《Days of Living with Zombies: A Survival Diary in the Apocalyptic Era[English]》 The disaster has arrived The burning heat in his abdomen jolted Alaric awake from his nightmare. Rubbing his stomach, he sat up bleary-eyed, struggling to distinguish dream from reality. A faint stench of dead rodents permeated the house beneath the gloomy, overcast sky outside his window. Below his sanctuary, the streets had become a death zone filled with bloodthirsty zombies whose guttural growls and wet chewing sounds made his scalp prickle. He grabbed the half-eaten protein bar from the table, inhaling deeply through his nose. The comforting aroma of processed food momentarily overpowered the ambient rot. Crumbling the bar deliberately, he let the crumbs dissolve on his tongue before rinsing his mouth with water and swallowing the pasty mixture. Creeping to the window, he observed the shambling figures below while mentally calculating his dwindling supplies. Unbidden, his thoughts drifted to that catastrophic morning fifteen days earlier - the dawn of the apocalypse. After both parents succumbed to cancer and his sister married away, the thirty-year-old found himself alone. A heated argument with his supervisor had ended his corporate career, prompting an ill-fated restaurant venture in Jelen City with friends that hemorrhaged money. Retreating into self-imposed isolation, he''d whittled away days with video games and streaming services, surviving on rental income from his parents'' leased shopfront. His monthly supply runs during rent collection had unwittingly become his salvation. The year 2015 saw rampant online doomsday prophecies, which Alaric dismissed as clickbait from attention-seeking trolls. September 24th came and went without the predicted ice age, leaving forums eerily quiet except for complaints about hoarded flour and eggs - even military-grade ration bars had tripled in price. October 2nd news reports mentioned minor meteor showers over the Pacific with no casualties. Then October 15th at 9:03 AM shattered reality. Exhausted from an all-night gaming session, Alaric had wrinkled his nose at an unfamiliar chemical tang permeating the air. His casual decision to seal all windows and doors later proved life-saving. After showering, he''d spritzed his sister''s leftover perfume as air freshener before collapsing into bed. Waking at 9 PM, he munched snacks while checking news sites. All updates ceased abruptly at noon. Initially unconcerned, he grew uneasy an hour later - the perpetually busy road outside lay silent. No engine hums, no horns, just oppressive stillness tightening his chest. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. A bloodcurdling scream shattered the quiet. Barefoot and trembling, he rushed to the window. Under sulfurous streetlights, three figures hunched over something twitching. Wiping his glasses clean, Alaric squinted. The group appeared to be... feeding. Between them protruded human legs jerking spasmodically. When one figure shifted, the yellow light illuminated their grisly banquet. Oh God! Alaric witnessed the most gruesome scene of his life: A man lay supine on the ground, his head tilted to one side, gaping mouth twisted into a horrified grimace. Hollow eyes filled with despair stared skyward. The man''s chest had been ripped open as two crouching figures fought over viscera while stuffing organs into their mouths. A third figure sat with its back to him, clutching a heart between both hands as it chewed. Alaric''s legs gave way, sending him crashing to his knees. Bile surged up his throat as he scrambled to his feet and staggered to the bathroom, retching violently. When he finally rose trembling from the cold tiles, his mind flooded with scenes from horror films he''d watched - Resident Evil, Saw - never imagining he''d witness such atrocities in reality. After half an hour slumped against the wall, his breathing steadied. Returning to the window, he found the cannibals had multiplied from three to a horde. Streetlights illuminated their stiff, shuffling movements as more silhouettes converged endlessly. The macabre procession resembled some profane ritual with living sacrifices, making him shiver uncontrollably. His trembling fingers fumbled through multiple failed attempts to dial emergency services. When twelve calls went unanswered, he tried relatives and friends - all lines busy. He nearly hurled his phone into the toilet bowl in frustration. Outside, the mob now clustered around the corpse reduced to bare bones. Dozens knelt licking bloodstains from pavement cracks. These were no longer human - just ravenous beasts driven by predatory instinct. Scuffles erupted constantly as figures knocked each other down only to rise and attack anew. Distant screams pierced the night before being abruptly silenced - unmistakable signs of survivors being hunted. Watching this hellscape unfold, Alaric lit a cigarette. The nicotine steadied his hands. He needed answers. Returning to his computer, he found news sites flooded with "Virus Outbreak" headlines he''d previously dismissed as clickbait. Now the truth glared from the screen: Reports detailed global infections spanning from Alaska to Argentina, Africa to Eurasia. Victims transformed into frenzied killers attacking indiscriminately. The timeline chilled him - starting at 10 AM nationwide, the infection spread exponentially before emergency protocols could activate. Governments and militaries collapsed as colleagues, family members, even soldiers turned without warning. A dinner companion might suddenly rip out your throat. Worse, bite or scratch victims mutated within an hour. European authorities had named it the Berserker Virus - B-Virus for short. Defiant Greens: First Blood Against the Undead The mode of transmission for this virus is divided into airborne and contact infections. The infected exhibit heightened aggression, possess 1.5 times the physical strength of ordinary humans, and move at normal walking speed with limited explosive power. Their teeth and nails have mutated into sharper forms capable of penetrating ordinary clothing. Key external characteristics include: entirely white sclera without pupils, complete loss of vision, rigid gait, heightened olfactory senses, craving for living flesh, and functional hearing. Any healthy individual scratched or bitten will mutate. The infected demonstrate exceptional physical resilience, impervious to conventional injuries¡ªonly destruction of the central nervous system or severing the cervical spine can neutralize them. No new mutations have been observed thus far. Conservative estimates indicate over 90% of the global population has been infected. To anyone reading this post: Survive. Survival represents hope. There is hope as long as one is alive. Alaric now fully understood this. The crowd outside his window were all infected. He didn''t know whether he was already carrying the virus, when his symptoms might manifest, or where this damned outbreak had originated. But he feared death¡ªfeared being devoured by those zombified carriers. The mental image of his arm being torn off, his intestines ripped out and fed into a zombie''s maw, filled him with primal terror. Pacing restlessly around the room, he struggled to settle. He grabbed a bottle of brandy from the fridge and took a deep swig. The burn of alcohol finally steadied him. With societal order collapsed and taxpayers stripped of government or police protection, seeking help outdoors was futile. The horde below hungered for foolish prey. Alaric sat before his computer to strategize survival priorities: food, water, and weapons. He bitterly regretted dismissing his father''s firearm training¡ªhis current ignorance of guns left him no choice but to improvise melee weapons. Tap water was untrustworthy; who knew if corpses floated in reservoir tanks? Thankfully, his habit of ordering bottled water left two full barrels¡ªa temporary reprieve from thirst. Next came food inventory. His routine of monthly grocery runs after rent collection on the 10th meant supplies would last only ten days. Today was the 1st. Forbidden from using lights, he scavenged through his cluttered home via phone flashlight. After hours of chaotic searching, he cataloged all provisions: compressed biscuits, canned food, dried fish fillets, instant noodles, milk, steak, cheese, eggs, flour, salt, sugar, two barrels of water, and ten cigarette packs. No vegetables. He patted his stomach¡ªstrict rationing might stretch this to a month. Finally, securing his shelter. His late-20th-century two-story house stood behind iron gates, which normally deterred infected¡ªunless they detected living prey inside. His computer room on the second floor offered full visibility through windows. He stealthily checked the reinforced front door on the ground floor, sealing all gaps with duct tape. Newspaper covered every window except his observation slit, curtains drawn tight. By midnight, sweat-drenched and exhausted, Alaric reviewed his preparations. Electricity remained functional¡ªfor now. Jelen City''s hydroelectric power station might sustain it for months. But without network maintenance, internet collapse was imminent. His devices would soon become useless. He spent the night downloading survival guides: wilderness skills, wound treatment, improvised weapons, water purification. By dawn, his computer had transformed into a survival encyclopedia. Alaric had worked through the night, and the half-pack of compressed biscuits he''d eaten earlier seemed completely digested. The gnawing sensation of hunger surged through his brain again. He forced himself not to look at the remaining instant noodle packets on the writing desk - their food supplies were dwindling, and he needed to ration carefully. Once provisions ran out, human instinct would plunge into despair and fear, leading to complete psychological collapse. He could only pour himself a glass of water and gulp it down fiercely, seeking temporary fullness. For the past half-month since the viral outbreak, every morning he awoke questioning whether this nightmare existence was real. The instant noodles were gone. The eggs were gone. Three packs of compressed biscuits remained - barely enough for two days at half-pack per meal, one and a half packs daily. Before the crisis, he''d devoured two packs plus two fried eggs in single sitting. The flour and rice had to be preserved. If he ventured out for supplies, he''d need proper meals to maintain strength against the infected. Ironically, what he''d struggled to achieve through diets before - losing five pounds in half a month - now came effortlessly. Alaric found this darkly amusing yet tearfully tragic. Though usually carefree, his sister''s unknown fate in another city weighed heavily. In disasters, familial bonds became painfully precious. With the internet collapsing over these weeks, he''d spent countless hours revisiting memories: parents alive and family united, teachers'' smiling faces from school days, his first childhood crush, former colleagues, even the pretty barista at the street caf¨¦. Now his greatest enemy wasn''t the zombies outside, but soul-crushing loneliness - the terrifying isolation of being the last human surrounded by enemies. Even his despised former supervisor would feel like family now. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. His sister''s phone remained unreachable, likely signaling tragedy. Yet he still prayed for a miracle - that she might appear safely before him someday. Outside his window, zombies still shuffled below. Occasionally he recognized neighbors among the horde. The street lay strewn with broken glass, overturned cars, scattered debris, and tattered clothing clinging to bleached bones. Sometimes Alaric fantasized about joining the zombie throng - better than this lonely, half-starved existence. Yet he couldn''t stomach their repulsive lifestyle. Nor could he bear contemplating starvation''s slow death or being devoured by infected former loved ones. Despair overwhelmed him. Convinced death remained his only escape, he numbly retrieved the kitchen cleaver. Pressing the blade to his neck, he shut his eyes and gripped the handle. A single slash would end everything. Yet when his wrist ached from the strain, he still couldn''t commit. Suicide required more courage than he possessed. Dropping the blade, he collapsed weeping to the floor - a terrified, ordinary man fearing death''s finality. Self-loathing consumed him - mediocre student, underperforming employee, now even suicide''s coward. As emotions ebbed, new perspective emerged: When 90% of humanity had turned, when 6.3 billion were infected, why did he remain immune? Had God granted him special purpose? Having survived countless video game battles, why not treat real-world survival as his ultimate game? However disastrous the start, shouldn''t he at least play seriously before conceding defeat? His watch showed 10:17 AM. To avoid starvation, he must confront the zombies. Through weeks of observation, he''d studied their movement patterns and feeding cycles. Notably, the shambling figures near his residence remained consistent - no newcomers joined the local horde. Creeping to the front room, he carefully peeled back a newspaper patch covering the window. His elderly neighbor''s backyard vegetable patch caught his eye - rows of plump cabbages glistening verdant and tender. Saliva flooded his mouth at the sight; fresh greens had been absent from his diet for weeks. Tearing his gaze from the vegetables, he assessed the terrain. The neighbor''s low fence had a two-person-wide breach - perfect for covert access. But reaching it meant crossing 80 feet of road patrolled by six zombies. To safely reach the cabbage patch, he''d need to eliminate at least two Here is the faithful English translation of the content, maintaining all details and contextual accuracy while preserving character information: Alaric knew bare hands wouldn''t work against zombies. He needed proper weapons. Rifling through his father''s toolbox, he first picked up a ten-pound sledgehammer but shook his head immediately - too heavy for his strength. After more searching, he found a wooden baseball bat. Testing its weight, he nodded approval. In the kitchen, he grabbed a tin pot lid as makeshift shield. After observing through the window, he seized his moment and slipped out quietly. His plan: eliminate the zombie near the cabbage patch first. It stood too close to the vegetables - no way to harvest undetected. He needed to gather as much cabbage as possible within one minute before the horde across the street noticed. Wearing military combat boots, his father''s woolen military coat, and thick leather gloves, he quietly unlatched the iron gate. As he crossed the road, the garden zombie suddenly turned and spotted him. The zombie paused, then charged with ferocity. This was Alaric''s first close encounter - grayish skin, milky-white eyes, a gaping mouth large enough to fit a fist, filled with black-yellow triangular teeth. The putrid stench hit him before the claws could. Fighting nausea, he raised his pot-lid shield. The impact numbed his arm, but muscle memory from past fights kicked in. He swung the bat with full force, smashing the zombie''s head. It collapsed. Remembering news reports about headshots being critical, he delivered three more crushing blows until the skull caved in. "Not so hard after all," he thought without celebration. Rushing to the cabbage patch, he frantically uprooted vegetables into his sack. Peripheral vision caught movement - a zombie from the cottage was shambling toward him. "Dear God, please slow that thing down," he prayed, stuffing more cabbages. When the creature closed within 20 feet, he grabbed his sack and weapons, sprinting homeward. A zombie suddenly lunged from his house''s corner, decaying claws inches from his eyes. Death''s certainty choked his scream. His legs buckled, shield clattering away as he fell. The attacking zombie tripped over the discarded lid. Seizing the chance, Alaric battered its skull madly with the bat. When clarity returned, the head was pulped - black ooze pooling beneath, stench overwhelming. Zombies at the fence noticed him now - three muscular ones leading, followed by a mutated elderly woman he recognized: his neighbor, the cabbage patch''s owner. All four snarled hungrily, 30 feet away. Alaric scrambled up, abandoning his shield as he bolted inside. Bolting the security door, he leaned against cold steel, exhaling deeply. Safety. His clothes reeked of zombie gore. He rushed to wash up, changing immediately. Arranging his haul, he counted ten cabbages weighing over twenty pounds. Outside, frustrated zombies scratched at the metal door, their angry howls echoing. For the first time, Alaric felt genuine hope about survival. New Weapon Unlocked: Spear He rose and walked to the living room, following his usual routine of inventorying remaining supplies. The cabbage he''d desperately harvested from the neighboring yard five days ago still occupied more than half the space, with around six pounds of rice remaining. The cigarettes had run out yesterday - the encroaching nicotine cravings felt particularly unpleasant. A healthy body was the foundation for combating the infected outside. In this world, getting injured or falling ill simply wasn''t an option. The iron gate on the first floor shuddered from an impact. Fortunately, the reinforced metal held firm, though their insatiable hunger kept them permanently camped outside his entrance. Letting them keep pounding the door wasn''t sustainable - it trapped him indoors, condemning him to eventual starvation. Eliminating the half-dozen infected at his doorstep had become imperative. Alaric had grown accustomed to the odor. Sometimes he caught himself believing this putrid atmosphere was normal, the civilized world of before fading into distant memory until only primal survival instincts remained. The road''s terminus dissolved into gloomy, ash-gray skies that hadn''t seen sunlight in what felt like ages. The undead still roamed while Alaric''s survival calculations continued. Returning to the living room, he began daily physical training - every incremental improvement in stamina could mean the difference between life and death. Without the shield he''d abandoned outside, direct confrontation was too risky. Past encounters proved the infected''s low intelligence - exploitation through tactics was essential. His only viable plan: crack the door slightly while stabilizing it, then dispatch the zombies individually through the gap using reach weapons. The solid wooden shaft remained sturdy, though the tip showed rust and dullness. Undeterred, Alaric shattered a ceramic plate, using the shards to repeatedly sharpen the spearhead until its edge gleamed dangerously.
Next, he had to figure out how to secure the iron door - a high-stakes challenge that held the key to surviving the zombie threat. If the door couldn''t be properly fastened after opening, all four zombies would inevitably charge into the house, leaving him no escape except certain death. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. Frustration mounting, Alaric clawed at his hair before staring blankly at the landline phone. He hadn''t paid the phone bill for months. That pretty girl from the service center had probably turned into a zombie too - maybe suffering a worse fate, torn apart and devoured by the undead. He sighed heavily, his gaze following the telephone cord toward the window. Suddenly, inspiration struck. The telephone cord could serve as rope! If he used rope to latch the iron door from inside, he wouldn''t need to worry about zombies breaking through after opening it! Of course, the flimsy telephone cord alone wouldn''t hold. Alaric began frantically searching his home for stronger rope, but came up empty-handed. Instead, he found something better: an iron chain. Perfect! Even ten zombies working together couldn''t break through secured with this! He fastened the chain between the door handle and stair rail, triple-checking its stability. Gripping his spear, Alaric stood before the door feeling momentarily like a superhero - powerful and invincible. This illusion shattered the moment he cracked the door open. Retching violently, he clamped a hand over his nose. The rotting stench from the zombie he''d killed days earlier flooded in, its fermented corpse still lying outside. The putrid air burned his eyes with acrid tears. Finding no masks, Alaric improvised with a woolen scarf over his face, sprinkling perfume on the fabric for minimal relief. When he reopened the door, a pitch-black zombie claw shot through the gap, its owner desperately squeezing into the narrow opening. Prepared this time, Alaric didn''t flinch. He studied the decaying hand - flesh desiccated and dull, bone joints protruding like talons, jagged nails capable of gutting a man with ease. The zombie wedged its skull through the gap, shriveled face grinding against metal as it tried to "sharpen" its head for entry. Sunken eye sockets fixed on Alaric, who raised his spear with both hands. His first thrust struck clumsily, survival instinct overriding technique. He kept stabbing mindlessly until the first zombie collapsed. Bloodlust awakened, a primal urge to kill surging through him. Suddenly, the horde seemed manageable - with proper tactics, maybe he could slaughter them all single-handedly. Two more claws slashed through the opening. Alaric reacted swiftly, jabbing his spear through zombie eye sockets. Black viscous blood oozed from the hollow cavities as the creatures slumped onto their predecessor''s corpse. "Two left," he muttered, not sparing a glance at the twitching bodies. Simple, brutal thrusts dispatched the remaining pair. When the last zombie fell, Alaric faced a new problem - four corpses blocking his doorway. He labored to drag the bodies further away, careful not to venture too far. New zombies could appear any moment, and getting caught outdoors meant certain death.