Along a vine-entwined highway, the roar of a motorcycle echoed. A lone rider
cut through the silence, his engine screaming as if daring the world to notice.
The man wore a black tank top, his right arm bound with a blood-soaked
bandage. A bandana hung loose around his neck, sunglasses flashing sunlight
with each tilt of his head. His carefree grin never wavered, even as loud music
blasted from the speakers strapped to the bike.
Excel was back in his old thug vibes. The speed, the recklessness, the
thrill—it felt almost normal. But as he came to a halt, dust kicking up beneath
his tires, his eyes fixed on the massive structure ahead.
A hotel.
Not just any hotel—a grand masterpiece built decades ago by a powerful tycoon,
once reserved for visiting dignitaries, politicians, and magnates. Its towering
walls loomed with the weight of history, untouched yet swallowed by green.
Excel's heart thudded with excitement. This is it. He had always dreamed of
taking refuge here if the world ever fell apart. The place had everything—a
vast compound, underground facilities, and best of all, a shopping mall just a
short walk away.
He glanced at the distant mall and a grin split his face. But when he turned
back to the machete in his hand, still stained in blood, that grin faltered. A
flash of fear crept in, tugging at the corner of his lips. His hand trembled
slightly.
Then he remembered.
---
The grass had rustled, and from it a rat scurried out, clutching a berry
between its teeth.
Excel had chuckled at the sight, watching the little creature dart across the
broken pavement. Nimble. Adapted. Almost thriving in this new world.
He then formed a theory, which he proudly called *"The New World's Rising Theory"* in his mind.
"It covers the possibility that he's not alone—that there are other people who have woken up just as he did. The question is: how long have they been asleep, and how did it happen? The world must have gone through evolution and re-evolution during that time. If his theory is right, then the world must have selected a few individuals."
"Haaaa…" he sighed. "This is going to be troublesome. I have to find a way to contact the outside world. Good thing the internet somehow is still working."
Excel looked at the rat, who had now finished eating and was staring back at him. He wondered how these animals had thrived this whole time. If his theory was correct, then he'd be dead by now—because sleeping long enough for all this to happen and still waking up the same isn't in any way possible. And some of these domestic animals were once wild before being domesticated, which means he'd already be food—considering his neighbors had big dogs and cats.
His gaze fell back to the rat, which had stopped eating and was staring
directly at him. Its tiny black eyes glistened with strange intelligence.
Before he could think more, the rat darted into the grass and vanished.
Excel shifted to leave—only to freeze.
A low growl rattled beside his ear—wet, guttural, impossibly close.
Slowly, he turned his head.
Fangs. Yellowed. Foaming. Hot breath reeking of rot. A massive dog, muzzle
inches from his face, eyes burning with feral hunger.
Instinct flared. His fist shot forward—*crack!*—smashing into the snout. The
beast yelped, recoiling.
But the victory died fast.
Two more emerged from the brush. Then a third. Circling. Ribs sharp beneath
mangy fur. Saliva dripping onto cracked asphalt. *Predators.*
Excel's stomach twisted. A nervous chuckle slipped out—thin, trembling.
"I knew it…"
The first lunged.
He twisted—barely dodging—his reflexes honed not by war, but by years of
dodgeball in a dead-end schoolyard. His leg snapped out in a desperate kick.
The dog skidded back.
Then he saw it: the machete, glinting in the sun, just out of reach.
He lunged—
—and the smallest one leapt for his throat.
Excel caught it midair, fingers clamping its neck. Muscles strained. Bones
cracked. The yelps choked into silence.
The others paused. Watching.
But one… oneWatching
The Pitbull.
No snarling. No wasted motion. Just stillness—coiled, patient, eyes locked on
Excel like a blade sighting its mark. It didn't want to fight.
It wanted to end him.
Excel's breath came ragged. His knuckles whitened around the dead dog's limp
body.
Then—it moved.
A blur of muscle and rage.
Excel didn't think. He shoved the carcass like a shield.
The Pitbull's jaws clamped down—muffled in fur and flesh.
In that split second, Excel dove for the machete.
Too late.
Teeth sank into his arm. He screamed—rage swallowing fear—and hurled the dog
into a crumbling wall. A sickening *crunch*. Blood poured—hot, urgent—dripping
into the dust.
No time.
The Pitbull charged again. Foam flying. Eyes wild. A storm given teeth.
No escape. Only steel.
Excel sprinted forward. At the last heartbeat, he swerved—just enough—and
swung.
The machete flashed.
A wet crack.
Blade sheared through the Pitbull's lower jaw—bone, tendon, sinew—spraying
blood and teeth.
The beast staggered, howling a broken, gurgling cry. To a dog lover, it
would've been unbearable.
To Excel; Survival.
He twisted, using the momentum. The machete rose in a brutal underhand arc—
—and buried itself deep in the Pitbull's chest.
Ribs gave way. The dog convulsed—once, twice—then collapsed, twitching, into
the silence.
Excel stumbled back, chest heaving. Tremors wracked his body. Adrenaline bled
out, leaving only raw, throbbing pain—in his arm.
He dropped to the ground, gasping for air. I'm not a fighter… I've never been
in a real fight. And yet, here he was, alive.
After a long moment, he forced himself up, dragging his aching body toward a
nearby drugstore built into the buildings's ground floor. If he didn't patch
the wounds, infection would finish what the dogs couldn't.
The world was silent again. But the silence felt different now. He had
survived.
For now.