Survival Shop: Zombie Edition

Hector stood in the middle of his newly fortified apartment. The air was heavy with tension, the silence broken only by the distant creaks of the aging building. He surveyed his domain, his sanctuary on the third floor. Every barricade had been tested, every door reinforced. The thought that this small fortress was the only thing standing between him and death wasn't lost on him.

The supplies he'd gathered were neatly laid out on the floor—a small comfort in a world gone mad. The stockpile was impressive, considering the chaos outside. Cans of food, packets of rice and pasta, and the precious MREs from Old Man Henry's stash filled a corner of the room. The water bottles, pots, and pitchers he'd filled sat in another, their weight a reassurance of his preparedness.

His weapons and tools were cleaned and organized. The pipe wrench, dulled hunting knife, machete, and multitool were close at hand. The firearms—a handgun and a rifle—remained hidden, their presence both a comfort and a reminder of the desperation they signified. Shooting a gun, even once, could be a death sentence in this world.

He fingered the edge of the red first aid kit, its contents the difference between life and infection. Bandages, antibiotics, and painkillers—a lifeline he hoped he wouldn't need but knew better than to take for granted.

The stairwell door leading to the fourth floor loomed in Hector's mind like a dark maw. He'd scouted it earlier that day, creeping to the landing and listening for signs of movement. The faint smell of decay had reached him even before he cracked the door open, the stale, sour scent filling his nostrils and making his stomach churn.

Inside, the silence had been almost unbearable. The absence of groans or shuffling feet didn't comfort him—it unsettled him. He'd stood there for minutes, listening, waiting, before retreating to the safety of the third floor.

Hector knew what he had to do. The fourth floor couldn't remain unchecked. Infected could descend at any moment, undoing all his hard work and rendering his sanctuary useless. Clearing it wouldn't be easy, but it had to be done. And it had to be done fast.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Hector sat on his makeshift bed and went over his strategy again.

He'd strike at dawn, when the infected were less active, and the natural light gave him the visibility he needed. The fourth floor would have to be cleared in one go—no breaks, no retreating until every room was swept and secured.

Once it was done, he'd barricade the stairwell leading to the fifth floor. That would buy him time to recover and prepare for the next phase of his survival. He'd already planned his route: patrol the third floor one last time in the morning, check his barricades, and then descend into the unknown... or ascend in his case.

The thought of the fourth floor sent a shiver down his spine. What would he find there? Would it be a repeat of the horrors he'd faced before, or something worse? The system's cryptic warnings about infection stages gnawed at him, and the memory of the stalker—a creature more cunning and deadly than the infected he'd encountered so far—still haunted his thoughts.

He laid out his gear with careful precision, ensuring every tool and weapon was within reach. His pipe wrench and machete would be his primary tools for clearing rooms, while the dulled hunting knife would serve for stealth kills. His flashlight and lantern were fully charged, ready to light the way through the darkness.

His body ached, the wounds from his previous battles still fresh. But the Second Wind perk had worked wonders, accelerating his recovery and giving him a fighting chance.

The supplies he'd gathered over the past few days would last him a month and a half, if rationed even longer. It was a comforting thought, but Hector knew he couldn't afford to grow complacent. Supplies would eventually run out, and he'd need to venture beyond the building if he wanted to survive long enough to learn of his loved ones fates.

As he lay in bed, the storm that had raged that night lingered in his mind. It had scattered the infected outside, their groans and shuffles drowned out by the pounding rain and roaring thunder. It had been a blessing in disguise, a moment of respite in a world that offered none.

But the storm had passed, and the infected would return. Hector knew this. The clock was ticking, and he had to act before it was too late.

The dim glow from the moon cast a comforting light across the room as Hector closed his eyes, his thoughts a chaotic mix of fear and determination. Tomorrow would be a decisive day. The fourth floor awaited, and with it, the unknown horrors of a world that had lost all sense of normality.

He took a deep breath, steadying his resolve. " I will survive, I will live, I don''t want to die, I'll get out of this place, I will find my family, I will find somewhere safe. I don't want to die. I don't want to be like them..." Hector whispered to no one as a sinking feeling of hopelessness dug its way into his guts " I wonder if my fever had killed me and now I'm in hell... but what for... I've always kept to myself and never hurt anyone..." Hector forced himself not to think beyond his building as that only served to drown him in despair. Slowly though he drifted to sleep hopefully by morning he would have a grip on himself and maybe even the slightest form of control of his ruined world.

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The quiet was unsettling.

Hector stood at the threshold of the fourth floor, his machete in hand and his flashlight casting long, flickering beams into the dark hallway. The air was heavier here, damp and suffused with the stale odor of decay. Yet, there was no immediate sign of danger. The hallway stretched ahead, empty and eerily still.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, his boots making soft thuds against the worn carpet. He scanned both sides of the hallway, his eyes flicking toward every shadow and open doorway. Nothing moved. No groans, no shuffling. It was almost too quiet.

But Hector wasn't one to let his guard down. He advanced methodically, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring.

The first signs of resistance came halfway down the right side of the hall. A single infected stumbled out of a room, its movements slow and lethargic. Hector closed the distance quickly, his hunting knife flashing in the dim light as he drove it into the base of its skull. The creature dropped without a sound.

From there, the resistance grew. A pair of infected ambled out from another apartment, their movements disjointed but unmistakably hostile. Hector dispatched them with a mix of stealth and brute force, his machete slicing clean through one's neck while his pipe wrench caved in the other's skull.

By the time he reached the end of the hallway, Hector's breathing was heavier, but the space was clear. He turned back toward the other side of the floor, repeating his process with the same ruthless efficiency.

Most of the apartments were empty. Hector moved through them quickly, breaking down doors with his pipe wrench and scanning each room for supplies. The occasional infected lingered in the shadows, but they were easily dealt with.

Then he came to that apartment.

The door was ajar, hanging slightly off its hinges. A low, wet squelching noise seeped through the opening, making Hector's stomach churn. He hesitated, tightening his grip on his machete before nudging the door open with his foot.

The sight inside froze him in place.

A group of infected crouched in the living room, their heads buried in the remains of a woman sprawled on the floor. They tore into her with savage abandon, their hands slick with blood and viscera.

What made Hector's stomach twist was the woman herself. She wasn't fully dead—or fully turned. Her body twitched, her eyes wide with a mix of pain and something unnatural. Her skin was different from the other infected he'd encountered—paler, but oddly intact, as if the infection had only just begun to consume her.

The noise she made—a guttural, rasping groan—seemed to pierce Hector's very core. He couldn't shake the thought that this was the source of the desperate screams he'd heard before.

Anger and revulsion surged through him.

The infected turned toward him as one, their bloody faces contorted into grotesque snarls. Hector moved before they could lunge.

The fight was brutal and messy.

Hector swung his machete in wide arcs, its blade finding purchase in flesh and bone. The infected attacked with wild abandon, clawing and snapping at him, but Hector's determination won out. He felled them one by one until the room was silent again, save for his ragged breathing.

The woman's body lay still now, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Hector knelt beside her, pressing his blade into her skull to ensure she wouldn't rise again. He muttered a quiet apology as he stood, the stench of death clinging to him like a second skin.

Hector forced himself to search the apartment despite his nausea. It was a treasure trove of supplies—cans of food, bottles of water, even a stash of medical kits.

On the nightstand beside the bloodied bed, he found a diary. Its leather cover was stained, but it was intact. Hector slipped it into his bag, unsure why he felt compelled to keep it. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe he owed it to the woman to understand her story.

The rest of the fourth floor was mercifully uneventful. Hector cleared the remaining apartments without incident, his body moving through the motions despite his mounting exhaustion. By the time he was finished, the entire floor was empty.

He turned his attention to the stairwells. The barricades came together quickly, a mix of furniture, debris, and metal scraps he dragged from the apartments. He made sure they were sturdy, securing them as best he could to prevent any infected from the fifth floor from wandering down.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Hector made his way back to his apartment on the third floor. His body ached with every step, the day's exertion taking its toll.

Once inside, he dropped his bag onto the floor and sank into a chair, staring at the diary, its presence a quiet reminder of the horrors he'd witnessed that day.

Hector glanced toward his covered window, the faint glow of the setting sun seeping through the cracks. Tomorrow, he would plan his next move. But tonight, he would rest.

It felt as if every night he went to sleep he begged for all of this to be a sick nightmare brought by a state of delirium due to fever but as he wakes up every day to new horrors he begins to accept his new reality. He had cleared the fourth floor and received his rewards which he plans to take a look at first thing on morning.

The fifth floor awaited him, if he clears it tomorrow then there will be no need to secure the upper floors. Hector resolved to clear the fifth floor the very next day, before gathering whatever supplies available in both of them. He is certain that with the resources he has accumulated he could last half way through winter, but it wouldn't hurt to secure more, he remembered the glass gardens on the roof which served as a relaxing spot before this hell, maybe he can set up a farm there, after all he had gathered some vegetable seeds and many of his former neighbors who he bludgeoned to death participated in caring for it. If he can keep the power going, it would be safe from the harsh winter yet that was wishful thinking. Hector's mind for the first time in a long while ventured to the future, but realistically did he really want to remain here, he still had his family to worry for whatever there fate may be.

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[Floor Secured: Basic Weapons Package awarded]

[XP Gained: 100 XP]

[Level Up! Level 3 Unlocked]

LP: 14 Infected × 30 LP = 420 LP

XP: 11 Infected × 10 XP = 140 XP

[Total LP: 1350]

[Level 3: 50/400]

[Warning: Infection Stage 1 Calm]

[The longer you survive, the greater the infected threat. Prepare for increased numbers and mutations.]

[World Stage 1 Calm]

[The world will respond to your survival. New dangers will emerge over time.]

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[Basic Weapons Package]

Primary Weapon:

Submachine Gun:

Magazine Capacity: 32 rounds (4 unloaded magazines included)

Condition: Slightly worn but functional, with a durable leather sling for ease of carry.

Attachments: Simple iron sights, suppressor.

Notes: highly effective in close-quarters combat, the suppressor drowns the noise but doesn't eliminates it, the noise from this weapon could attract the infected. Use sparingly, strategically and be careful of jams.

Notes: Compact and reliable, ideal for quick, defensive situations where stealth isn't that much of an issue.

Ammunition:

SMG ammo: 2x small, sealed ammo boxes.

Support Items:

Weapon Cleaning Kit: Includes brushes, oil, and cleaning rods to maintain your firearms.

Tactical Sling Bag: Lightweight, designed to carry ammunition and small supplies.

Silencer (Handgun Only): A highly effective attachable suppressor for any handgun, reducing noise for stealth engagements.

Notes: Silencers don't eliminate gunshot noises but will greatly reduce them.

[Congratulations on receiving the Survivor's Arsenal!]

[Remember weapons are mere tools, how and when you use them makes the difference. Be wise]