《Dead Man's Diary: Zomboid Chronicle》


 Entry #1 - Johnn Sinner (No Occupation) Day #1

    Day 1: Reality Sets In


    Woke up in a trailer park outside of Riverside. The morning was foggy, wrapping everything in a heavy, suffocating silence. The air clung to my skin, cold and damp, like the world itself was afraid to make a sound. First thing I did was cover the windows of my trailer with sheets¡ªcan¡¯t risk unwanted eyes looking in, dead or otherwise.


    Checked my trailer for supplies. Bare shelves, empty fridge, nothing but dust and regret. Needed to scavenge. First stop¡ªthe trailer next to mine. A lone zed stumbled outside, its jaw hanging slack like it had already forgotten how to bite. One swing, and it was down. The window was cracked open, so I pulled myself in.


    Inside, two naked corpses-turned-walkers jerked to life¡ªprobably a couple before all this. They lunged, arms outstretched, eyes clouded and lifeless. I swung hard. First one dropped. The second took two more hits before it stopped moving. Their blood pooled around my boots.


    I caught my breath and searched the place. Found some corn, salami, peanut butter, and jam. Jackpot. Also a riot helmet and a fanny pack¡ªsmall victories, but anything helps. Every little thing is a step toward staying alive.


    Headed back to my trailer, dumped the loot, then went out again. This time, I searched the trailers to the left. Looted four in a row, taking down any zeds that got in my way. Scored some more food, drinks, and a half-eaten pizza. The best find? A tattered letter titled "The Last Testament."


    Back at my trailer, I washed off the blood before sitting down to read it. The words hit like a punch to the gut:


    ¡°To whoever finds this letter, I hope you¡¯re not alone in this wretched world. I write this as a final testament, a chronicle of what we once were. We were a group of survivors, bound by hope and resilience. We fought tooth and nail to stay alive, facing hordes of the undead and the ever-encroaching darkness. We formed a family of sorts, finding solace in each other¡¯s presence amidst the chaos.


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    But one by one, we fell, overwhelmed by the relentless onslaught. I am the last one left, and with a heavy heart, I pen these words. Know that we fought bravely, that our spirits were indomitable until the very end. May this letter be a testament to our strength and a reminder to never lose hope. Carry our memories forward and build a better future. You are not alone. We may be gone, but our spirit lives on.¡±


    Whoever wrote this had people. Not just survivors¡ªfamily. They fought, bled, and hoped together, refusing to let the world break them. But in the end, it didn¡¯t matter. Now they were gone, their voices nothing but fading ink on a crumpled page. They held on as long as they could. It still wasn¡¯t enough.


    Took a deep breath. No time for distractions. I needed a bag. Went back outside, cleared a few more zeds, but I got careless. Attracted more attention than I should have. Killed them all, but exhaustion crept in fast. Reached my target trailer. Front door¡ªlocked. Windows¡ªlocked. Forced one open, and that¡¯s when I heard it.


    An alarm.


    My blood turned to ice. The second that alarm blared, I knew I was screwed. I took off running, my breath sharp in my chest, legs burning as I raced back to my trailer. The siren cut through the air like a death knell, echoing through the park, calling every damn zed within earshot straight to me.


    Inside, I stayed low, heart pounding. Through the thin walls, I could hear them¡ªgroaning, shuffling, feasting. Tearing flesh, wet chewing, bones snapping. On what? The corpses of the ones I had killed earlier. The smell of blood must¡¯ve drawn more of them in. I gripped my bat, but I knew better than to move. Just had to wait. Had to hope they¡¯d lose interest before they found a way inside.


    I stayed put. No choice. The night was long.


    Plans for Tomorrow:


    <ul>


    <li>Check if the trailer doors are still secure.</li>


    <li>Scavenge for a bigg bag¡ªcarrying everything by hand isn¡¯t gonna cut it.</li>


    <li>Find more food, especially water¡ªrunning low already.</li>


    <li>Map out escape routes in case things go south.</li>


    <li>Avoid any more stupid mistakes.</li>


    </ul>


    End of Day 1

 Entry #1 - Johnn Sinner (No Occupation) Day #2

    Day 2: New Home


    Awakened suddenly in a cold sweat. Another nightmare¡ªsame as always. Checked my watch. 5 AM. Too damn early, but sleep wasn¡¯t coming back. My body felt heavy, like it hadn¡¯t quite caught up with being awake yet. Then I heard it¡ªfaint, distant, but unmistakable. Fighting. Maybe other survivors. Maybe not. Hard to tell in this world. I stayed put, gripping my bat, listening. Whoever they were, they weren¡¯t calling for help. That meant either they were winning¡­ or already dead.


    Made the call to hit the auto repair shop not too far from here. If I was lucky, I¡¯d find some tools, maybe a working car. If I wasn¡¯t, well¡­ let¡¯s not go there. Stepped outside and was met with a wall of fog, thick and heavy. It wrapped around everything, swallowing shapes and blurring movement. Perfect for sneaking. Not so great for seeing what might be sneaking up on me.


    Ran into a couple of zeds on the way. First one dropped easy, second one took a few more swings. Every hit rattled my arms, reminding me how real this was. Outside the shop, two more shuffled toward me, their guttural moans cutting through the fog. I took them down fast¡ªcouldn¡¯t afford to waste time. The front door was open, which was either good luck or bad news. Either way, I wasn¡¯t about to pass up the chance.


    Inside, I started looting. Nothing useful yet¡ªjust some staplers and index cards. Kept digging, hoping for something worthwhile. Then I heard it. A sharp crack¡ªwood splintering, breaking. My gut dropped. Backdoor was giving in. Then they came. Three zeds, their dead eyes locked onto me. Too tight to fight inside. I run, luring them out. Mistake. More were waiting, hidden in the fog. My heart pounded. Too many to run. No choice but to fight. My bat swung, cracking skulls, arms shaking with every impact. They grabbed at me, teeth snapping inches from my skin. One slip and I was done. Every breath was fire, every second stretched too long. But somehow, I stayed standing. And they didn¡¯t.


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    The shop was mine. I fought for it, bled for it, and now it was my sanctuary.


    Went back to my trailer to grab my stuff. No way I was sleeping there again. Almost got bit again on the way back¡ªgot careless, too caught up in the relief of clearing the shop. That was a wake-up call. One mistake is all it takes.


    Loaded up everything I could carry and returned to the shop, my new home. It wasn¡¯t much, but it was mine. Moved tables to block the doors, dragged the corpses and move it far from the outside of my new home¡ªfelt like cleaning up after some brutal, messed-up party. Set up my little fridge from the trailer, a sad excuse for a kitchen, but it¡¯d do. The place still smelled like oil and metal, but compared to rotting flesh, it was practically fresh air.


    Not the home I ever imagined for myself, but in this world? It¡¯s a fortress.


    While moving my stuff, I spotted a zed with a bag. Looked promising¡ªmaybe food, meds, or even a weapon inside. But it wasn¡¯t alone. A group of them drifted nearby, slow but steady, like they had nowhere else to be. It was just standing there, like bait, like it was daring me to try. Not worth it. Not yet.


    Cleared out some stragglers around the shop, their bodies now just more discarded remains of what used to be people. Then I took a much-needed shower, the water running red at first, then clear. Blood, sweat, dirt¡ªall of it swirling down the drain like I could wash away the past two days. But no matter how long I stood there, scrubbing, the weight of it all still clung to me.


    Next to the repair shop, there¡¯s a diner. If luck¡¯s on my side, there might still be food inside. Feels like a long shot, but I can¡¯t afford to pass up the chance. Gonna check it out tomorrow, no matter what.


    The sky bleeds into darkness, swallowing the last of the light. The air feels heavier, pressing down like a warning. I lock the doors, grip my bat tighter, and take one last look outside. Whatever''s out there can wait. Tonight, I stay inside.


    Plans for Tomorrow:


    <ul>


    <li>Hit the diner next door, see if there¡¯s any food left.</li>


    <li>Secure more water¡ªalready feeling the thirst creeping in.</li>


    <li>Keep an eye on that zed with the bag¡ªmight be worth the risk.</li>


    <li>Reinforce the shop more, just in case.</li>


    </ul>


    End of Day 2.

 Entry #1 - Johnn Sinner (No Occupation) Day #3

    Day 3 - Restless and Reckless


    Woke up at 1 AM. Barely got two hours of sleep before I heard the sound of zombies outside the shop. My body screamed for rest, but paranoia won. I tried to peek through the sheet covering the door, just to make sure¡ªbut in my half-asleep state, I accidentally pulled it open instead. Two zombies poured in. No time to think. Just instincts. Nearly died. Somehow, I got away, but I was covered in blood¡ªmine or theirs, I couldn''t even tell.


    I spent the next hour cleaning up the corpses, my hands shaking from exhaustion. The stench of death lingered in the air. I really need to barricade this place better. And I need new clothes. This is no way to live.


    I''m waiting until 5 AM, so it''s not pitch black outside. The plan is to hit the diner next to my base. Also, I need to find a flashlight¡ªwandering blind in the dark is a death sentence.


    By the time I got to the diner, I spotted two cars parked outside. If I¡¯m lucky, they¡¯re still in good shape. If I¡¯m not, well¡­ another problem for another day. I¡¯ll check them after I clear the diner.


    Inside, it was quiet. Too quiet. Just one zed¡ªan easy kill, but my heart was still racing from this morning. I wandered into a storage room and hit gold: a crowbar. A big find. Now I can pry open doors instead of smashing windows and alerting every corpse in a mile radius. Feeling lucky, I hit the kitchen, raided the fridge, and grabbed some fresh food. Should last a couple of days¡ªassuming I make it that long.


    Back at the shop, I secured my loot before returning to the diner to check the cars. Both had no gas. Unlucky. But the engines looked fine. As long as I can get some fuel, I might have a ride soon. Decided to push my luck and explore a little more.


    Spotted a gas station near the diner. Might hit it once the fog clears. In the parking lot before the station, I saw a farmer¡¯s truck. Solid build, looked like it could take a few hits¡ªbut once again, no gas. Fuel¡¯s turning into my biggest problem.


    Next to the gas station, I found a laundromat. Clothes. Clean ones. I needed those. I tried to open a window, but a zed slammed against the glass from the other side. Nearly jumped out of my skin. I backed off and let it break through, then bashed its skull in with my new crowbar. One good thing about adrenaline¡ªit wakes you up fast.


    Got inside. Found the gas station store. Jackpot¡ªmore supplies than I could carry. Lucky. But I didn¡¯t have a bag. Unlucky. I¡¯d have to make two or three trips to haul everything back to base, which meant more chances to get killed.


    While looting, I heard movement outside. Figured it was just one zed, but when I stepped out, five of them were waiting for me. Shit. No choice but to fight. I think I¡¯m getting used to taking them down in small groups. Not sure if that¡¯s a good thing or not.


    Took what I could¡ªfood, chips, bottled water. Found an empty gas can, too. If I can¡¯t figure out how to use the pumps, I¡¯ll have to siphon from wrecked cars. No idea how to do that yet. Fuck.


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    The walk back to base was too quiet. I should be grateful, but it just felt¡­ wrong. Like the world was waiting for me to slip up. I made it home, exhausted and starving. No point in pushing my luck tonight. Ate what I could and scanned two maps I found¡ªWest Point and Louisville. Something to pass the time. Still too early to sleep, though. My nerves wouldn¡¯t let me. Maybe I should get out there again.


    Headed back to the trailer park for more looting. Goal? A bag. Any bag.


    Saw a barricaded trailer. Someone had been living here. Maybe they still were. I needed to check it out.


    Signs of life, but no people. The air inside was stale, undisturbed for who knows how long. Were they the ones I heard last night? The ones who were screaming? Had they left in a hurry, or had something else taken them? The thought chilled me, but I didn¡¯t have time to dwell on it. I grabbed what I could and got out.


    Looted their place. Feels wrong, but morality is a luxury now. Found some food. Attracted two zeds in the process, but I took them down without a problem.


    Then I made a mistake. Opened the wrong door, tripped the wrong alarm. The sound split the silence like a gunshot, an immediate death sentence in this world. My blood turned to ice. I ran, lungs burning, feet barely touching the ground. Every stretch of open road felt like a trap waiting to spring. I didn''t stop until I was home, collapsing onto the floor, heart hammering so hard I thought it would burst. I sat in the dark, gripping my weapon with shaking hands, listening to the alarm wail into the night. Every second stretched unbearably long, my ears straining for the inevitable growls and shuffling feet. Waiting for the swarm. Waiting for the end.


    Minutes passed. Then an hour. Nothing came. But I didn¡¯t sleep.


    When the sun started to rise, I went back outside. Checked some wrecked cars¡ªstill nothing useful. But then, I saw them: storage garages. If I was lucky, there¡¯d be something worth taking. If I wasn¡¯t, I¡¯d just wasted more time and energy.


    Ran into a couple of zeds on the way, took care of them, but my body was screaming at me to stop. Pushed forward anyway.


    Pried open a few storage units. Found a generator. A massive find. I don¡¯t know how to use it yet, but I know I¡¯ll need it. Also grabbed a beanie to cover my head. Not a game-changer, but small comforts count for something.


    Kept searching before dark. Opened 14 more storage units. Almost all of them were worthless¡ªclothes, furniture, toys. Some completely empty. Unlucky.


    While looting, I heard footsteps. Running. Human.


    My breath hitched. Every muscle in my body locked up. My mind raced¡ªcould it be the people from the trailer? Were they looking for me? Did they know what I took? My grip on the crowbar tightened, my knuckles turning white. The sound of boots against pavement, hurried, desperate. Not a shambling corpse¡ªthis was someone alive. I shrank into the shadows, heart pounding so loud I swore they¡¯d hear it. The footsteps slowed. Paused. Then kept going, fading into the distance.


    I waited, counted to fifty in my head. Then I got the hell out of there.


    Made it back home without trouble. Took a break, rested, showered, ate, and tried to relax. Not sure how anyone relaxes in this world, but exhaustion has a way of making you forget the fear, even if just for a little while.


    Plans for Tomorrow:


    <ul>


    <li>Figure out fuel. I have an empty gas can, but I need to learn how to siphon properly.</li>


    <li>Find a working car. If I can get one running, everything changes.</li>


    <li>Get a backpack. Carrying things by hand is slowing me down too much.</li>


    <li>Be cautious about other survivors. Today was too close¡ªI can¡¯t afford to be reckless again.</li>


    </ul>


    End of Day 3

 Entry #1 - Johnn Sinner (No Occupation) Day #4

    Day 4 - The Bag Hunt


    Woke up exhausted, body aching like I''d been hit by a truck. Barely any sleep, just endless tossing and turning. Laid there, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself to move. Eventually, forced myself up, though every part of me begged to stay down. Rested a couple more hours before deciding I had to do something¡ªanother loot run to the storage garages. Still no bag. I am getting desperate.


    Headed out. Kept low, moving slow. Then I saw them¡ªtwo guys clearing out zeds like they¡¯d done it a hundred times before. My breath caught. Survivors. That could be good... or really bad. Stayed hidden, heart hammering in my chest, watching. They didn¡¯t seem to notice me. After what felt like forever, they moved on. I waited a bit longer, just in case, before creeping forward again.


    Got into an office connected to more garages. The air was stale, dust hanging in the dim light. Everything was still¡ªtoo still. As I pried open a door, something lunged. A blur of rotting flesh, a guttural moan. I barely had time to react before it was on me. Nearly shit my pants. My heart pounded as I stumbled back, swinging wildly. The crowbar connected with a sickening crunch. Silence again, except for my heavy breathing. I wiped the sweat off my forehead and pressed on, hands still shaking as I rummaged through drawers and shelves. No time to stop. No time to think.


    No luck inside, so I checked the outside storage units. Found a pickaxe¡ªheavy, solid, the kind of tool that could crack a skull just as easily as it could break through a locked door. Useful, but not what I needed. The rest? Just books. No supplies, no bag, nothing to make this struggle any easier. Still, at least the books could keep my mind occupied when the silence got too loud and sleep refused to come.


    Headed back to base, dropped onto the floor, utterly drained. Rested a bit, but the frustration gnawed at me. I couldn¡¯t let it go. I had to find a bag. Hauled myself up and went back to the trailer park, determination outweighing exhaustion. Still no bag. I clenched my fists, jaw tight. How is something so simple so impossible to find? It¡¯s driving me insane.


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    Back at the park, I moved like a shadow, slipping through the wreckage of lives long abandoned. Each zed fell silently, one after another, my hands steady, my heart cold. But still¡ªno bag. The frustration burned, a slow, simmering rage. It¡¯s such a simple thing, yet it¡¯s slipping through my fingers like everything else. Losing my mind.


    Found a decent amount of food, but had to leave some behind. My arms ached from carrying what little I could manage. Every step back to base felt heavier, the weight of what I had and what I had to leave behind pressing down on me. That damn bag¡ªit''s more than just a need now. It''s an obsession.


    By the time I gave up, the sun was already setting. Wasted the whole day searching, and I still came back empty-handed. But at least I made it back alive, with some food and supplies. Just need to remind myself¡ªone problem at a time.


    At base, I sorted through the few notable finds¡ªfood, nails, a saw. Then there was another crumpled-up, tattered paper. The moment I unfolded it, I couldn¡¯t help but laugh.


    "You will not believe me what I''ve just seen. Some guy was running out of this store laughing his ass off whilst he was throwing bananas at this one zombie. Bananas! Now, I admit, it was funny as hell when the zombie just fell on its back and smashed its head against the wall faster than I could count, but I knew I couldn''t stay out here for long-"


    The front side ran out of space. Flipped it over, and the handwriting was more relaxed, like the guy had time to breathe. A banana smudge stained the right side.


    "Man, those bananas were pretty good to be honest. Guy sure knows his stuff!"


    I chuckled, shaking my head. Someone out there had the time to appreciate a good banana in the middle of all this. Maybe I should try to find the humor in things too. Not everything has to be survival and stress. Still, would be funnier if I wasn¡¯t so damn tired.


    Hit the shower, let the warm water wash away the grime and exhaustion. Sat down with the paper, rereading the banana story, letting myself smile just a little. For a moment, it felt normal¡ªjust some random note from a stranger with a sense of humor. Didn¡¯t even realize I¡¯d fallen asleep, paper still in my hands.


    Plans for Tomorrow:


    <ul>


    <li>Find. A. Damn. Bag. This is priority number one.</li>


    <li>Check nearby houses for supplies, maybe a backpack left behind.</li>


    <li>Try the gas station again¡ªstill need fuel.</li>


    <li>Consider scouting beyond the trailer park. There has to be something useful out there.</li>


    <li>Keep an eye out for those two survivors. Avoid if possible.</li>


    </ul>


    End of Day 4

 Entry #1 - Johnn Sinner (No Occupation) Day #5

    Day 5 - A Turn of Luck


    Woke up late. No time to waste¡ªI still need a bag. Every trip out, every risk I take, and still nothing. It¡¯s frustrating, like the world is playing some cruel joke on me. But I can¡¯t give up. Not now.


    Grabbed my crowbar and stepped outside. Planned to hit the gas station first, but then I spotted the factory across the road. A massive, rusted building, standing like a relic of the past. It looked untouched, maybe even full of supplies. Maybe today would be different. Maybe today, I''d finally catch a break.


    The air was thick with the stench of decay¡ªthe bodies of zeds I¡¯d taken down over the last few days, now bloated and reeking in the summer heat. I swallowed back the nausea and pressed forward. The factory¡¯s parking lot stretched before me, littered with LectroMax manufacturing vans. Rows of them, sitting still and abandoned. If just one of them worked, it could change everything.


    Popped a few trunks, hoping for supplies. Then, jackpot¡ªa gas can, already filled. My fingers tightened around the handle as a rush of relief hit me. First win of the day. Now, I just had to find the right van. After checking a few, I spotted one in solid condition, barely any rust, windows intact. Held my breath as I opened the glove box¡ªthere it was. The key, waiting for me. I exhaled a shaky laugh. Maybe, just maybe, luck wasn¡¯t dead yet.


    Pushed my luck and went inside the factory. The silence was unsettling. No moans, no shuffling feet. Just the sound of my own breathing and the quiet thud of my footsteps echoing through the vast, empty space. My heart pounded in my chest, each step making me more aware of how alone I was in here. The locker area was a ghost town¡ªdusty benches, scattered papers, nothing of value. Then I found the storage section. Stacks of iron ingots, rows of tool handles, shelves lined with industrial junk. Things that once had purpose but were now just dead weight. I exhaled, disappointed but not surprised. Even in a place full of supplies, I still couldn¡¯t find what I needed.


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    A lone zed wandered down the hallway, its lifeless eyes scanning the empty space. I kept my distance, heart pounding, not wanting to risk the noise. Slipping past, each step felt heavier than the last. This place had nothing for me¡ªno bag, no real supplies. But I had a van now. That alone made everything worth it.


    Made it back to the van and drove home, the hum of the engine the only sound breaking the silence. No zeds clawing at the doors, no frantic escapes. For once, everything went smoothly. Almost too smoothly. It felt wrong to have a day without struggle, like the world was setting me up for something worse. But for now, I let myself enjoy the quiet victory.


    Pulled into base and hid the van inside the repair shop¡¯s garage. This was a game-changer. A working vehicle meant freedom¡ªmore mobility, more storage, a way to escape if things ever got too bad. But security came first. I barricaded the front door, sealing off the entrance I once relied on. From now on, the garage would be my way in and out¡ªa controlled entry, safer, smarter. It was a small but necessary change, another step toward making this place truly mine.


    By 8 PM, I was back out again, walking through the empty streets under the dimming sky. The hunt for fuel wasn¡¯t just about convenience¡ªit was survival. Every drop meant more freedom, more choices, more time. I hit every spot I could think of¡ªthe diner, the gas station, the trailer park, the factory, even the garage storage lots. Each stop meant waiting, listening, watching. Every siphon was a risk, every second exposed could be my last. Three long hours passed, my muscles aching, my nerves on edge. But when I finally looked at what I had gathered¡ªa good stockpile of fuel¡ªI knew it was worth it. This wasn¡¯t just gas. It was a lifeline, a chance to keep moving forward.


    By the time I got back, exhaustion weighed heavy on me. My arms ached, my legs felt like lead, but today was different. For once, there were no close calls, no desperate fights¡ªjust quiet, steady progress. It felt strange, almost unreal, to have a day where things actually went right. Maybe, just maybe, luck was finally on my side.


    Maybe things are finally turning around.


    Plans for Tomorrow:


    <ul>


    <li>Finally find a bag. This is getting ridiculous.</li>


    <li>The town is calling, but am I ready for it?</li>


    <li>Look for more secure ways to reinforce the repair shop.</li>


    <li>Gather more supplies¡ªfood, water, anything useful.</li>


    </ul>


    End of Day 5

 Entry #1 - Johnn Sinner (No Occupation) Day #6

    Day 6 - The Longest Day


    Woke up early¡ª5 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¡ªcanned 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¡ªplaces 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¡ªmy 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¡ªthe one I hadn¡¯t set foot in yet¡ªI 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¡ªthe 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¡ªanything¡ªto 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¡ªZeds?


    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¡ªa 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¡ªa 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¡ªempty. 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¡ªthis 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¡ªno idea what I¡¯d do with it yet¡ªand a hand axe. Good for chopping wood.


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    Next stop: the trailer park. There was a nagging thought in my head¡ªhad 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¡ªuntil 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¡ªevery 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¡ªso 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¡ªeverything 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¡ªwood 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¡ªshuffling, 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¡ªjust 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¡ªshattering glass.


    My breath hitched. My pulse hammered against my ribs. Footsteps, slow and uneven, scraping against the floor. Then the groan¡ªlow, 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¡ªanother sound. Sharp. Distant. A gunshot, splitting the night like a crack of thunder.


    The groaning stopped. The footsteps shifted. A pause¡ªthen 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¡ªdoors 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:


    <ul>


    <li>Start construction on a wall outside the base.</li>


    <li>Reinforce weak spots in the shop.</li>


    <li>Sort and organize the loot I gathered.</li>


    <li>Check the van¡¯s fuel and see if I need more gas.</li>


    <li>Plan the next loot run¡ªwhere to go next?</li>


    </ul>


    End of Day 6

 Entry #1 - Johnn Sinner (No Occupation) Day #7, 8, 9

    Day 7 - 9: Relaxation in this kind of world?


    Woke up early. The air was still, the world outside holding its breath. No rush today. No frantic scavenging, no desperate fights. Just a slow, careful day. A rest day, or as close as I could get to one in this new reality.


    Took a bath, letting the cold water wash away the filth and exhaustion clinging to me like a second skin. The water was sharp, a jolt to my system, but it made me feel human again. Ate a small meal, though hunger had long since become just another dull sensation to ignore. Flipped through the pages of a book, letting the words pull me into a place untouched by death. Watched Life and Living¡ªgrainy recordings of a world that had already moved on, the voices of people who no longer existed still playing on a timer, unaware that no one was left to listen.


    But rest didn¡¯t mean doing nothing. I still had work to do, just not the kind that would get me killed. I geared up, not for a fight, but for survival. Today was about fortifying, about making sure this place wouldn¡¯t crumble at the first sign of trouble. It was time to build. Time to carve out a space that felt less like a hiding spot and more like a home.


    Stepped outside, hatchet in hand. The air was sharp, crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant decay. Just behind the shop, a line of trees stood untouched, waiting like silent sentinels. I tightened my grip, took a steadying breath, then swung. The first crack of wood splitting shattered the stillness. Then another. The rhythm took over¡ªswing, crack, fall. Each strike sent a shock through my arms, my breath falling in sync with the motion. The world shrank down to the weight of the hatchet, the steady impact, the slow collapse of each tree. It was almost meditative, almost enough to forget the dead still wandered beyond the trees. Rest. Repeat.


    Hours passed like that. The world shrank down to just me, the trees, and the steady rhythm of work. The crack of my hatchet against wood echoed in the silence, each strike sending a tremor up my arms. Sweat dripped down my face, my muscles ached, but I kept going. Logs piled up beside me, a growing sign of progress. Hauled them back, sawed them into planks, the scent of fresh-cut wood mixing with the ever-present rot in the air. Gathered nails, a hammer, ripped cloth for reinforcement. Every action had a purpose, every movement a step toward safety.


    Began construction. Wall frames first, right outside the front door¡ªmy first real attempt at creating a barrier between me and the chaos outside. Every swing of the hammer echoed through the empty streets, a sound both satisfying and unnerving. Worked until my muscles burned, fingers stiff from gripping nails and wood, sweat dripping into my eyes. Took short breaks, just enough to eat, drink, and catch my breath before diving back in. The cycle of labor became my existence for the next three days, a relentless push to carve out a space that felt even a little safer in a world that refused to be tamed.


    By Day 9, I was close to finishing. The walls were finally standing, sturdy and real, making this place feel like more than just a temporary shelter. It was becoming a fortress, a space that could keep the horrors of the world outside. I should''ve felt relief, maybe even a small sense of accomplishment¡ªbut then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement near the road.


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    A zed. But not just any zed. A soldier.


    I froze, crouched behind my van, heart hammering in my chest. Eyes locked on its slow, aimless shuffle, every step dragging like it was resisting gravity itself. What the hell was a soldier doing here? No signs of a military camp nearby. No wrecked convoy. Just this lone, broken figure wandering in silence, like a ghost who had long since forgotten its purpose.


    Its uniform was barely holding together, the fabric torn, shredded, caked in dirt and dried blood. The insignia, whatever it once was, had faded into nothing. But what sent a shiver down my spine wasn¡¯t the uniform¡ªit was the absence of hands. Both severed. Jagged stumps where fingers should be. Torn off, or cut? Did someone do this to him? Or did he do it to himself before he turned?


    I crouched lower, watching, waiting. The soldier¡¯s head twitched slightly, as if sensing something, but it didn¡¯t turn toward me. It just kept shuffling, a slow, meaningless march to nowhere. For a second, I thought about letting it pass. Just another lost soul in a world of the dead.


    But I had to know.


    I waited, heart pounding, until it was close enough. Then I struck¡ªquick, clean, decisive. The soldier collapsed, lifeless. Just another body in a world full of them.


    I crouched, searching its remains. The uniform was ruined, the fabric barely holding together. Nothing useful¡ªexcept for a military poncho. Torn, reeking of sweat and rot, but still functional. I grabbed it, knowing it would keep the rain off my back when the weather turned. That was all that mattered.


    I lingered for a moment, staring at the body. The questions swirled¡ªwhere had he come from? Why was he alone? Who had taken his hands? The sight of his mutilated form sent a chill through me, but I swallowed it down. Questions wouldn¡¯t keep me alive. Answers wouldn¡¯t change what had already happened. The dead were just echoes of the past, empty shells with nothing left to say.


    I exhaled sharply and forced myself to move. Wasting time on this wouldn¡¯t help. The world wouldn¡¯t pause for my curiosity. I turned away and got back to work. No time to wonder. No time to waste. There was still too much to do.


    Shoved the questions out of my mind and got back to work. Finished the walls by sundown. Stood back, looking at what I had built. It wasn¡¯t much, but it was something. A step toward security. Toward control.


    Back inside, I let the relief settle in, though it didn¡¯t come easy. My body ached from days of relentless work, my muscles heavy, my hands sore from gripping tools and weapons alike. I forced myself to eat, though every bite tasted the same¡ªbland, just fuel to keep going. Flipped through the pages of a book, but the words blurred together, my mind too restless to focus. Took a shower, letting the water run cold over my skin, washing away sweat and grime, but not the unease settling in my bones.


    For the first time in days, I felt... stable. Maybe even comfortable.


    It was quiet. Too quiet.


    A part of me knew this was dangerous, this moment of peace. The world wasn¡¯t kind to those who got too comfortable. But right now, I let myself have it. Just for tonight.


    Tomorrow, I¡¯d be ready again.


    Plans for Tomorrow:


    <ul>


    <li>Plan a trip to scavenge for more supplies.</li>


    <li>Search for another fuel source.</li>


    <li>Restock on food and water.</li>


    </ul>


    End of Day 7-9

 Entry #1 - Johnn Sinner (No Occupation) Day #10.1

    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¡ªt 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¡ªeerily, 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¡ªseconds, maybe minutes¡ªbefore 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¡ªyet 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¡ªbut 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¡ªhollow, black pits¡ªlock 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¡ªlike 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¡ªbrittle bones wrapped in decayed flesh¡ªdigging, 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

 Entry #1 - Johnn Sinner (No Occupation) Day #10.2

    Day 10.2: End..and a beginning?


    The walls are down. They''re flooding in. A surge of rotting flesh, clawing hands, and unearthly wails drowns out my thoughts. My heartbeat pounds like a war drum, matching the frantic rhythm of my gasping breaths. The air is thick with the stench of decay, iron, and something worse¡ªsomething that makes my stomach twist. I gag, nearly choke, but I can¡¯t stop. I can¡¯t hesitate.


    The barricade splintered too fast¡ªfar too fast. One moment, I was shoving everything I could against it¡ªchairs, shattered furniture, even an old rusted tool wedged against the doorframe. The next, it all collapsed like a house of cards. A monstrous weight forced its way through, toppling everything, sending debris flying.


    The first one that staggered in¡­ its jaw was gone, just a blackened tongue swaying limply, dripping with foul ichor. Its hollow, pitless eyes locked onto me, an abyss of hunger and nothing else. That mindless, insatiable hunger. The kind that never fades, never stops, never thinks¡ªonly takes.


    Behind it, the others surged forward, clawing, grasping, their bodies pressing together in a grotesque wave of rot and desperation. The air was thick with the sound of gnashing teeth and rattling breath, an orchestra of the damned. My muscles tensed, the weight of inevitability pressing down on me. Seconds¡ªmaybe less. And then my body took over.


    I ran.


    I ran, but my body felt like lead, my limbs sluggish, heavy with exhaustion. My boots slipped on something wet¡ªblood, thick and dark, pooling across the floor. Mine? Theirs? It didn¡¯t matter. A clammy, decayed hand shot out, fingers scraping against my ankle. My heart seized. I kicked back hard, bone splintering beneath my heel with a sickening crunch. No time to look. No time to breathe. Keep moving.


    I vaulted over the counter, my hip smashing into the edge. Pain flared, sharp and immediate, but I barely felt it over the adrenaline coursing through me. An old register tumbled off the counter, slamming onto the ground with a crash. The noise felt deafening, like a gunshot in the suffocating dark. The moans rose in response, growing frantic. Closer. Too close.


    The van. It was still there. My way out. Just a dozen feet away¡ªbut it might as well have been a mile. I forced my legs forward, weaving between the bodies, dodging grasping hands, half-rotted faces snapping at empty air just inches from my skin. A screech tore through the night¡ªa howl of hunger, of desperation. It sent ice down my spine.


    I was almost there. Almost safe. But behind me, the swarm surged forward, relentless, unyielding, a tide of death that wouldn¡¯t stop until it swallowed me whole.


    A car door ahead¡ªalmost there. A shadow moved from the side¡ªa crawler, ribs exposed through torn flesh, reaching for me. I swung the bat mid-stride, the impact jolting through my arms. Bone cracked, and the thing crumpled, but more were closing in.


    I yanked the van door open and hurled myself inside, the scent of old leather and gasoline slamming into me. The second my back hit the seat, a hand slammed against the window, smearing grime and blood in desperate streaks. Another clawed at the doorframe, fingers curling over the edge. I wrenched the door shut with all my strength, feeling brittle fingers snap and crumble beneath the pressure.


    The van rocked violently as the swarm pressed against it, their moans a suffocating chorus of hunger. The metal shell was the only thing keeping me from being dragged back into that writhing nightmare. My fingers fumbled with the keys, slick with sweat. They nearly slipped from my grasp. One click. Two. The engine sputtered¡ªa heartbeat of silence¡ªthen roared to life. Relief crashed into me, but it didn¡¯t last.


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    I slammed my foot on the gas. The tires screamed against the pavement before catching, sending the van lurching forward like a beast breaking free from its chains. A sickening crunch beneath the wheels¡ªbone splintering, flesh bursting¡ªsent a tremor up my spine. The rear tires jolted as something larger was ground beneath them, the van shuddering under the weight of crushed bodies. But there was no stopping. No slowing down. Three down. A hundred more ahead.


    A seething mass of the dead stretched across the road, writhing, clawing, surging forward like a tide with no ebb. There was no way through, no way back. Just speed. Just survival.


    The van fishtailed as I swerved wildly, dodging wrecks, barely avoiding the half-eaten corpses strewn like discarded meat across the asphalt. The tires hit something wet¡ªtoo much blood, too many bodies. The van slid, and for a heartbeat, my grip tightened, breath held, the world tilting. Then¡ªcontact. A hard jolt. Regained control.


    Where the fuck am I going? My thoughts raced alongside the engine¡¯s roar. It didn¡¯t matter. Just away. Away from the nightmare clawing at my back, away from the town swallowed by death, away from whatever hell lay ahead. Because no matter what waited in the darkness, it had to be better than this.


    A weight slams into the side with a force that jars my teeth. My vision snaps to the window¡ªone of them is still hanging on, gnashing at the glass, its tongue lolling from a torn cheek. Filth and blood smear across the windshield as it thrashes, leaving a grotesque streak behind.


    I jerk the wheel hard¡ªa violent swerve. The thing flies off, tumbling, bones snapping on impact with the pavement. But the van isn¡¯t doing much better; the engine stutters, tires screech, the whole frame groans under the abuse.


    Headlights cut through the dark, but the road ahead is a black void, stretching into uncertainty. The outskirts of the city rise like jagged teeth, their shadows swallowing the dim glow of my headlights. I don¡¯t know what waits in that darkness¡ªbandits, more dead, or something worse. But there¡¯s no turning back. There never was.


    I have to keep going. I have to believe there¡¯s something beyond this horror¡ªsomewhere safe, though my gut tells me safety is just another ghost story now.


    My hands clench the wheel so tightly my knuckles ache, but I don¡¯t loosen my grip. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps, my lungs raw from fear and exhaustion. Every muscle in my body screams, but I can¡¯t stop. The van is my lifeline, a fragile shell keeping the nightmare at bay. It reeks of gasoline, sweat, and blood¡ªmetallic, thick, clinging to my skin like a second layer. Mine or someone else¡¯s, I don¡¯t know. I don¡¯t want to know.


    The radio crackles¡ªjagged, broken noise that sets my teeth on edge. Static hisses through the speakers, filling the van with a hollow, empty sound. I twist the knob harder, fingers trembling, as if sheer force might summon a voice, a sign, something¡ªanything. Just more static. A void. A cruel silence that whispers back, telling me I am alone.


    A green sign flashes by in the darkness, a blur swallowed by the night before my eyes can make sense of it. I reach into my memory, scrambling for the routes I studied back when maps still mattered¡ªbefore roads became graveyards, before every path led to another nightmare. South? West? Anywhere but here. But my mind is a fog of fear and exhaustion, and the only certainty is the desperate need to keep moving.


    The fuel gauge wavers near empty. Shit. My chest tightens, breath shallow as I scan the road ahead. The ruins of the old world stand like broken teeth¡ªan abandoned food market with shattered windows, a bar with its doors hanging open, frozen mid-scream. A convenience store, gutted and left to rot. Across the road, a junkyard sprawls under the moonlight, a graveyard of twisted metal and forgotten machines. Shadows stretch long and deep, hiding what I can¡¯t see. Could be supplies. Could be death. My throat is dry, my hands clamp the wheel. I swallow hard. No choice left.


    I slow the van near the bar, tires crunching over broken glass and gravel. The air is thick with silence, heavy and unnatural, like the world itself is waiting. I kill the engine. The night presses in, too still, too quiet. Like it''s holding its breath.


    I grip my crow bar, reinforced, dented, stained with things I don¡¯t want to think about. The van door creaks as I push it open, and the night air rushes in, cool against the sweat on my skin.


    One step at a time. Stay low. Stay quiet. I make my way toward the bar, hoping I¡¯m alone.


    But in this world, hope doesn¡¯t mean much.

 Entry #1 - Johnn Sinner (No Occupation) Day #10.3

    Day 10.3: Creak. Crack. Runn


    The bar reeked of stale beer, sweat, and something worse¡ªsomething rotting. The air hung thick, pressing in, heavy with the sickly-sweet stench of decay. It stuck to my skin, settled in my lungs. The silence wasn¡¯t just stillness; it was watching, waiting. My gut twisted. Something was wrong.


    I stepped inside, slow and deliberate. The floorboards groaned under me, a sharp, betraying creak that cut through the oppressive quiet. I froze mid-step, breath locked in my throat, muscles coiled. I listened. Nothing. But the silence wasn¡¯t empty¡ªit had weight, a presence. Like the whole damn place was holding its breath.


    A body slumped over the counter, skin stretched tight over sharp bones, gray like old ash. The eyes, hollow and empty, stared forward¡ªlike they had seen something terrible before the end. The mouth hung open, lips curled back, frozen mid-word. The shirt¡ªonce white¡ªwas stiff with blood, deep stains soaking through like wounds that never closed. A pool of dried blood spread beneath the stool, cracked and flaking like dead leaves. No fresh kill. No immediate danger. But something about it felt wrong, like it was still watching. Like something else was watching.


    I moved to the shelves¡ªempty. Someone had stripped the place bare long before I got here. The emptiness wasn¡¯t just absence; it was unsettling, like someone had erased every trace of life. Dust covered everything, except for a few footprints that didn¡¯t belong to me. Shards of broken glass littered the floor, crunching under my boot¡ªtoo loud in the dead quiet. Nothing left. Almost nothing.


    A single bottle of whiskey stood on the shelf, untouched. A survivor. The amber liquid inside sloshed gently as I picked it up. Maybe for drinking. Maybe for fire. Maybe for something worse. Either way, I wasn¡¯t leaving it behind.


    Then¡ª


    A sound. Outside. Small. Too real.


    I stopped breathing. Every muscle locked tight. My heart hammered, a deep, painful thud in my chest. Sweat dripped down my spine, my grip on the crowbar tightening until my knuckles ached.


    I crept toward the window, each step careful, slow. Four of them. Hunched near the van. Too close. Way too close. Their heads twitched, mouths slack, chests still. Not breathing. Just waiting. Listening. My stomach twisted. They weren¡¯t just wandering. They knew. They could feel it. Something was inside.


    The back door. It was my only chance.


    I turned, every movement slow, careful. The wood beneath me groaned, stretched, a tired old thing struggling to hold my weight. My pulse thudded in my ears, loud enough to give me away. One step. Then another. Slow. Steady. Like walking over ice, waiting for it to crack.


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    Then it did.


    CRACK.


    A sharp, sick sound, like a bone snapping in half. The silence shattered, replaced by something worse¡ªrealization. The groans outside changed, no longer dull and aimless but focused, hungry. A ripple of movement, a shift in posture. They knew.


    My breath hitched, my chest tightening like a fist closing around my ribs. The floor beneath me let out another deep, aching creak, a whisper of warning. If I moved wrong, it would go, and I¡¯d go with it.


    The front door rattled¡ªjust once, then again, harder. A testing weight, then more. The scrape of dead fingers against wood. Then¡ª


    THUMP.


    Something heavy. Something desperate. My pulse slammed against my skull, my fingers slick with sweat against the crowbar.


    I was out of time.


    Panic surged through me, cold and electric, crawling up my spine. My hands trembled as I lunged for the back door, gripping the handle with white-knuckled desperation. Locked. Of course it was.


    I twisted. Pushed. Nothing. My breath came fast and ragged. I yanked harder, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.


    THUMP.


    A deep, heavy impact rattled the front door, shaking the frame. My stomach clenched so hard it felt like it was folding in on itself. My pulse spiked, a sharp, painful rhythm in my ears.


    THUMP. THUMP.


    More bodies. More weight. The wood groaned, the hinges creaking under the strain. Dust trickled from the doorframe. The lock wouldn¡¯t hold. I had seconds. Maybe less.


    The air thickened, charged with the presence of something unseen but inevitable. The dead weren¡¯t just knocking¡ªthey were pushing, forcing their way in, eager, desperate.


    Then¡ª


    BANG.


    A crash outside, metal against metal. A dumpster? A car? Something big, loud¡ªclose. The sound tore through the night like a gunshot, bouncing off brick and asphalt. A distraction? Or something worse?


    Didn¡¯t matter. I had to move.


    I threw my weight into the back door.


    CRACK.


    The lock snapped, and the door burst open with a splintered shriek. I stumbled into the alley, lungs sucking in the sharp, cold air. My sweat turned to ice against my skin, my pulse hammering so hard I could feel it in my skull. My hands shook, breath coming in short, panicked gasps. For a second¡ªa single, fragile second¡ªI was free.


    Then reality crashed down.


    Freedom didn¡¯t mean safety.


    The alley stretched ahead, a narrow corridor of dumpsters and broken glass, the walls pressing in tight. The streetlights flickered, casting jagged shadows that twisted and stretched like grasping fingers. The air stank of garbage, piss, and something older¡ªsomething dead. But none of that was the real threat.


    The real threat was behind me.


    The bar door rattled in its frame. The sound of bodies slamming against wood, nails scraping, throats growling low and eager. The door wouldn¡¯t hold. They¡¯d come through any second, spilling into the alley like a flood. And they¡¯d see me. Hear me. Chase me.


    My pulse pounded in my ears, loud enough to drown out the city¡¯s distant silence. The van was too far. They¡¯d be on me before I could reach it. Running for it would be suicide.


    I scanned my options, forcing my mind to focus through the panic. The convenience store loomed ahead, its shattered windows yawning like broken teeth. Dark shelves inside. Could be supplies. Could be more of them. A risk. A gamble.


    The junkyard sat further down, rusted fences and stacks of dead cars leaning against each other like corpses in a mass grave. Fuel. Cover. Or a deathtrap. No way to know until I was inside.


    The pounding at the bar¡¯s door grew frantic. Wood cracked, splintered.


    No time left.


    I clenched my jaw, steadied my grip on the crowbar, and ran.

 Entry #1 - Johnn Sinner (No Occupation) Day #10.4

    Day 10.4: The wrong kind of alive


    I ran.


    Didn¡¯t think. Didn¡¯t plan. Just ran.


    The alley stretched ahead, dark and endless, a jagged tunnel of brick and shadow swallowing the faint moonlight. My boots hammered against the pavement, the sharp slaps echoing off the walls like a war drum pounding my escape. My lungs burned, every breath a knife dragged across my ribs, but stopping wasn¡¯t an option. Stopping meant teeth in my throat. Stopping meant dying.


    Behind me, the sound of splintering wood ripped through the night. A sickening crunch of bodies forcing their way through, the groans rising into a chorus of hunger, desperation. The noise echoed, bouncing between the walls, twisting, warping¡ªI couldn¡¯t tell how close they were, but they were close enough. My chest heaved, my mind screamed, but my legs felt like dead weight. Sluggish. Slow. Every step felt like I was running through thick mud, like the whole city had turned against me, dragging me back toward the things chasing me.


    I pushed harder. Willed my body to move. I wasn¡¯t going to die here.


    Up ahead, the store loomed¡ªa shattered window yawning open like a mouth waiting to swallow me whole. My legs screamed in protest, rubbery and weak, but I pushed forward, dragging speed from empty reserves. The night air clawed at my skin, biting, but I barely felt it. All I felt was the fear, the instinct, the drive to survive.


    I didn¡¯t stop. Didn¡¯t think. Just moved. My body was on autopilot, muscles working past exhaustion, past pain. I dove through the jagged opening, glass shattering beneath me as I hit the tile floor. Pain jolted through my arm, sharp and immediate. A sting burned across my palm¡ªcut, maybe deep, maybe not. I couldn¡¯t check. I couldn¡¯t stop.


    I stayed still, pressing my body against the cold floor, lungs straining to quiet my breath. Outside, the world was breaking apart. Groans swelled. Heavy footsteps trampled pavement. The sound of bodies pushing, pressing, searching. But in here? Silence. Heavy, unnatural silence. The kind that carried weight. The kind that meant something was here. Watching. Waiting.


    I forced myself up, slow and careful, every muscle screaming. My fingers found the crowbar, gripping so tight my knuckles ached. The store was a ruin¡ªshelves knocked over, trash blanketing the floor, thick layers of dust coating everything. The air was heavy with mildew, old blood, rot. The scent curled in my nose, thick and wrong, a promise of something bad. My throat tightened, my stomach twisting, but I swallowed it down and moved, boots scraping softly across the filth-covered tiles.


    Then¡ª


    A sound.


    Soft. Just a whisper of movement, barely there.


    I froze. Heart pounding in my throat.


    I wasn¡¯t alone.


    A sound. Small, almost nothing. A whisper of movement in the dark.


    I froze. My breath caught in my throat, my chest barely rising. Every inch of me locked up, waiting, listening. My pulse pounded so loud it filled my skull, drowning out the silence.


    "I know you¡¯re there."


    The words came out before I could stop them, rough and dry, scraping against my throat. My own voice startled me¡ªit had been days since I last spoke. Maybe longer. It sounded foreign, like it wasn¡¯t mine anymore, like something had stolen it and left behind this raw, hollow thing.


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    Silence.


    Then¡ªa footstep. Soft. Careful. Too careful.


    "I don¡¯t want trouble." My voice was steady, but my grip on the crowbar was tight enough to make my knuckles ache. My heart hammered in my chest, every beat a warning, every second stretching too long. "Just passing through." The words felt thin, fragile against the thick, pressing silence. My breath came too fast, too shallow, and my skin prickled with the feeling of unseen eyes in the dark. The air was heavy, thick with dust and something rotten. The store felt alive¡ªnot in the way a safe place should, but in the way a trap waits to be sprung. My fingers twitched on the handle of the crowbar, every muscle tense, waiting, bracing. But nothing answered. Just the silence, stretching and watching.


    Silence.


    "You alone?" I forced the words out, my throat dry, the sound of my own voice unsettling in the thick silence.


    Nothing.


    Then¡ª


    A breath.


    Close.


    Too close.


    It wasn¡¯t just the sound of air moving, it was the feeling of it. A whisper of warmth against the back of my neck, barely there but undeniable. My body went rigid, every hair on my arms standing on end. My fingers clenched tighter around the crowbar, my breath catching in my throat, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to break free.


    I turned¡ªfast, too fast¡ªmy feet slipping slightly on the grimy tile. My arm swung up, the crowbar raised high, ready to strike, ready to fight, ready for whatever was behind me.


    I saw him."


    A man stood there, gaunt and hollow-eyed, his gaze digging into me like he could see straight through my skin. His clothes hung off him in tattered strips, his face was drawn and sunken, bones pressing sharp against thin, pale flesh. But he was breathing. Slow. Steady. Not like the others. Not the deep, wet rattling of something that had stopped being human a long time ago. He wasn¡¯t dead.


    But he wasn¡¯t right either.


    My throat was tight, the words barely making it out. "Who are you?"


    He didn¡¯t answer. He just stared. Those empty eyes locked onto me, unmoving, unblinking. Too still. Too unnatural.


    "You hear me?" My voice came rough, a little louder this time. I stepped back, every muscle coiled, ready to run, ready to fight. "I don¡¯t want to¡ª"


    His lips moved.


    No sound. Just the shape of words, formed but unspoken. Like he was trying. Like he couldn¡¯t. Or wouldn¡¯t.


    Something was wrong. The way he stood. The tilt of his head. Too slow, too deliberate. A puppet with strings just out of sight.


    "Say something." My voice cracked. My fingers ached from how hard I gripped the crowbar. "Say¡ª"


    He moved.


    Fast. A blur of motion, no hesitation, no warning. My body reacted before my mind could catch up.


    I swung.


    The crowbar connected with his skull, the impact jarring through my arms, a sickening crunch splitting the silence. He crumpled instantly, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut. The weight of him hit the broken shelves, sending debris scattering across the floor. His head lolled, eyes wide, vacant¡ªstaring past me, through me, as if I had never been there at all.


    My breath came in short, ragged gasps, my chest rising and falling in frantic bursts. My hands trembled, my fingers locked around the crowbar like it was the only thing anchoring me to reality. A cold sweat prickled at my skin, the air thick with dust and the coppery tang of old blood.


    I swallowed hard, forcing my gaze downward, forcing myself to look.


    Gray skin. Hollowed cheeks stretched too tight over bone. Lips curled back over blackened gums. Eyes empty, lifeless, dead.


    Not a man.


    A corpse.


    A zed.


    My stomach twisted, the weight of exhaustion pressing deep into my bones, making my limbs heavy, sluggish. The store felt smaller now, the shadows stretching, closing in, swallowing the weak glow of moonlight filtering through the broken glass. My breath came in short gasps, sharp and uneven, my fingers aching from how tightly I gripped the crowbar. My thoughts unraveled, slipping between the cracks of reason, twisting into something dark, something I didn¡¯t want to name.


    No one spoke. No one ever spoke.


    But I had heard him. I had seen his lips move, had felt the whisper of breath against my skin, had locked eyes with something¡ªsomeone¡ªbefore they went empty. Before they became nothing.


    Or had I?


    My body trembled, cold settling into my spine, a different kind of chill than the night air creeping through the shattered windows. The exhaustion. The hunger. The fear. They were eating away at me, gnawing at the edges of my sanity, twisting what was real and what wasn¡¯t. I squeezed my eyes shut, tried to steady my breath, tried to shake the feeling that I wasn¡¯t alone.


    But the silence felt heavier than before. More solid. Like it had weight. Like it was watching me.


    I wasn¡¯t alone.


    Or maybe¡­ I was.


    I don¡¯t even know what was worse.

 Entry #1 - Johnn Sinner (No Occupation) Day #10.5

    Day 10.5: Gnawing emptiness


    The hunger is worse now.


    It¡¯s not just an ache anymore. It¡¯s a deep, twisting pain, pulling at my insides like something alive, gnawing and hollowing me out. My stomach clenches, a sharp stab with every movement. My hands feel empty, weightless, like they might forget how to hold the crowbar. My legs feel slow, like I¡¯m dragging myself through deep water. Every step is heavier than the last, and if I stop¡ªif I let it dig too deep into my bones¡ªI might not get up again.


    I can barely see the van near the bar through the store¡¯s shattered window. The street outside is still. Too still. The kind of stillness that presses against your skin, that makes the air feel heavier, thicker. It¡¯s the quiet before something happens. My mind drifts back¡ªback to that thing I saw. The one I thought was human. The one that wasn¡¯t. The memory clings like a cold hand on my spine, whispering doubts, making me question what¡¯s real and what¡¯s just fear twisting in my head.


    It felt real. I heard it. I saw it. I felt its breath against my skin, warm and too close. But it was a lie¡ªjust my mind breaking under the weight of exhaustion, hunger, fear. A trick, a cruel whisper of something that was never there. My head throbs, my vision swims for a second, but I shake it off. I can''t afford to lose focus. Not now. Not when every second counts. I need to move. I need to survive.


    The van won¡¯t make it far. I knew it the second I pulled in, the way it barely rolled to a stop before the engine let out that awful, rattling wheeze, like an animal taking its last breath. But now that truth sits heavier, pressing down like a weight on my chest. If I don¡¯t find gas, if I don¡¯t get out of here, I¡¯m done. No food, no strength, no way to fight back. Just a slow, painful fade into nothing. I can feel that future clawing at the edges of my mind, whispering that it would be easier to just stop now, to just let go. But I can¡¯t. Not yet.


    The junkyard is my only chance. A last, desperate gamble. A place where forgotten things rot away, where rust eats through metal and time swallows everything whole. It could have what I need. It could also be the place I die.


    I don¡¯t like it. I don¡¯t trust it. It¡¯s the kind of place where things are left to rot, where the world turns its back and lets time swallow everything whole. Rusted-out husks piled high, jagged metal lurking in the shadows, waiting to slice, to trap, to punish. The air feels thick, stale, like it''s been holding its breath for years. Too many hiding spots, too many corners where something could be crouched in the dark, waiting. The kind of place where if you scream, the sound just dies, swallowed by the emptiness. I can feel it in my bones¡ªthis place wasn¡¯t made for the living. But I don¡¯t have a choice.


    I tighten my grip on the crowbar, but my fingers feel stiff, like they don¡¯t belong to me. The hunger makes my hands shake, my grip weak. I press forward, careful, slow, every step placed with purpose. The last time I moved too fast, my mind twisted the shadows into ghosts. I can¡¯t let that happen again. I pass the body on the floor¡ªthe thing I killed. The thing that looked human. The thing that wasn¡¯t. I don¡¯t look at its face. If I do, I might see something familiar, something I don¡¯t want to recognize. My throat is dry, but I swallow hard and step over it, forcing my legs to keep moving. The past doesn¡¯t matter. Only what¡¯s ahead.


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    Outside, the air is thick, sour with the stink of rot. It clings to everything, heavy and suffocating. I breathe through my mouth, but it doesn¡¯t help. The taste seeps in, bitter and foul, coating my throat like a film I can''t swallow away. The air itself feels wrong, stale and unmoving, like this place has been left to die along with everything in it.


    I keep low, moving through the shadows, each step slow, careful. The world feels too still, like it''s holding its breath. My muscles are tense, wound tight like a spring ready to snap. My eyes dart between every doorway, every alley, every car that sits abandoned, silent. The kind of silence that makes your skin crawl, the kind that whispers that something is watching, waiting.


    Empty.


    That doesn¡¯t mean safe.


    I move slow, keeping low, every muscle tense. The broken signs sway, their rusted chains creaking, and empty bottles clink together in the gutter like bones shifting in the dark. Every sound is sharp, cutting through the silence like a warning. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, steady but too fast, like a drum calling something closer. I force myself to breathe slow, to move even slower. One wrong step, one mistake, and I might not have the strength to run.


    I don¡¯t run. Running means noise. Running means mistakes. So I move step by step, creeping forward, forcing myself to stay patient. The junkyard is ahead, a mess of rust and decay, its fences sagging under years of neglect. Old tarps flap weakly in the breeze, torn and stained, barely clinging to the broken chain-link. Stacks of dead cars lean against each other, their shattered windows like hollow eyes staring into nothing. It looks like a graveyard, forgotten and left to rot. The air is thick with the stench of oil, rust, and something else¡ªsomething sour, something dead. My grip tightens around the crowbar as I step closer, my stomach twisting. The gate hangs open, bent at an odd angle. Something forced its way through. Or something never left.


    I grip the crowbar tighter, my knuckles aching from how hard I¡¯m holding it. The metal feels heavier now, like the weight of the last few days has sunk into it, pressing down on me, making my arms weak. My breath is slow, steady, even though my chest feels tight. I tell myself it¡¯s just the hunger, just the fear, but deep down, I know it¡¯s something else too. The junkyard looms ahead, its gate hanging open, bent like something forced its way in. Or maybe something tried to force its way out. The chain that once kept it shut is snapped, the links twisted like broken fingers. My stomach clenches. The air stinks of old oil, damp dirt, and something worse¡ªsomething sickly sweet, something that clings to the back of my throat and makes me want to gag.


    I scan the space between the rusting, broken-down cars. They lean against each other like corpses piled up after a battle, their shattered windows dark and empty like dead eyes. Some still have scraps of paint, names of old businesses, half-torn stickers from a world that doesn¡¯t exist anymore. Everything is covered in grime, streaked with rust. It¡¯s a maze of decay, a place where things are left to rot and be forgotten. My gut tightens. I don¡¯t know if there¡¯s gas in there. I don¡¯t know if there¡¯s anything useful at all. I don¡¯t even know if I¡¯ll make it out. But I know one thing.


    I can¡¯t stay here. If I stop now, if I let the hunger, the exhaustion, or the fear win, then it¡¯s over. There¡¯s no waiting for a better time. There¡¯s no one coming to help. There¡¯s only forward.

 Entry #1 - Johnn Sinner (No Occupation) Day #10.6

    Day 10.6: Rot and Ruin


    The junkyard is up close.


    Everything here is dead¡ªrotting cars, rusted fences, the air itself. The silence isn¡¯t real. It¡¯s thick, clinging to me like damp cloth, stretching too far, too thin, like something unseen is holding its breath. It feels wrong, like the whole place is waiting, watching, daring me to step just a little too far inside.


    I tighten my grip on the crowbar and step forward, slow and steady. The air is thick, heavy with rust and old oil. The smell of rot lingers, clinging to the back of my throat. The cars are piled high, leaning against each other like bodies left to decay. The metal shifts and groans as the wind pushes through the wreckage, making everything feel alive in the worst way.


    Some of the cars are stripped bare, just hollow shells of what they used to be. Others still have doors, closed tight, dark windows hiding whatever might be inside. My stomach twists at the thought of what could be watching me from behind the glass. I swallow hard, forcing myself to move. I need gas. That¡¯s all. Just gas. But this place¡ªit feels like a graveyard, and I don¡¯t know if I¡¯m the only one walking through it.


    I need gas. That¡¯s all. Just gas.


    I step between wrecked cars, moving slow. Careful. The ground is littered with broken glass, gravel, and things I don¡¯t want to think about. Each step makes a sound too loud in the dead air. My breath is tight in my chest. I keep my grip firm on the crowbar, my knuckles stiff and white.


    I stop at a car with its hood up. The engine is gutted, wires hanging out like cut veins. I run my fingers over the metal, feeling the cold, the rust. No keys. No fuel cap. It¡¯s dead. Just another husk.


    I move on. Another car. The door hangs open, swaying slightly in the wind. The inside is stripped bare. Nothing useful. I check another. And another. The same. Empty. Hollow. It¡¯s like someone came before me, took everything, and left the bones behind.


    My hands shake. My stomach twists in pain, an ache that has settled deep inside me. Hunger makes my arms feel weak, my legs slow. I swallow hard, forcing myself to push forward. I can¡¯t stop. Not now. Not here.


    Then¡ª


    A noise. Soft. Too soft. Like something shifting just out of sight.


    I freeze. My breath locks in my chest, caught halfway to my lungs. I wait. Listen.


    Nothing.


    No, not nothing. Something. The kind of quiet that isn¡¯t empty but full. The kind that presses against my skin, wraps around me like unseen hands. The kind that tells me I¡¯m not alone.


    I move slower now, careful, each step measured. My pulse pounds in my skull, loud, too loud, hammering in my ears. The weight of the crowbar in my hands feels smaller now, like it might not be enough.


    I reach another car. This one still intact. Whole. Untouched. Its windows are thick with grime, streaked with dried rain and dust, a dull gray film that hides whatever is inside. I lift a shaky hand, wipe at the glass with my sleeve. The dirt smears, making the inside even harder to see.


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    Inside¡ª


    Keys. Sitting in the ignition. Like someone left in a hurry and never came back.


    I twist the handle. Locked.


    I exhale, shaking. It¡¯s fine. It¡¯s fine. I can break the window. I can¡ª


    A shadow moves.


    Not just a flicker. Not my mind playing tricks again. Something real.


    I snap my head toward it, every muscle seizing up, breath caught halfway in my throat.


    A car door, slightly ajar, shifts. It sways, creaking, slow and steady, like something nudged it just enough to break the silence.


    I don¡¯t move. My grip on the crowbar tightens until my fingers ache. My legs are locked, trembling.


    The air is heavy, waiting.


    Then I see it.


    One of them. Crawling. Not walking, not stumbling¡ªcrawling. Its fingers scrape against the rough ground, nails broken, skin torn. Its arms pull, slow but steady, dragging the rest of its ruined body behind. One leg is twisted the wrong way, useless. Its ribs poke against thin, rotten flesh, each movement making it look more like a corpse being dragged than a thing still moving on its own. But it is moving. Clawing closer. Its jaw hangs slack, a low, wet moan slipping from its lips, thick with hunger. The sound makes my stomach clench. My breath catches. It shouldn''t be alive. But it is.


    It doesn¡¯t see me. Not yet.


    I step back, slow. Careful.


    My heel knocks a piece of scrap metal.


    CLANK.


    The sound cuts through the stillness like a knife. Too loud. Too sharp. The air around me shifts, like the whole junkyard just took notice.


    The thing¡¯s head jerks toward me. Its eyes¡ªmilky, sunken¡ªlock onto mine. Its mouth twitches, lips peeling back over jagged teeth. A wet, rattling breath slips out, thick and hungry.


    Then it moves.


    Faster than it should. Too fast for something so broken. Its arms yank at the ground, pulling its ruined body forward with awful strength. Its nails scrape against the pavement, its breath wheezing.


    I barely get the crowbar up in time.


    It crashes into me, a dead weight of rotting flesh and snapping jaws. The force slams me backward into a car, my shoulder screaming in pain as metal digs into my back.


    Its fingers claw at me, nails hooking, pulling, tearing. Its breath is hot and foul, thick with the stench of rot, of death long past. My stomach clenches, bile burning my throat.


    I swing.


    and swing.


    The crowbar connects with its skull, a wet crunch. But it doesn¡¯t stop. Its fingers scrape against my arm, dragging down, pulling at my skin. I swing again. Harder. The sickening crack makes my stomach turn. Its body twitches, then slumps.


    I shove it off, gasping, my chest heaving. My hands are wet with sweat, my fingers shaking. My legs feel weak, like they might give out any second.


    I look down at the thing. The way it moved. The way it came for me, crawling, dragging itself, like it knew exactly where I was. My stomach twists. My head spins. My vision goes blurry at the edges. My ears are ringing, too loud, too sharp. The smell of it still clings to the air, thick and sickly sweet.


    I need to move. I need to get inside that car.


    I lift the crowbar with trembling hands. I barely feel the weight of it anymore. I swing. The glass shatters on impact, falling in sharp, glittering shards across the seat.


    My breathing is rough, uneven. I reach in, careful to avoid the broken edges, and unlock the door. My fingers fumble as I yank it open and slide into the driver¡¯s seat. The leather is cold. Feels stiff under my back. Feels real. I grip the keys, twisting them hard. The engine stutters. Chokes. I whisper a curse under my breath, try again.


    A weak, dying rumble.


    The fuel gauge barely moves. Just a sliver of gas. Almost nothing.


    I turn the key again. The engine sputters, coughing, struggling¡ªbut it doesn¡¯t catch. My heart slams against my ribs. I twist the key harder, my breath sharp, my fingers slick with sweat.


    Nothing.


    I try again. The starter clicks, wheezes, lets out a sick, dying whimper.


    No gas.


    No escape.


    The silence rushes back in, thick and suffocating. My hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles white. Outside, the junkyard feels heavier, like it¡¯s closing in, like it knows I¡¯m trapped. My stomach turns. My pulse pounds in my skull.


    My hands grip the wheel, my breath coming in fast, sharp bursts. The junkyard looms around me, heavy and silent. The crawling thing stays where I left it, its body twisted, unmoving.


    But I don¡¯t look away. Not yet.


    Because for a moment¡ªjust a moment¡ªI swear I saw it twitch.

 Entry #1 - Johnn Sinner (No Occupation) Day #10.7

    Day 10.7: Shit. Shit. Shit


    I don¡¯t move.


    The world around me doesn¡¯t move either.


    The junkyard sits in heavy silence, the rusted cars pressing in like watchers in the dark. The air is thick, unmoving, pressing against my skin like something alive. The wind sighs through the wreckage, but even that feels wrong, like a whisper meant to cover up something else. Something waiting.


    Bits of trash skitter across the gravel, catching on jagged metal, but nothing else stirs. No footsteps. No breath but my own. No movement.


    But I know what I saw.


    The dead thing in the dirt¡ªit twitched.


    I freeze. Every muscle in my body goes tight, like if I move, even an inch, it¡¯ll see me. My lungs burn as I hold my breath, waiting, listening. The junkyard is too quiet, the air too thick. My skin prickles, my stomach twists.


    I keep my eyes locked on it. My grip on the crowbar tightens until my fingers ache. My heart slams against my ribs, wild and uneven. I don¡¯t blink. I don¡¯t dare.


    I wait. My ears strain for any sound, any shift, any scrape of movement.


    The body stays still.


    The skin is gray, stretched tight over sharp bones, lips curled back in a frozen snarl. Its limbs are twisted, one arm bent wrong where I crushed it, where I made sure it wouldn¡¯t move again. The wound on its head is dark, split open, caked with dried blood. A jagged piece of metal juts from its side, half-buried in the dirt like a marker for the dead.


    But I saw it. I know I did. A twitch, a flicker, something just barely there. Or maybe it was everything else¡ªthe way the air felt heavy, the way my own heartbeat seemed too loud, the way my skin crawled with the certainty of being watched.


    I swallow hard, my throat dry, my breath sharp in my ears. My mind races. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe my brain is still playing tricks on me, refusing to accept the quiet. Maybe I¡¯m so used to running, to fighting, that I can¡¯t understand stillness anymore.


    I force myself to take a step back. The gravel shifts under my boot, too loud in the dead air. The sound makes my stomach twist. I keep my eyes locked on the body, waiting for the slightest movement, a sign that I need to run.


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    Nothing.


    I take another step. My breath shudders out, uneven, cold. My muscles scream at me to move faster, to stop wasting time. Every second stretches too long, the air pressing in heavier, thicker. My pulse thumps in my ears, too loud, like it''s trying to warn me of something I can''t see.


    Still nothing.


    I take another step. My foot scuffs against gravel, the sound like a gunshot in the silence. My stomach clenches. I wait for something to shift, something to move, something to lunge from the shadows.


    Still nothing.


    The stillness is worse. It feels wrong, unnatural, like the world is holding its breath alongside me. Like something is waiting, just out of sight, just beyond what I can hear or feel or understand.


    I exhale, slow and careful, forcing my breath steady even as my limbs tremble. I can¡¯t waste more time. I need to move. I need to find gas. I need to focus.


    But as I turn, I feel it again.


    A shift in the air. Like a door opening in a house you thought was empty. A weight behind me, pressing, creeping, slithering up my spine like cold fingers trailing over skin. My heartbeat stutters, my breath catches, my limbs lock.


    Not sound, not sight¡ªjust something there. Something close. Watching.


    I want to turn fast, to swing, to make sure nothing is behind me. But fast is loud. Fast is stupid. Instead, I grip the crowbar tighter, my palms slick, my knuckles aching from the force. I take one step. Slow. Then another.


    The feeling doesn¡¯t fade. It stays, heavy, suffocating, waiting.


    It¡¯s just my mind.


    It has to be.


    I twist my grip on the crowbar, forcing myself to keep moving. One step. Then another. I don¡¯t look back. I won¡¯t.


    But I hear something.


    A breath.


    Not mine.


    A faint, rattling inhale, wet and shallow, like air struggling through ruined lungs. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, my skin prickling with a deep, primal terror. My grip tightens, my palms slick with sweat.


    I spin¡ªcrowbar raised, ready to swing¡ª


    Nothing.


    Just the same wrecked cars. The same empty dirt. The same body, still twisted and unmoving. The wind kicks up dust, swirling it around my feet, but nothing else stirs.


    My breath is too loud. My pulse too fast. The silence stretches, thick and unnatural.


    But I swear¡ªI heard it.


    Just the same wrecked cars. The same empty dirt. The same body, still twisted and unmoving. The same dead world pressing in around me.


    But the feeling still remains, cold and sharp, sinking into my skin, coiling in my gut like a sickness I can¡¯t shake.


    Something is wrong here.


    I grip the crowbar tighter, jaw clenched. My eyes dart across the junkyard, searching for movement, waiting for something¡ªanything¡ªto prove I¡¯m not losing my mind. Every shadow feels deeper. Every space between cars seems darker. The silence isn¡¯t empty anymore; it¡¯s full of waiting, stretching, pulling, like the world itself is holding its breath with me.


    I swallow hard, throat dry. I don¡¯t move. I don¡¯t blink. My skin prickles with something crawling, unseen, something that doesn¡¯t touch me but somehow feels too close.


    Nothing.


    Just silence.


    Just stillness. But not dead. Not empty.


    Just me.


    ¡­Right??

 Entry #1 - Johnn Sinner (No Occupation) Day #10.8

    Day 10.8: Stillness


    I don¡¯t remember sleeping.


    I must have, though. At some point. I don¡¯t know how long. Maybe minutes, maybe hours. But when I open my eyes, my neck aches from where I was slumped against the van¡¯s steering wheel. My mouth is dry, my tongue thick, like I swallowed dust and let it settle there overnight. My limbs feel weighted, sluggish, like my body doesn¡¯t want to wake up yet. A deep, aching stiffness sits in my bones, in my spine, in my skull. My head throbs, slow and dull, the kind of headache that comes from exhaustion and not enough food.


    I shift slightly in the seat, and something feels¡­ off. A prickle of unease runs down my spine. I frown, my fingers tightening on the steering wheel. I know I stepped outside this car. Did I? I don¡¯t know anymore. My memories feel blurred at the edges, smeared together like wet paint. The junkyard outside looks the same, but something inside me whispers that it isn¡¯t.


    So quiet. Pressing in on me.


    Nothing moves. The stacked cars loom around me, frozen in time, their rusted edges sharp against the dull morning light. The air is thick, damp, clinging to my skin. It smells like metal, like old oil, like something long dead. It feels like the world itself is waiting¡ªwaiting for me to move, waiting for something to break the silence.


    I blink hard, shaking the stiffness from my hands. My body feels slow, heavy, like I¡¯ve been sinking into the seat for too long, like I¡¯ve melted into the van and left half of myself behind in sleep. My head pounds, slow and dull, sending a throb through my skull with every beat of my heart. My stomach twists, empty and angry, but I shove the feeling down. Hunger is just another problem I can¡¯t deal with right now.


    The car is useless without fuel. I need to find some. If there¡¯s anything left to find. If I can even make it that far. My legs feel unsteady as I shift in my seat, the ache in my bones making me hesitate. But I have no choice. Sitting here won¡¯t fix anything. Sitting here is just waiting to die.


    I push the door open and step onto the gravel. The sound is too loud in the silence, and I wince. My fingers flex around the crowbar, ready. I scan the wreckage again¡ªrows of rusted cars stacked like corpses, metal husks stripped down to their bones. The air smells like old oil, rust, and something else. Something bitter. Like mold, like rot.


    My eyes drift back to the body.


    Still in the same place. Still twisted, still unmoving.


    I tell myself I won¡¯t check again. I tell myself it¡¯s over.


    I don¡¯t believe it.


    My feet hesitate, just for a second, like they don¡¯t trust me either. Like some deep, buried instinct is screaming at me to look again, to be sure. But I don¡¯t. I force myself to turn away.


    I step forward, and it feels like stepping into something thick, something unseen pressing against me, making it harder to move, harder to breathe. The junkyard seems darker here, the spaces between the wrecks narrower, like they¡¯ve shifted closer when I wasn¡¯t looking. My pulse is a steady drum in my ears. The silence feels different now. Not empty. Not waiting.


    Watching.


    The deeper I go, the worse it feels.


    The wreckage towers higher here, cars stacked three, sometimes four high, their glass shattered, doors wrenched open like broken ribs. The metal is rusted through in places, eaten away by time and weather, leaving jagged edges that look like teeth. The wind barely reaches this far in, leaving everything stale, untouched, the air thick and still, like it¡¯s been trapped in this graveyard of steel for years. Every step I take crunches on broken glass and debris, the sound too sharp, too loud.


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    There¡¯s a building ahead.


    Small. Boxy. Crouched between the wrecks like it¡¯s hiding, forgotten. A single window smeared with grime, the glass warped and clouded, blocking out the light. A metal door hangs half-open, its edges rusted, the bottom scraping the ground like it¡¯s been opened and closed too many times. Some kind of office. The place where someone used to sit and handle paperwork before the world ended. Before the dead walked. Before all of this. Before people stopped worrying about paperwork.


    I hesitate at the entrance. The door sways slightly, creaking on rusted hinges, moving with a breeze I can¡¯t feel. The sound crawls down my spine, sets my teeth on edge. My stomach tightens, a knot of warning twisting deep inside me.


    I don¡¯t want to go inside.


    But I have to.


    I press my back against the doorframe and listen. Nothing. No shifting, no breathing. No wet sounds of something waiting to tear into me. Just silence.


    But the silence feels wrong.


    Like something is holding its breath.


    I step in.


    The office is a mess.


    Old papers, yellowed and curling at the edges, are scattered across the floor, some torn, others damp like they¡¯ve been sitting in a puddle that dried long ago. A rusted filing cabinet stands in the corner, its drawers half-open, empty, gaping like broken mouths. A desk sits near the window, covered in dust and something darker¡ªold stains, dried into the wood, seeping into the cracks. A chair is tipped over beside it, the fabric torn, stuffing spilling out like exposed guts. It smells like mildew, like age, like time stopped here long ago and rotted in place.


    But there¡¯s something else. Something off.


    The air is thick, heavy, pressing down on my shoulders like a weight. My skin prickles, that deep-rooted instinct gnawing at me again, the one that says: Get out. Don¡¯t be here. Don¡¯t turn your back.


    It takes me a second to realize what¡¯s wrong.


    There¡¯s no dust on the desk itself. Just around it. The papers are scattered, but not settled. The stains look fresh¡ªnot wet, but not as old as they should be. A chair that should be coated in grime is clean¡ªtoo clean. The edges of the papers look like they¡¯ve been rifled through. The floor has faint scuff marks, like someone stood here. Paced. Moved.


    Someone¡¯s been here.


    Recently.


    And they might come back.


    My breath slows, my muscles tense. My grip on the crowbar tightens, my knuckles aching. I scan the room again, every shadow, every corner.


    I¡¯m alone.


    But I don¡¯t feel alone.


    The air has weight now, thick and pressing, like something unseen is curled around me, squeezing, waiting. My skin prickles, every nerve screaming that I¡¯m being watched, that there are eyes on me from somewhere in the dim corners of this rotting place. My breath slows, my fingers tightening around the crowbar until they ache.


    The window glares back at me, warped and cracked, but I can¡¯t see through the grime. I don¡¯t want to. The glass is too murky, the shapes outside too twisted, like something is just beyond it, blurred, moving. Or maybe it¡¯s just my reflection, stretched and wrong.


    I kneel and open a drawer in the desk. Empty. Another one. Empty. My pulse quickens. There has to be something¡ªanything¡ª


    Third drawer. Locked.


    My hands tremble as I grip the handle, as I yank, as I wedge the crowbar into the gap and push until the wood splinters and the lock snaps. The sound is sharp, a sudden crack that makes my pulse jolt.


    Inside¡ª


    A key. Rusted, small. Sitting alone in the dust like it was waiting for me.


    I pick it up, turning it between my fingers. The metal is cold, rough with corrosion, leaving a faint, dirty stain on my skin. My throat is dry. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, a steady, growing rhythm that won¡¯t slow down.


    What does it open?


    I swallow hard, glancing around the dim room, my breath shallow. I don¡¯t like this. I don¡¯t like the weight of the key in my hand. It feels wrong. Like it belongs to something I don¡¯t want to find.


    And more importantly¡­


    Who locked it?


    And are they still here? Watching? Waiting?


    I tighten my grip on the key, my palm sweaty around the rusted metal. The air feels even heavier now, pressing against me, closing in. My breath catches in my throat as I glance toward the door, half-expecting to see a shadow shift, a figure standing there, silent, waiting for me to notice them.


    Nothing.


    Just the broken, rotting office. Just the same stillness that somehow doesn¡¯t feel still anymore.


    I swallow hard, forcing down the unease curling in my gut.


    I need to get out of here.

 Entry #1 - Johnn Sinner (No Occupation) Day #10.9

    Day 10.9: Bite. Chew. Swallow. Repeat


    The door groans as I push it open, hinges whining in protest, like they don¡¯t want me to leave. The office is behind me now, swallowed by shadow, by dust, by the weight of everything I just saw. My boot touches gravel, and the cold rushes in, biting at my skin, slipping down my collar, settling deep in my bones. The junkyard is still. Quiet. Too quiet. Like the world is holding its breath.


    And then I stop.


    Because I see it.


    The crawler.


    The one I killed. The one that shouldn¡¯t be moving anymore. The one I know for a fact I put down.


    But it isn¡¯t moving.


    Something else is.


    Another one.


    Low to the ground, tangled in the wreckage like a broken puppet. Its body is twisted wrong, bones jutting under torn, slack flesh. Its legs are nothing but ruined limbs¡ªshattered, useless, bent in ways that should have left it dead. But it doesn¡¯t need them. It pulls itself forward, slow, deliberate, fingers digging into the dirt, clawing, scraping. Each movement is stiff, unnatural, like it¡¯s forgotten how a body is supposed to work. The sound of it¡ªnails dragging, bones grinding¡ªrakes over my nerves, sharp and endless. It moves inch by inch, never stopping, never hesitating, like nothing matters but forward.


    Not toward me.


    Toward the thing I killed.


    My breath shudders out of me, and I feel it¡ªthat sharp, hollow pull in my gut. That sick weight settling in my ribs, pressing down. Something about this feels... wrong. Not just the sight, not just the sound¡ªdeeper than that. Like the air itself is turning against me, thickening, pressing against my skin like something unseen is watching, waiting, whispering.


    I don¡¯t move. My breath is caught somewhere in my throat, tight, burning. My fingers tighten around the crowbar, but I don¡¯t raise it. Not yet.


    I just watch.


    The crawler stops beside the corpse, its milky eyes empty, hollow, but its mouth¡­


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    It opens.


    Slowly. Wide.


    And then it bites.


    Teeth sink into rotting flesh. A wet, tearing sound fills the air, thick and wrong, like something being pulled apart that was never meant to break. The crawler rips a chunk free, strings of dead muscle stretching, snapping with a sick, wet pop. The smell rolls over me, thick and rotten, clinging to the back of my throat, turning my stomach.


    It chews, slow, mechanical, like it¡¯s forgotten how to do anything else. Like a wind-up toy stuck on one motion, repeating, grinding, jaw working stiffly over the putrid meat. Each bite is a dull crunch, a wet, sucking noise, thick with saliva that shouldn¡¯t be there, with a need that isn¡¯t real.


    Something inside me twists. Not fear. Not horror. Something deeper, colder. A feeling I can¡¯t name, but it wraps around my spine and pulls tight, sinking claws into my ribs.


    I swallow, but it doesn¡¯t help. The lump in my throat stays, heavy and unmoving. My fingers tighten around the crowbar, but my knuckles are numb, bloodless. I feel like I should move. Should do something. But I don¡¯t. I just stand there. Watching. Listening.


    And the thing just keeps eating.


    I don¡¯t know why this is what gets to me. I¡¯ve seen worse. I¡¯ve done worse. But this¡ªthis is different.


    It¡¯s not hunger. It¡¯s not instinct. It¡¯s just... movement. An action without reason. A body that doesn¡¯t know how to stop. A thing that doesn¡¯t need to eat but does anyway.


    My pulse pounds in my skull. I should leave. I should move. But my legs are locked in place, my body frozen in something between fear and fascination.


    The thing swallows. Then it bites again.


    The sound is worse the second time.


    Like wet fabric being torn apart. Like something that shouldn¡¯t be heard.


    My stomach twists. My fingers twitch around the crowbar. My head is buzzing¡ªloud, restless, like a swarm of insects under my skin. I feel like I¡¯m slipping, like the ground is tilting under me. Like something is shifting inside my head, cracking apart, letting something else leak through.


    I take a step back. The gravel crunches beneath my boot.


    The crawler stops.


    Its mouth stays open, a strip of flesh caught between its teeth. Its head twitches, turning¡ªjust slightly, just enough. A slow, unnatural movement, like something winding up from deep inside its bones, something that shouldn¡¯t be there, shouldn¡¯t still work.


    Its eyes find me.


    Empty. Hollow. Staring past me, through me, like I¡¯m just another piece of the junkyard, just another thing that doesn¡¯t belong. Like I was never here at all.


    And then¡ª


    It keeps eating.


    Slow. Mechanical. Bite. Chew. Swallow. Repeat. Like it¡¯s following some old, broken script, a machine stuck in an endless loop. Like nothing matters but the motion, the act, the endless grinding of rotting teeth over rotting flesh.


    My throat is dry. My hands are shaking. I feel sick. Not from the sight, not from the sound, but from something else. Something deeper. Like the air itself is pushing against me, telling me I don¡¯t belong here. That I need to leave. Now.


    I force myself to breathe. To move. One step back. Then another. Slow. Careful. Watching its hands, its mouth, its empty, unseeing eyes.


    I don¡¯t turn my back. Not yet.


    I just keep moving.


    And the thing just keeps eating.

 Entry #1 - Johnn Sinner (No Occupation) Day #10.10

    Day 10.10: Motion, Motion..?


    The sound won¡¯t leave me.


    Wet. Tearing. Slow, awful chewing. It¡¯s still there. It never stopped. It never will. It¡¯s inside my head, pressing against my skull, filling the cracks, eating away at me from the inside. Every step I take, it follows. A phantom noise that sticks to my skin, soaks into my bones. I blink, but I still see it. I swallow, but the taste lingers. I breathe, but the air is thick with the stench of rot.


    I keep walking. I don¡¯t know how far. Doesn¡¯t matter. Just away. Away from that thing, from the way it moved, from the way it didn¡¯t stop, from the way it ate something that shouldn¡¯t have been there. From the way it made me feel. Like I wasn¡¯t real either. Like I was fading, piece by piece, like if I stopped moving, I¡¯d just disappear into the rust and the dust and the cold.


    The wind howls through the junkyard, rattling through broken windows, whistling through hollow car frames. My boots crunch against scattered glass, every step too loud, too sharp. Shadows stretch long in the fading light, twisting around me, shifting with each breath. The air is thick with the scent of rust, of old oil, of something deeper, fouler. It clings to my clothes, soaks into my skin. The past, rotting away, refusing to be forgotten.


    I shake my head, hard, trying to clear it. My fingers tighten around the crowbar, my knuckles pale. I need to focus. I need to keep moving. But the noise¡ªGod, the noise¡ªit¡¯s still there. Scraping, slurping, wet and mindless. It shouldn¡¯t be real. But it is. And it won¡¯t let go.


    My legs shake. My hands shake. My breath comes in short, sharp bursts, too fast, too shallow. It feels like I¡¯m choking on the air, like my own lungs are fighting against me. My chest is tight, my throat even tighter, like something is wrapped around me, squeezing, pressing, refusing to let go. My fingers clutch the crowbar like it¡¯s my last connection to reality, like if I let go, I¡¯ll come apart¡ªpiece by piece, crumbling into dust and rust and nothing.


    I keep walking. One step, then another. I don¡¯t count. I don¡¯t plan. I just move.


    The junkyard stretches on, endless in the dying light, a maze of twisted metal and shattered glass. Every car is a grave, every shadow is waiting to swallow me. The wind whispers through broken windows, moaning through hollowed-out frames, rattling doors that will never open again. My boots crunch against the ground, shards of glass and gravel grinding underfoot, too loud, too sharp. The air is thick with old oil, with rust, with something deeper, fouler, something that clings to the back of my throat, something I can¡¯t swallow down.


    This place used to mean something. These cars used to belong to someone. Someone who drove them, who sat in them, who lived before all this. But now they¡¯re empty. Abandoned. Just like everything else.


    I used to belong somewhere too.


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    The thought sinks its teeth into me, deep and cold. I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, sharp and coppery, grounding me for just a second. Keep moving. Keep breathing. Don¡¯t stop. Don¡¯t think.


    But I do. I think too much. I always do.


    I think about it. I think about everything. I think about the van that won¡¯t run, about the office that felt like a coffin, about the sound of crawler eating. About how none of this makes sense. About how I can¡¯t tell what¡¯s real anymore.


    I squeeze my eyes shut, just for a second. Just to clear my head. Just to push everything back where it belongs.


    Then I hear it.


    A scrape. Metal against metal.


    I freeze. My breath catches. My fingers lock around the crowbar, too tight, too desperate. My pulse hammers against my ribs, my ears ringing with the sound of my own blood rushing too fast, too loud. Every muscle in my body screams to move, to run, but I can¡¯t. I¡¯m stuck in place, trapped by the weight of something I don¡¯t understand.


    Another sound.


    I don¡¯t want to look. I don¡¯t want to see. I don¡¯t want to know.


    But I do.


    Slowly, stiffly, I turn my head. My neck aches, my skin crawling with the sensation of being seen, being known by something that shouldn¡¯t exist. My body feels wrong, heavy, like I¡¯m moving through water, like the world itself is pushing back against me.


    And then I see it.


    A shape. Small. Twisted. Crawling.


    No. No, no, no, not again.


    Not again.


    Not again.


    Not again.


    It¡¯s moving, dragging itself forward in slow, jerky motions, its body broken and useless, but still trying. Still reaching. Its fingers claw at the dirt, nails peeling away, leaving behind dark stains. Its breath rasps out, wet and ragged, like air forcing its way through ruined lungs. I can see the way its ribs strain against rotting flesh, the way its mouth hangs open, slack, like it¡¯s waiting to take a bite of something that isn¡¯t there.


    My stomach turns. My head spins. My fingers twitch around the crowbar, but I don¡¯t lift it. Not yet.


    I just watch. Because I need to see. Because if I don¡¯t, I won¡¯t believe it¡¯s real.


    I bite down on a sob, my teeth grinding together so hard it hurts. My breath comes out shaky, uneven, choking on itself. My whole body feels too tight, like my skin doesn¡¯t fit right anymore, like I¡¯m coming apart at the seams and there¡¯s nothing I can do to stop it.


    It¡¯s lying there, half-crushed under a rusted hood, just a pile of broken limbs and rotting skin. Its bones stick out at wrong angles, its body twisted like something dropped and forgotten. It shouldn¡¯t be moving. It shouldn¡¯t be alive.


    But it is.


    Its fingers twitch, scraping against the dirt. A slow, dragging movement, weak and useless, but still trying. Its head tilts, a stiff, jerky motion, like something pulling invisible strings. Its mouth hangs slack, lips peeling back over dark, ruined gums. Its eyes¡ªclouded, hollow¡ªstare forward, not seeing, not understanding. Not at me. Not at anything.


    And then it bites.


    Into the dirt.


    I can¡¯t breathe. I can¡¯t move. I can¡¯t think.


    It bites again. And again. Jaws working, chewing, swallowing something that isn¡¯t there.


    No. No, this isn¡¯t real. This can¡¯t be real.


    My vision blurs. My chest is caving in, collapsing under something heavy, something crushing, something I can¡¯t fight. My breath shudders out of me, torn and ragged. My body is trembling so hard I feel like I¡¯m shaking apart.


    It¡¯s not real. It¡¯s not real. It¡¯s not real.


    But it is.


    I hear the sound. Wet. Slow. A hollow swallow. The same as before. The same as always.


    I squeeze my eyes shut. A whimper claws its way up my throat, but I bite it down, hold it back. If I let it out, if I break, I won¡¯t stop. I¡¯ll fall, and there won¡¯t be anything left to catch me.


    I have to go. I have to go now.


    I turn.


    I run.


    I don¡¯t look back.

 Entry #1 - Johnn Sinner (No Occupation) *Dead*

    Day¡­well that doesn¡¯t even matter anymore because¡­well¡­.everything comes to an end.


    I didn¡¯t stop running until I was off the junkyard.


    But the sound didn¡¯t leave me. That horrible, wet chewing. The slow, rhythmic tear of flesh. The snap of bone. It followed me like a curse, slithering into my ears, crawling under my skin. I could still hear it. Feel it. A sick, sticky noise chewing through my thoughts, gnawing at my skull.


    I ran blind, feet pounding pavement, breath burning in my throat. My legs felt like lead, every muscle screaming, but I didn¡¯t stop. I couldn¡¯t. If I stopped, the sound would catch up. The memory would pull me back. I¡¯d see it again¡ªthe crawler on the ground, struggling, twitching. The thing on top of it, tearing into its belly, hands pushing deep, pulling apart, stuffing shredded meat into its sagging mouth. Not even looking at me. Not even caring. Like I wasn¡¯t there. Like I was already dead.


    I don¡¯t know how far I went. I don¡¯t know where I am. The streets twist and blend together, a maze of broken fences, sagging rooftops, and roads cracked like old skin. Houses stand like forgotten gravestones, their windows dark and hollow, empty eyes watching. A neighborhood? Maybe. But it feels more like a graveyard. A place where life used to be. Where life stopped. It doesn¡¯t matter. Nothing matters except moving. Keep moving. Keep going until I¡¯ve outrun the echoes in my head. Keep going until there¡¯s nothing left of me to run.


    But I can¡¯t.


    My body is breaking down. My lungs feel like fire, every breath like swallowing glass. My stomach twists, empty, growling, a hollow pit eating itself. My throat is cracked and dry, my tongue like sandpaper. My hands shake so bad I can barely hold them still. My vision wavers, the world blurring at the edges, dark spots creeping in, spreading like ink in water. My legs feel like they aren¡¯t mine anymore, barely holding me up, moving on their own. I don¡¯t know how much farther I can go. I don¡¯t know if I care.


    I can¡¯t do this anymore.


    A house. The closest one. My legs barely listen as I stumble toward it. The back window is open just a crack¡ªjust enough. I don¡¯t think. I don¡¯t hesitate. I grip the frame with trembling fingers and drag myself inside. My arms nearly give out, my legs buckle as I hit the floor. The dust rises around me, thick, choking. The air is stale, dead.


    I can¡¯t rest. Not yet.


    I push forward. One step at a time, my legs screaming, my body swaying. The house is hollow, stripped bare. No food. No water. Nothing. Just walls. Just dust. Just silence. The kind of silence that isn¡¯t empty but waiting, thick and heavy, pressing down on my skin like something alive. Every step kicks up dust that swirls in the dim light, hanging in the air like ghosts of whoever lived here before. The floor creaks under my weight, a sound too loud in the dead stillness. My breath echoes in my own ears, shaky, uneven, ragged. The air is stale, untouched for God knows how long. Forgotten. Like this place. Like me.


    But no. there''s no silence.


    I hear them.


    At first, it¡¯s just a whisper. A shuffle. A slow, dragging groan that barely registers past the blood pounding in my ears. Like the sound of a loose paper caught in the wind, nothing but a ghost of noise. Then it grows. Another step. Another breath. Then another. A chain reaction, spreading, swelling, rising. A chorus of them, a wave, pressing in from the front of the house, spilling into the streets. Slow. Heavy. Unstoppable. The groans stretch, thick with hunger, dripping with something old and rotten. The air feels tighter, the walls smaller. They are everywhere.


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    I make it to the window, force myself to look.


    And my stomach turns to ice.


    Too many.


    They move like broken puppets, heads twitching, bodies lurching, arms hanging like dead weight. Some drag shattered limbs, some crawl on raw, exposed bone. They bump into one another, mindless, unseeing, a wave of rotting flesh that stretches down the street. There¡¯s no end to them, no gaps, no way through. Just an ocean of death, shifting, groaning, reaching.


    Their mouths hang open, slack, waiting. But when I move¡ªwhen the floor creaks beneath me¡ªthey change. Heads snap toward the house. Empty eyes fix on the window. And the groans rise, deep and hungry.


    A ripple moves through the horde. A shift. A pull.


    They see me.


    And they¡¯re coming.


    I step back too fast. My shoulder hits the wall. A thud. A sound. Too loud.


    I need to move. I need to hide.


    I stumble through the house, each step clumsy and weak, my limbs buzzing with exhaustion. My heart slams against my ribs, hammering so hard it drowns out everything else. A painful drumbeat in my skull, a reminder that I¡¯m still alive. My hands are slick with sweat, shaking, useless. My breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps, burning my throat, tearing at my chest. I reach for a door¡ªany door¡ªblindly, desperately, my fingers slipping on the handle before I manage to shove it open and push myself inside.


    Bathroom.


    Small. Cramped. Safe.


    I twist the lock. A flimsy thing. Barely anything at all. But it¡¯s something. It¡¯s all I have.


    I back into the corner, sink to the floor, pull my knees to my chest. My whole body is trembling, my fingers digging into my arms, gripping so hard it hurts. My breath stutters, shallow and weak, shaking like the rest of me. I can¡¯t stop it. My vision wavers, blurring, swimming, darkness creeping in at the edges. My heart is pounding so loud I can hear it in my skull, a frantic, uneven drumbeat that drowns out everything else. The air feels thick, too heavy to breathe. I feel like I¡¯m sinking, folding in on myself, getting smaller and smaller. Like if I just curl up tight enough, maybe I¡¯ll disappear. Maybe I¡¯ll be gone before they get to me.


    The groans outside get louder. The walls feel thinner.


    Then¡ª


    A THUD.


    The front door.


    I suck in a breath, my fingers clenching.


    Another THUD. Harder.


    The sound is coming closer.


    My pulse pounds, hard, painful. The blood rushes to my ears, deafening. The door rattles. Then¡ª


    CRACK.


    They¡¯re inside.


    I squeeze my eyes shut. My whole body shakes, trembling so hard I can feel my bones rattling. My breath is sharp and uneven, gasping, choking, like I can''t pull in enough air. The weight of it all crushes me, presses down, heavy, suffocating.


    The junkyard. The crawler. The wet sound of teeth tearing through flesh. Hands pushing deep, pulling apart, stuffing shredded meat into a mouth that never stopped chewing. The smell, thick and rancid, coating my throat, my lungs. The way it didn¡¯t even glance at me.


    Like I wasn¡¯t there.


    Like I was already gone.


    Maybe I was.


    The bathroom door shudders.


    I freeze. My breath sticks in my throat. My muscles coil tight, locked, useless.


    A shadow moves under the crack. A shape. A foot. A hand.


    Fingernails scrape against the wood. Slow. Dragging. Feeling. Searching.


    I press my forehead to my knees, squeeze my hands into fists so tight my nails dig into my palms. I don¡¯t want to be here. I don¡¯t want to hear this. I don¡¯t want to see this. I want to disappear, sink into the floor, vanish into the dark where nothing can find me.


    The lock rattles.


    The fingers curl against the wood, testing, pressing.


    The groans on the other side grow louder, thick and hungry, vibrating through the thin walls.


    Then¡ª


    The door bursts open.


    And i didn¡¯t even scream.


    <hr>


    Johnny Sinner


    Days Survived: Nearly 2 weeks


    Cause of Death: Ripped apart¡ªteeth and claws


    Nothing special. Just another dead man in a dead world. He ran, he fought, he broke, and when the time came, he fell like all the others. No grand ending, no last-minute escape¡ªjust torn flesh and fading breath. He tried to fight death, and well...he lost