Quick word from the author! šHey everyone, I'm going to be straight with you.I know this might sound a bit needy, but I want to be honest. I've been working non-stop on this zombie novel and I've already crossed the 200,000-word markā¦ that's basically a whole month of writing every single day without a break. My plan is to keep this pace and drop at least 1,500 words daily.But here's the thingā¦ seeing the view count go up while the comment section stays quiet is a bit discouraging š So, if you're following the story, could you do me a huge favor?Let me know what you think in the comments, drop a vote, or throw some Power Stones my way. I'm not asking for coins or anything paidāI just need to know if you guys are enjoying the ride, if I'm on the right track, or if there's something I can improve.Your feedback helps way more than you realize, seriously.We're in this together! š
He picks up his cell phone, downloads an offline map, mentally plans a route, looks out the window and sees the city that was once vibrant, now standing still in a strange way, movement where it shouldn't be, silence where it shouldn't be.
The screen keeps talking.
Admiral Caldwell: Avoid going out at dusk, activity increases.
General Sokolov: the early morning is worse.
ā civil: so when we go out
The answer comes curtly from someone.
ā another civilian: when it's less bad
He lets out a short laugh because that's it, there's no right time, just the least wrong time.
He returns to the ring, begins to truly store things now, water first, food later, a few items he doesn't need to access quickly, trying to mentally organize the space inside as if it were an invisible storage unit.
He realizes something important: if he messes things up in there, he'll be in trouble later. So he starts thinking about organization even before filling it up: a place for food, a place for water, a place for reserves.
The screen remains alive.
ā civilian: someone in Manhattan
ā another: I'm in Brooklyn, bridge blocked
ā another: Central Park is not safe, don't go in there.
He reads this and looks out the window again at the park and understands that what was there is no longer beautiful greenery; it has become unknown territory.
He closes the curtain slowly without making a sound.
And back to the keyboard because there are still people reading, there are still people responding, and as long as that exists, he can't stop.
ā Those in tall buildings think before going down; they don't rush out without knowing what's below; they listen before opening doors; stairs can be a natural trap now.
The answer is coming
ā civilian: I'm hearing something rising
ā another: it doesn't open
ā another: lock the door and wait
He types more
Silence is life; noise is an invitation. If you have to do something, do it quickly and for a while.
And he pauses for a second, looking at everything: the ring on his finger, the half-packed backpack, the city outside looking out of place, the screen still vivid.
And for the first time he feels clearly
It's no longer about understanding.
It's about choosing.
And to continue living after that.
Ā
Ā
Ā
He stops, his hand on the pot full of water, and lets out a half-laugh to himself, one of those short laughs that come more from acknowledging the obvious than from humor, because suddenly everything clicks and what he was doing seconds ago seems almost stupidāstoring water in a bucket, in a pot, occupying physical space as if he were still playing in the old way of the worldāand he looks at the ring on his finger, feels the weight that doesn't weigh him down, and lets out a soft sigh as if he's just unlocked a hidden mechanism.
ā I have the ringā¦ what the hell am I doing?
He doesn't waste time being ashamed of himself, he just changes course on the spot, opens the refrigerator and starts with the basics, everything that spoils first, everything that's worth more in the coming days than anything else, grabs one thing and then another and mentally sends it straight to the ring, without ceremony, without effect, it just disappears and he's already grabbing the next thing, water, bottle, box, everything leaving that physical plane for a space that doesn't weigh anything and doesn't spoil, and this completely changes his rhythm, it's no longer slow collection, it's efficient cleaning.
He goes to the cupboards, rice, pasta, instant noodles, everything that lasts a long time, everything that sustains, it disappears in the same logic, without noise, without effort, as if he were organizing an invisible pantry and for the first time since it all began he feels a real advantage, not absurd power, but a tool that makes a difference.
He opens the freezer, takes out the still-tough pieces of meat, thinks for a moment, and sends them to the ring one by one without worrying about defrosting them now because time doesn't pass in there, and that gives him a strange feeling of control amidst the chaos, a small island of logic in an ocean of wrongdoing.
He pauses for a second and tests deeper, not just to keep it, but to perceive it; he closes his eyes for an instant and focuses on the ring, and something changes, not in the outside world, but in the way he feels the space inside, as if his consciousness were touching a huge, silent, organized room, and he realizes that everything he put there occupied almost nothing.
ā not a tenthā¦ not a percentā¦
He opens his eyes slowly, not excited, just registering, because excitement kills now, and continues.
He goes to where he left the weapons, picks up the drums, one by one, really heavy, the kind that tires your arm just from holding them, and thinks, and they disappear too, four of one, four of the other, the weight vanishes as if it had never existed, and he exhales through his nose.
This is a game changer.
He grabs the pistol magazines, mentally fitting them into the same space, everything going to the same place, organized, without mess, because he's already decided that things have to be logical in there or he'll be in trouble later.
And then comes the doubt that he can't hold back.
I just want to see one thing... this ammunition that comes back... where does it go...
He stares blankly for a second, as if waiting for an answer from thin air.
I hope you go thereā¦
There is no confirmation, no voice, only silence, so he accepts the uncertainty as part of the package.
He goes back to the room, grabs some clothesānot everything, just enoughāa quick change, minimal protection, a cloth that can be used as a bandage, and sends some for the ring too, without overdoing it, because there's space but the decision is still his.
He grabs his backpack, opens it on the floor, and starts assembling his physical kitāthe things he needs to have on hand without thinking: instant noodles, a packet of biscuits, light things, quick things, not a stockpile, just accessāand he throws them inside with simple logic, weight distributed, nothing loose.
He picks up the portable radio, the walkie-talkie, and twirls it in his hand for a second.
ā walkie talkieā¦ fuck how he writes
And put it in your backpack, because communication is still life.
He glances at the MP5, thinks quickly, and sends it to the ring, not because it's useless, but because at that moment he wants mobility and quick decision-making, and he keeps the XM7, pulls the sling, throws it over his shoulder along with the backpack, adjusts the weight on his body.
ā if you need it, it's already at hand
And that thing there, with a hundred projectiles, becomes a line between life and death depending on how he uses it.
He goes back to the computer without sitting properly, just leans forward and starts typing again because now he's not just someone giving advice, he's going to move.
ā Guys, my address is this: Fifth Avenue, building name [building name], I'm on the fiftieth floor. I'm going to start sweeping floor by floor. Whoever is in the building, let me know. I don't want to break down doors of living people and compromise your security.
He continues straight ahead.
ā I'm going to knock twice quickly and once briefly, that's the signal. If you hear it and are alive, answer quietly, don't shout, don't make unnecessary noise.
He sends the message and stares at the screen, waiting for a response, because now that matters; having people nearby is both a risk and an opportunity.
The response took less time than he expected.
ā Civilian: I'm on the 47th
ā another: 43 here alone
ā another: 39 has two with me
ā another: 50 still won't open the door, I'm still hearing things in the hallway
He reads everything quickly, memorizes it, because now his map isn't just of streets, it's of people.
He takes out the gun, attaches the flashlight, tests the button, steady light first, then switches to flash mode.
ā strobeā¦ that's it
He points to the ground, sees the pattern flashing rapidly, disorients him; good for confusing, bad if used incorrectly; he tests it once and turns it off.
He takes a deep breath, looks at the apartment door, looks at the screen again, looks at the ring, the backpack, the gun, and everything fits together as one.
It's no longer preparation.
It is execution.
He types one last line before leaving.
ā starting now, total silence. Whoever is in the way, follow the signal and don't do anything stupid.
Send
Turn off the screen.
The silence returns, heavier than any noise.
And he walks to the door, hand on the doorknob, without haste, without drama, only aware of each movement.
Because there are no more tutorials now.
Only the next step
And whatever comes after that