greeted him. This wasn't a toy replica; this was a real weapon.
"This is a katana!"
"Does that mean I'm in Japan? How strange, I suddenly woke up on another continent."
His sense of disorientation grew, but he didn't have time to ponder it too long.
"So, katana or baseball bat?"
He held both weapons, considering them.
"Katana... looks more lethal. One clean slash could behead. But... Beheading a zombie's neck isn't as easy as in movies. It takes technique, strength, and precision. The blade could get stuck in the spine or ribs. Blood and other body parts could make it quickly dull and rusty. It needs constant maintenance."
His eyes shifted to the baseball bat.
"A blunt weapon. Doesn't need sharpness. Just swing at the head until it's crushed. Easier to use, and its durability is longer. Doesn't need special maintenance."
Standing for a moment, Azlan stared at both weapons. Then, made his choice.
"Why should I choose? I want everything!"
He found a simple long bag for the katana, probably the previous owner's carrying bag. He quickly tied the katana bag on his back, making sure it didn't interfere with his movement. The baseball bat was gripped tightly in his hand, giving him a sense of confidence.
Now, it was time to face the outside world.
Azlan stood in front of the apartment door, his hand gripping the baseball bat tightly.
"Huuu..."
Taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling, he tried to calm his pounding heartbeat.
"No need to be afraid, the worst is death. It's not like I've never died."
That sentence wasn't just dark humor, but also a reminder that he had already faced death and, somehow, survived. It gave him a strange courage.
With gathered determination, he slowly unlocked the door, trying hard not to make noise.
Slowly, very slowly, Azlan pulled the door open, enough for his thin body to slip out.
A new world full of danger and uncertainty awaited him.
The baseball bat in his hand felt solid, and the weight of the katana on his back felt like a promise—a promise that this time, he would fight for his life with everything he had.