Woke up exhausted, body aching like I'd been hit by a truck. Barely any sleep, just endless tossing and turning. Laid there, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself to move. Eventually, forced myself up, though every part of me begged to stay down. Rested a couple more hours before deciding I had to do something—another loot run to the storage garages. Still no bag. I am getting desperate.
Headed out. Kept low, moving slow. Then I saw them—two guys clearing out zeds like they’d done it a hundred times before. My breath caught. Survivors. That could be good... or really bad. Stayed hidden, heart hammering in my chest, watching. They didn’t seem to notice me. After what felt like forever, they moved on. I waited a bit longer, just in case, before creeping forward again.
Got into an office connected to more garages. The air was stale, dust hanging in the dim light. Everything was still—too still. As I pried open a door, something lunged. A blur of rotting flesh, a guttural moan. I barely had time to react before it was on me. Nearly shit my pants. My heart pounded as I stumbled back, swinging wildly. The crowbar connected with a sickening crunch. Silence again, except for my heavy breathing. I wiped the sweat off my forehead and pressed on, hands still shaking as I rummaged through drawers and shelves. No time to stop. No time to think.
No luck inside, so I checked the outside storage units. Found a pickaxe—heavy, solid, the kind of tool that could crack a skull just as easily as it could break through a locked door. Useful, but not what I needed. The rest? Just books. No supplies, no bag, nothing to make this struggle any easier. Still, at least the books could keep my mind occupied when the silence got too loud and sleep refused to come.
Headed back to base, dropped onto the floor, utterly drained. Rested a bit, but the frustration gnawed at me. I couldn’t let it go. I had to find a bag. Hauled myself up and went back to the trailer park, determination outweighing exhaustion. Still no bag. I clenched my fists, jaw tight. How is something so simple so impossible to find? It’s driving me insane.
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Back at the park, I moved like a shadow, slipping through the wreckage of lives long abandoned. Each zed fell silently, one after another, my hands steady, my heart cold. But still—no bag. The frustration burned, a slow, simmering rage. It’s such a simple thing, yet it’s slipping through my fingers like everything else. Losing my mind.
Found a decent amount of food, but had to leave some behind. My arms ached from carrying what little I could manage. Every step back to base felt heavier, the weight of what I had and what I had to leave behind pressing down on me. That damn bag—it's more than just a need now. It's an obsession.
By the time I gave up, the sun was already setting. Wasted the whole day searching, and I still came back empty-handed. But at least I made it back alive, with some food and supplies. Just need to remind myself—one problem at a time.
At base, I sorted through the few notable finds—food, nails, a saw. Then there was another crumpled-up, tattered paper. The moment I unfolded it, I couldn’t help but laugh.
"You will not believe me what I've just seen. Some guy was running out of this store laughing his ass off whilst he was throwing bananas at this one zombie. Bananas! Now, I admit, it was funny as hell when the zombie just fell on its back and smashed its head against the wall faster than I could count, but I knew I couldn't stay out here for long-"
The front side ran out of space. Flipped it over, and the handwriting was more relaxed, like the guy had time to breathe. A banana smudge stained the right side.
"Man, those bananas were pretty good to be honest. Guy sure knows his stuff!"
I chuckled, shaking my head. Someone out there had the time to appreciate a good banana in the middle of all this. Maybe I should try to find the humor in things too. Not everything has to be survival and stress. Still, would be funnier if I wasn’t so damn tired.
Hit the shower, let the warm water wash away the grime and exhaustion. Sat down with the paper, rereading the banana story, letting myself smile just a little. For a moment, it felt normal—just some random note from a stranger with a sense of humor. Didn’t even realize I’d fallen asleep, paper still in my hands.
Plans for Tomorrow:
- Find. A. Damn. Bag. This is priority number one.
- Check nearby houses for supplies, maybe a backpack left behind.
- Try the gas station again—still need fuel.
- Consider scouting beyond the trailer park. There has to be something useful out there.
- Keep an eye out for those two survivors. Avoid if possible.
End of Day 4