Survival Shop: Zombie Edition

Hector's legs felt like lead as he dragged himself through the hallways of the third floor. The weight of the day pressed on him, both physically and mentally. Blood—his own and the infected's—streaked his clothes, and every step sent a jolt of pain radiating through his battered body.

The system's rewards still lingered in his thoughts, a small but necessary distraction from the exhaustion clawing at him. His mind replayed the events of the day: the gruesome fight with the stalker, the clearing of the remaining infected, and the ominous messages about infection and world stages.

But now, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the hallway in shadows, his focus shifted to just one thing—getting back to his apartment alive.

The building creaked around him, the silence stretching thin. Hector's grip tightened on his dull hunting knife, his other hand resting on the pipe wrench at his side. Every corner he turned felt like a potential ambush. He knew too well how quickly the infected could appear, how silently they could linger until the moment they struck.

But as he reached the door to his apartment, the hallway remained empty.

"Lucky," Hector muttered under his breath, though he didn't trust it. He gave one last glance down the dim corridor before slipping inside, locking and barricading the door behind him.

Hector wasted no time. He stripped off his bloodied shirt and jacket, hissing as the fabric pulled against the cuts and bruises beneath. The makeshift bandages he'd wrapped earlier were soaked through, a grim reminder of the fights he'd survived.

He made his way to the bathroom, rummaging through the medicine cabinet. Disinfectant, gauze, tape—supplies he'd stockpiled early on. He poured the disinfectant over a rag and pressed it to his wounds, gritting his teeth against the searing pain.

"Damn it," he growled, his voice muffled by the rag he bit down on to keep himself quiet. The last thing he needed was to make enough noise to attract attention.

Once the worst of the wounds were cleaned, he carefully wrapped fresh bandages around his torso, securing them with tape. His hands shook from fatigue, but he pressed on until the task was done.

Finally, Hector slumped onto the couch in his living room, his weapons set within arm's reach. The world outside had grown dark, the faint glow of the moon spilling through the window. The building felt eerily still, as if holding its breath.

Hector stared up at the ceiling, his mind racing despite the exhaustion weighing him down. The image of the stalker haunted him, its speed, its intelligence. He couldn't shake the feeling that it was only the beginning of something much worse.

"Infection stages… world stages…" he whispered to himself. He hated how little he understood, how powerless he felt against a system that seemed to control his very survival.

A distant rumble drew Hector's attention. He shifted his gaze toward the window, his brow furrowing as the world outside briefly illuminated with a flicker of lightning. The sound of rain began to tap against the glass, light at first but growing heavier with each passing moment.

Thunder rolled across the city, low and menacing, its echo vibrating through the bones of the building. The storm was building strength, and the gusts of wind rattled loose debris against the outer walls. Hector frowned, his fingers instinctively brushing the edge of the couch.

"Great," he muttered. "Just what I needed."

The rain's steady rhythm masked the creaks and groans of the building, but it didn't erase the sense of unease. If anything, it made the silence indoors more pronounced, the tension thicker.

Storms used to be a comforting thing, back when he could curl up in bed and let the sound of rain lull him to sleep. But now, they were just another unknown—a potential threat that could obscure the sound of approaching infected or further weaken the structure of his already fragile shelter.

Sleep didn't come easily, but eventually, Hector's body gave in. His breathing slowed, his tense muscles relaxed, and his thoughts dulled into the fog of exhaustion.

As the hours passed, the rain continued to pour, drumming against the windows in an unrelenting rhythm. Thunder rolled intermittently, its deep growl reverberating through the building. The wind howled like a ghost outside, carrying with it the faint, haunting echoes of a world now overrun.

The building remained quiet, but the quiet was never comforting—not in a world where the infected lurked, evolving into deadlier forms with each passing day.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges. Hector knew that. For now, though, he let himself rest, his chest rising and falling in the rhythmic cadence of sleep.

And as the storm raged on outside, the only sound within was Hector's soft breathing—a fleeting reminder of life in a city gripped by death.

Hector woke to the pale light of dawn filtering through the curtains. The storm from the night before had passed, leaving the air feeling crisp and the world eerily quiet. He rubbed at his sore muscles, the bruises from yesterday's battles still fresh, though the perks of his new ability were already helping him recover faster than he expected.

Dragging himself from the couch, Hector went about his morning routine. He heated the left over beef stew. The act of preparing breakfast, simple as it was, gave him a fleeting sense of normalcy—a reminder of what life used to be.

After eating, Hector approached the window, parting the curtains just enough to peer outside. His eyes scanned the street below, expecting the usual scattered groups of infected wandering aimlessly. But what he saw surprised him.

The streets were largely empty.

Hector furrowed his brow, his gaze sweeping over the damp asphalt glistening in the morning light. The storm seemed to have scattered the infected, their numbers drastically reduced compared to the usual clusters he had grown used to seeing. A faint smile tugged at his lips.

"A blessing," he muttered under his breath, though he wasn't naïve enough to think it would last.

Hector turned away from the window, his mind racing with thoughts of the day ahead. The system had rewarded him for clearing the third floor, and he was eager to explore the items he'd unlocked. But a gnawing sense of responsibility tugged at him. The building's entrances on the third floor were still vulnerable, and while the storm had temporarily driven the infected away, it was only a matter of time before they returned.

Securing the third floor was paramount. If wandering infected found their way in, they could render all his progress meaningless. Hector clenched his fists, the dull ache of his bruised hands reminding him of the fight that awaited him.

Hector walked through his apartment, gathering anything he could use for the task. Furniture, wooden planks and nails,. He'd already scavenged supplies from the cleared apartments, and his growing pile of materials stood as proof of his determination.

The task wouldn't be easy. Barricading would require both time and effort, and his injuries still slowed him down. But he couldn't leave the stairwells unprotected.

He strapped his weapons to his belt and hauled the first load of materials to the hallway, moving cautiously despite the eerie stillness. His mind raced with plans, mentally calculating how much weight the barricades would need to withstand and how to reinforce them.

The north stairwell was closest to his apartment. Hector inspected the area carefully, checking for signs of movement. The storm seemed to have driven most of the infected away, but he still moved with the practiced caution of someone who knew danger was never far.

The stairwell door was old, its hinges loose and creaking. Hector knew it wouldn't hold against even a single infected. He propped the door open slightly, enough to slide his materials through, and got to work.

Using wooden planks and nails, he reinforced the door's frame first. Then, he dragged a heavy bookcase from a nearby apartment, wedging it against the door. For added security, he jammed a metal rod into the door handle, twisting it tightly to prevent the door from opening inward.

The work left him drenched in sweat, his arms trembling from the effort. But as he stepped back to inspect his handiwork, he felt a small sense of relief. It wasn't perfect, but it would hold—for now.

The south stairwell posed a different challenge. The door was missing entirely, leaving the entryway exposed. Hector frowned as he approached, the emptiness of the dark stairwell below sending a chill down his spine.

He worked quickly, dragging a large dresser and tilting it onto its side to block the opening. Using rope scavenged from another apartment, he tied the dresser to the railing, anchoring it in place. Next, he stacked smaller furniture pieces and debris to fill the gaps, creating a crude but effective blockade.

As he worked, a faint sound echoed from the stairwell—a distant shuffle, barely audible over his labored breathing. Hector froze, his hand tightening around the pipe wrench at his side.

Minutes passed, and the sound faded into silence.

"Keep moving," he muttered to himself, forcing his focus back to the task at hand.

By the time Hector finished barricading the second stairwell, the sun was climbing higher in the sky. His body ached with exhaustion, and his hands were raw from hauling furniture and hammering nails. But the sense of accomplishment outweighed the pain.

He walked back to his apartment, his footsteps heavy but determined. For the first time since the outbreak began, Hector felt like he had a fighting chance. The third floor was secure—or as secure as it could be in a world overrun by the infected.

Back in his apartment, Hector disinfected his hands and bandaged the blisters forming on his palms. He slumped onto the couch, staring at the ceiling as fatigue threatened to pull him under. The storm clouds from the previous night still lingered on the horizon, a reminder of the fleeting nature of safety.

As he closed his eyes, a single thought crossed his mind: this was just the beginning.

Hector sat on the edge of his couch, wiping the sweat from his brow. The system's notification had come through just as he finished barricading the last stairwell, a reminder that his hard work wasn't without its benefits.

[Reward Unlocked: Basic Survival Kit]

A faint shimmer of light appeared near the corner of the room, and within seconds, the survival kit materialized. Hector approached cautiously, half-expecting the system to pull some kind of cruel trick, but the bag sat there—solid, tangible, and packed to the brim with essentials.

He crouched down, unzipping the durable bugout bag with a mix of curiosity and relief. One by one, he pulled out its contents:

-A hatchet with a compact but sturdy blade.

-A foldable shovel and pick combo, perfect for digging or breaking through debris.

-A sharp machete, its blade gleaming faintly in the dim light.

-A hand-cranked flashlight, simple and effective, requiring no batteries.

-A hand-cranked portable lantern, casting a steady glow to illuminate any room.

-A hand-cranked radio with dual functionality as a flashlight and lantern—a tool that could save his life in the right situation.

-A rugged multitool, complete with pliers, screwdrivers, and other handy attachments.

-A compass, its needle pointing steadily north.

-A compact saw, perfect for cutting wood or other materials.

-Three light sticks, glowing brightly when activated.

-A lightweight poncho, offering protection from the elements.

And then there was the red first aid kit, a treasure trove of medical supplies: bandages, antiseptic wipes, gauze, painkillers, and a small bottle of antibiotics. It wasn't much, but it was enough to give Hector a fighting chance in the face of injury or illness.

He laid the items out in front of him, his mind racing as he evaluated their potential uses. Each piece felt like a lifeline, a step closer to being truly prepared for the dangers ahead.

Hector leaned back against the wall, the bag now packed again and sitting at his feet. The reward was more than he could've hoped for, but it came with an unsettling reminder: the system wasn't just giving him tools—it was preparing him for greater challenges.

The infected he'd encountered on the third floor had already proven how unpredictable the world had become. The Stalker was unlike anything he'd faced before, and the idea of more infected like it—or worse—made his skin crawl.

His eyes wandered to the red first aid kit. The cuts and bruises on his arms throbbed dully, a physical testament to how close he'd come to losing it all. He couldn't shake the thought that one wrong move could've ended it.

Hector's days began to settle into a routine, though the tension of the situation never quite left him. The thought of securing the third floor completely gnawed at him, and he knew he needed a better vantage point.

After scouting the apartments on the floor, Hector chose a spacious, two-bedroom unit located in the center of the hallway. From there, he'd be able to keep an eye on both stairwells without needing to traverse the entire length of the floor. The move wasn't easy—his injuries still ached despite the aid of the system's Second Wind perk—but Hector pressed on, carrying his belongings bit by bit.

The new apartment was bare but functional. He reinforced the door, using furniture and scrap materials from the abandoned units.

Each day, Hector took to patrolling the third floor. Once in the morning and once before sunset, he checked both stairwells to ensure his barricades held firm. So far, they had. The infected outside had scattered after the storm, and no new threats had wandered in.

The corpses of the infected he'd killed were another matter. Leaving them to rot in the hallways wasn't an option. The stench was unbearable, and he didn't want to risk attracting scavengers—or worse. Over the course of two days, Hector dragged the bodies to a far corner of the floor, piling them on a distant balcony.

With his new base set up and the corpses dealt with, Hector turned his attention to looting the remaining apartments. Armed with his pipe wrench, machete, and hand axe, he broke into each unit systematically, taking whatever he could find:

Food and water: Cans of soup, dried goods, bottled water, and even a few stray snack packs.

Clothing: Extra layers, gloves, and sturdy shoes—all practical for survival.

Weapons and tools: Kitchen knives, hammers, and other improvised weapons, though nothing as good as his current gear.

Old Man Henry's apartment was the jackpot. Hector hadn't known the man well—just another face in the hallway—but it seemed Henry had been preparing for something like this long before the world fell apart.

Inside a locked closet, Hector found a stash of MREs—at least a month's worth. Next to them lay a handgun, a rifle, and three cartons of ammunition boxes. Hector's hands trembled as he inspected the weapons. They were clean, well-maintained, and ready to use.

But he knew the risks. Shooting a gun might as well be ringing the dinner bell for every infected in the area. Still, having them felt like a safety net—a last resort for when all else failed. Hector carefully hid the weapons and ammo in the closet of his new apartment, making a mental note to save them for emergencies only.

On his last sweep of the floor, Hector returned to the toolbox where he'd originally found his pipe wrench. Nearby, his eyes caught on the power panel, its casing slightly ajar. A quick inspection confirmed what he'd suspected: the panel was down, cutting power to the entire floor.

He stood there for a moment, weighing his options. Fixing the panel could restore lights to the hallway, making his patrols safer and his movements less reliant on his hand-cranked lantern. But it wasn't without risk.

The noise of repairs could draw infected from the lower floors. And even if he succeeded, power might also draw other survivors—or worse, alert them to his presence.

Still, the idea of illuminated hallways was tempting. Hector made a note to gather the tools he'd need and decide on the best time to attempt repairs. Night might be the safest bet, with the infected less active and the shadows hiding him from view.

The building was eerily silent as Hector made his way to the far end of the hallway where the power panel was located. The corpses were gone, the balcony area cleared, but the faint scent of decay still lingered. Every creak of the floor beneath his boots made him pause, his breath held as he listened for any sound of infected nearby.

Reaching the panel, Hector crouched low, using the lantern's dim glow to inspect the wiring. It was a mess. Wires dangled like exposed veins, some frayed, others completely detached. Whoever had last maintained it either hadn't cared or had left in a hurry.

Hector rolled up his sleeves, steadying his shaking hands. The multitool's pliers gripped the first wire as he began methodically reconnecting and securing the circuits.

The first sparks of power sent a faint hum through the hallway, and Hector froze, his heart pounding. Nothing moved. No sounds of groaning or shuffling. He exhaled slowly and continued.

As the minutes ticked by, sweat dripped down his forehead despite the cool night air. Every small noise—the wind outside, the groan of the building's foundation—made him whip his head around, expecting the worst.

Finally, with a final twist of the pliers and a small patch to stabilize the last wire, the panel clicked. The faint hum grew louder as the hallway flickered to life.

The lights above buzzed, casting harsh white light across the once-darkened corridor. Hector stood back, surveying his work. For the first time in days, the third floor felt less oppressive.

But the silence didn't last.

A distant sound—a thud from somewhere below—made Hector's stomach tighten. He quickly shut the panel's casing and grabbed his wrench, retreating toward his apartment with hurried, quiet steps.

Back in his apartment, Hector sat by the window, his pipe wrench resting on his lap. The lights were a blessing, yes, but they also felt like a beacon. He couldn't tell if it was just paranoia, but he swore he could hear faint noises from the stairwell now—like something stirring below.

Resting his head against the wall, he thought about the days ahead. The system's Third-Floor Clear Reward had helped him immensely, but the challenges kept mounting. If the infected below noticed the lights, would they come? If other survivors saw the glowing windows, would they investigate?

Hector clenched his fists. His priority was clear: fortify the barricades further and scout the other floors when he could.

Tomorrow would bring new risks. But tonight, he'd earned a few hours of uneasy rest. For the first time, the hallway outside his door wasn't cloaked in darkness.

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Hector jolted awake, heart pounding against his ribcage as the agonizing scream echoed through the building. It was raw, guttural—so unmistakably human that it sent chills down his spine. The sound lingered, reverberating through the halls, before abruptly cutting off into an eerie silence.

Breathing heavily, Hector sat up, every nerve in his body on edge. He had no doubt what that scream meant: someone—a survivor—had fallen to the infected.

Grabbing his pipe wrench, Hector slipped on his boots and padded quietly to the door. He pressed his ear to it, straining to hear anything beyond the faint hum of the lights he'd restored.

The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.

Easing the door open just enough to peek out, he scanned the dimly lit corridor. His barricades at the stairwell entrances appeared intact, the furniture and makeshift barriers still in place. Satisfied for the moment, Hector pulled the door shut and locked it.

The scream had rattled him more than he cared to admit. Turning his attention to his apartment, he moved quickly, checking every window. He'd already covered most of them, but the faintest sliver of light spilling through a corner curtain felt like a glaring weakness.

Pulling blankets and spare clothing from his stash, Hector made sure every window was sealed tight, ensuring no light could escape into the night. The last thing he needed was to attract the dead... or the living.

The scream still echoed in his mind as he worked, his imagination conjuring images of the person who'd made it. Who were they? Were they alone? Did they see the lights?Were they coming to him?

As Hector finished covering the last window, he slumped down against the wall, pipe wrench resting across his lap. The silence was deafening now, every creak of the building amplified in his mind. He couldn't shake the thought of the survivor, couldn't silence the nagging guilt clawing at the edges of his mind.

Could he have done something? Should he have tried to help?

He shook his head, banishing the thought. It was too late for whoever had screamed, and leaving his barricades would've been suicide. Surviving meant making hard choices, and he couldn't afford to waste time on guilt.

Instead, Hector focused on the task ahead.

The scream, while horrifying, also served as a grim reminder of the dangers lurking beyond his door. He needed to ensure the third floor stayed secure and consider whether the lights he'd restored might have drawn attention.

Taking a deep breath, Hector stood and began assembling his gear for the day. The tension in the air was palpable, but he forced himself to push it aside.

Tomorrow, there might be more screams, more signs of others struggling to survive.