Woke up early—5 AM. The sky was still dark, the air cool, carrying that eerie, post-apocalyptic silence that had become too familiar. The water was cold when I showered, but I let it wake me up. Ate what little food I had left—canned peaches, barely satisfying. Then, I read a book, letting the words pull me away from reality for just a little while. But the world outside wasn’t waiting. Another day, another hunt for a bag. Without it, I was weak. I needed to carry more, move smarter, survive longer.
Geared up and stepped outside. The van sat there like a lifeline, my best tool for survival. If I was going to make it through this, I had to use every advantage. There were still parts of the factory I hadn’t explored—places that could hold exactly what I needed. Maybe a bag. Maybe something better.
I climbed into the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel so tightly my knuckles went white. My pulse hammered against my ribs, each beat a reminder of how exposed I was. The van felt like both a sanctuary and a coffin—my best shot at survival, but also a beacon in the stillness. I swallowed, forcing a steady breath, and turned the key.
The engine roared to life like a beast awakening from slumber, shattering the fragile silence. Too loud. Too damn loud. The noise cut through the morning air, an unintentional call to whatever lurked in the shadows. My gut twisted, every instinct screaming at me to move before something answered. There was no turning back now. I gritted my teeth, shifted into gear, and drove.
I drove slowly, weaving around wrecked cars, eyes darting to every shadow. Every little movement made me tighten my grip on the wheel. My breathing felt shallow, like I was holding my breath without realizing it. The tension sat heavy in my chest. When I finally reached the second factory building—the one I hadn’t set foot in yet—I pulled up, parked, and shut off the engine. The roar died, leaving behind a silence so thick it almost hurt my ears. My heartbeat thudded, loud and steady, as if reminding me I was still alive.
The doors were locked. That wasn’t going to stop me. I jammed my tool into the gap and pried, metal screeching as the door gave way. As soon as I stepped inside, my body went rigid.
A radio was blaring from deep within the building.
The noise sent a shock through my system. My breath hitched. Sweat gathered on my brow. My heartbeat pounded against my ribs. Was it a survivor? A trap? The sound bounced off the walls, making it impossible to pinpoint where it was coming from. Not a single room—the whole storage area was filled with its eerie echo.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself forward, each step heavy with hesitation. My hands clenched around my weapon, my knuckles white. My ears strained, waiting for something—anything—to move in the shadows.
The noise continued, unwavering.
I wiped the sweat from my palms. Was someone alive in here? Or was I walking into something worse? A pre-recorded message? A lure left behind by someone long dead? Or worse—Zeds?
There was only one way to find out.
I pushed forward, heart hammering against my ribs. Every step felt heavier, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on me. The locker room came into view—a dead end for what I needed. No bag. Just kneepads. Small, but useful. I took them anyway, trying to ignore the frustration creeping in.
Then, I spotted it—a windowed door leading to the storage area. My breath caught in my throat as my eyes locked onto a lone zed, standing eerily still in the dim light. How long had it been there? Had it lived here before it turned? Were there more lurking in the shadows?
I had to be sure. First, I checked the bathrooms—empty. No surprises waiting there. Swallowing my nerves, I turned back to the storage room, gripping my weapon tightly. Step by step, I crept forward, ready for whatever was waiting on the other side.
Two zeds. Tried to sneak past, but they spotted me. No choice but to fight. Swung hard, took them down. Easy. Then I looked around—this place was a jackpot. Tools, supplies, everything I needed to reinforce the base. But without a bag, I could only take so much. Picked up a propane tank—no idea what I’d do with it yet—and a hand axe. Good for chopping wood.
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Next stop: the trailer park. There was a nagging thought in my head—had I missed anything? I had to be sure.
Then, I saw it.
A house I hadn’t searched yet. The windows were dark, the air around it unnervingly still. But inside, I could see supplies. My heart lifted for a second—until I saw them. Zeds. Too many. And dead survivors still inside, their bodies slumped where they had fallen. Their gear untouched, waiting for someone like me.
I couldn’t rush this. Every move had to be slow, deliberate. I took a deep breath and started luring them out, one by one. My grip tightened on my blade, the sweat on my palms making the handle slick. Each fight was quick but tense—every step forward felt like walking on the edge of a knife. One slip, and it was over.
Then, finally, I saw it.
A bag.
Relief crashed over me like a wave, but I couldn’t celebrate yet. I took down the last zed, making sure the house was clear. It was barricaded from the inside—so how did they turn? A bite? A mistake? Did it even matter now? The dead didn’t answer questions.
I checked my haul: a backpack packed with food, a sleeping bag, metal-plated gloves ripped from a zed’s rotting hands, a scrap-made machete, and a poncho. This was a real score. This would help. Maybe, just maybe, I was starting to get ahead of this nightmare.
Headed back to base, dropped off my loot, but my work wasn't done. The factory still held supplies I couldn't leave behind. Tools—everything I needed to turn my fragile shelter into a real fortress. Nails, hammer, screws, planks, another hatchet, even a sledgehammer. The weight of them in my hands felt like security, like progress. No more flimsy barricades. I was done patching up holes. It was time to build something solid, something that could stand against the dead. Something that could keep me alive.
Then, banging.
Something hit the door. Hard.
I froze. The sound echoed through the factory, a violent reminder that I wasn’t alone. My pulse spiked, hands fumbling as I shoved supplies into my bag. Another crash—wood splintering, metal groaning under the weight of something relentless. The door gave way.
Then they poured in.
Fifteen? Twenty? I didn't count. I didn't have time. My breath hitched as they stumbled forward, dead eyes locked onto me, mouths hanging open in silent hunger. I bolted, heart slamming against my ribs, feet barely touching the floor as I sprinted back to the van. Every instinct screamed at me to move faster. I could hear them behind me—shuffling, groaning, clawing.
I dove into the driver’s seat, slammed the door shut, and twisted the key. The engine roared to life, a thunderous declaration of my presence. Too loud. Too exposed. The horde shifted, drawn to the sound, their sluggish movements becoming desperate, frenzied. Fingers clawed at the windows, bodies pressed against the van, trying to reach me.
I couldn’t go home. Not like this. If I led them back, it was over.
So I turned the wheel and floored it, tires screeching against the pavement. The horde blurred in my peripheral vision, growing smaller in the rearview mirror. I kept driving, pushing forward, until the factory was far behind me. Until the weight on my chest eased—just a little.
I pulled into the gas station, parking behind the building, out of sight. Slipped inside. The air smelled stale, thick with the scent of dust and old fuel. I found the bathroom near the back exit and locked myself in. If things went bad, I needed a way out.
Then, I waited.
And waited.
The silence stretched, thick as a suffocating blanket, pressing against my chest. Every second crawled by, dragging memories of the day along with it. Every close call, every mistake, every heartbeat that could’ve been my last. Was this my best day? Or my last?
Then—shattering glass.
My breath hitched. My pulse hammered against my ribs. Footsteps, slow and uneven, scraping against the floor. Then the groan—low, guttural, inhuman. The sound of hunger, of death creeping closer.
I tightened my grip on my crowbar, sweat slicking my palms. My knuckles went bone-white. If they found me, I had no choice. I’d fight. I’d make them bleed, even if they had no blood left to give. My muscles coiled, ready to strike.
Then—another sound. Sharp. Distant. A gunshot, splitting the night like a crack of thunder.
The groaning stopped. The footsteps shifted. A pause—then movement. Faster now, drawn away by the noise, pulled toward the promise of something living.
I stayed frozen, every muscle locked, ears straining against the silence that followed. Minutes felt like hours. My lungs burned, reminding me to breathe. Only when the last echoes faded did I let myself exhale.
But I wasn’t safe. Not yet.
I stayed put for hours, ears straining for any sign of movement. When I finally stepped out, the gas station was wrecked—doors ripped from their hinges, windows shattered. The stench of decay hung in the air. But my van?
Untouched.
Relief crashed over me, but I didn’t let it slow me down. I climbed in and drove. Straight home. Locked every door. Sealed myself inside.
My body ached. My head throbbed. My mind wouldn’t stop racing. But I was alive.
For now.
Drove straight home, locked up tight. Isolated myself. My body ached, my mind was exhausted, but I was still breathing. That’s all that mattered.
By the time I collapsed onto my makeshift bed, it was 11 PM.
Too much had happened today. But tomorrow? Tomorrow, I build a wall.
Plans for tomorrow:
- Start construction on a wall outside the base.
- Reinforce weak spots in the shop.
- Sort and organize the loot I gathered.
- Check the van’s fuel and see if I need more gas.
- Plan the next loot run—where to go next?
End of Day 6