Day 10.1: The end?


    What the hell are those things doing here? Since when were they this close? Were they always just outside my sight, lurking in the shadows, waiting for me to let my guard down? How could I not hear them creeping closer, their numbers swelling while I slept? Was I that desperate for a sense of safety that I ignored the signs—t the feeling that something was off? My stomach twists, bile rising in my throat. The danger isn''t coming. It''s already here


    My head pounds like a war drum, each beat sending shockwaves through my skull. My thoughts are a jumbled mess, colliding, shattering, slipping away before I can make sense of them. Yesterday was too quiet—eerily, unnaturally quiet. I should’ve known. The air felt too still, the world too empty, like everything was holding its breath. It wasn’t peace. It was a warning, and I ignored it. I let myself believe in safety, even if only for a moment. That moment is gone now, ripped away by the reality clawing at my walls.


    The scratching... the distant groans... At first, I thought they were just in my head. Just my paranoia playing tricks on me. But now, they are real. Too real. They surround me, creeping in closer, their voices growing louder. I hear them in the walls, outside the doors, pressing in like a tide that won’t stop until it drags me under.


    The walls are cracking. I can hear the wood splintering under the weight of them. The barricades I spent days building, the ones I told myself were enough, are buckling. I don’t know how many are out there, but their moans are pressing into my skull, crawling under my skin, filling every inch of this place. This place that I thought was safe.


    It won’t hold. Not for much longer.


    The barricades are groaning under their weight, the wood bending, splintering. The cracks widen with each desperate shove, each mindless body slamming into the walls. It’s a matter of time—seconds, maybe minutes—before they burst through. My safe haven, my home, is turning into a death trap.


    I need to move. Now.


    My hands are shaking so badly I can barely grip my crowbar. My fingers are stiff, clumsy, like they don’t belong to me. My legs feel weak, like they’ll give out if I try to stand too fast. My breaths come in short, panicked bursts, each one razor-sharp in my throat. It feels like my own body is betraying me, freezing up when I need it the most.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    But I can’t stop. I need to grab what I can and get to the van before it’s too late.


    The van. My last hope. My only way out of this nightmare.


    It’s parked just outside, so close—yet impossibly far. Because between me and that van… is a wall of the dead.


    And they’re waiting for me.


    My mind races, running through every possible scenario, every move I could make—but all of them end the same way: surrounded, torn apart, screaming. I grip my crowbar so tightly it feels like it might snap in half. My heart slams against my ribs, my breaths coming in fast, shallow gasps. My body wants to run, to flee, but my legs won’t move. My survival depends on this moment, on getting everything right.


    A low, guttural moan rises above the others, sending a shudder down my spine. More of them are gathering. More bodies pressing in, more decayed hands reaching, clawing, desperate for me. My window of escape is closing.


    I have to move. Now.


    I press my back against the cold wall, gripping the crowbar tighter, my knuckles bone-white. My breath stutters as I steal a glance through a crack in the barricade. They’re out there. More than I can count. Moving, snarling, searching.


    One of them shuffles closer to the wall, pressing its rotting face against the splintered wood. Its skin is peeling, its mouth twisted into a grotesque grin, teeth jagged and stained. And its eyes—hollow, black pits—lock onto mine. A chill rushes down my spine. It knows. It knows I’m here.


    A sudden bang against the door makes me flinch. Then another. The sound is sharp, violent—like a gunshot in the silence. My breath catches in my throat as I watch the wood tremble under the force. The groaning door is a dying thing, on the verge of giving in. The barricades I built with my own hands are failing.


    The scratching intensifies, nails dragging down the surface like a desperate, hungry plea. I can hear their fingers—brittle bones wrapped in decayed flesh—digging, splintering the barrier between us. The air is thick with the scent of rot and damp wood, and I swear I can feel their breath leaking through the cracks.


    If they break through before I move, I’m dead.


    My pulse is hammering so hard it feels like my ribs will crack from the pressure. My muscles scream to run, but my body hesitates, frozen in the grip of fear. My grip tightens around the crowbar, the cold metal grounding me, forcing me to focus. This is it. The moment that decides if I make it out or become just another corpse.


    I force my legs to steady. My breath is ragged, my lungs burn, but I push everything else aside. There’s no time for panic. No time for second-guessing. I have one chance. One shot to make it to that van before the walls give in.


    I know what I have to do.


    But god help me if i fail