The last thing Aiden Cross remembered was the sound of teeth tearing flesh and the sharp, metallic smell of his own blood in the air.
Now he was staring up at a white ceiling that looked way too familiar and way too clean.
He blinked a couple of times, breathing hard—his ribs ached, but there were no wounds, no blood, no screaming, just silence.
He sat up fast, panic hitting him like a truck—his hands were fine, his leg wasn't broken, his clothes weren't torn or bloody.
He looked around and realized he was in his old apartment.
The one he hadn't seen since a long time before everything fell apart.
"…What the hell?"
He rushed to the window, heart pounding, and saw Phoenix's skyline—normal, not on fire, not ruined, no wrecked roads or barricades, no ash in the air, just traffic, people walking around like nothing was wrong.
Then a memory hit him—his last moment alive, standing in front of a massive horde with nothing but a rusted blade, knowing he wasn't making it out, sweating from the fever, infected from a bite, already dying.
But here he was, alive again, before it all went to hell.
"Time travel?" he muttered, then shook his head—didn't matter, it felt real.
He didn't care how, just that he was back, and he had to prepare.
He grabbed his phone and checked the date.
February 14th.
The outbreak started on August 17th.
Exactly 180 days.
Six months until the first infection.
Six months until the collapse of everything.
He'd been a soldier, fought in every kind of terrain, faced every kind of enemy—but zombies, panic, betrayal, starvation—that world was something else.
Now he had a head start.
That's a long time for someone like him.
Then—knock at the door.
He froze for a second, thinking maybe it had started early, but it was just Amanda, the realtor, fake smile and all, showing him around like the world wasn't about to burn.
She bragged about perfect insulation, backup power, and steel doors—he nodded like he cared about the kitchen when really he was scanning for escape routes, cover spots, and storage potential.
She left happy—he locked the door like it was war.
By day three, he was in a warehouse with a rented truck and every credit card maxed out—loading up on canned food, MREs, water barrels, med kits—stuff people would soon fight to the death for.
But not him.
By day five, he had weapons—machetes, a crowbar he reforged himself, a crossbow, a modified AR-15, and way too much ammo.
He wasn't building a bunker.
He was building himself.
A weapon.
By day ten, he was training nonstop—haunted by all the people he couldn't save last time, every face stuck in his head, every scream he remembered.
He beat sandbags until his fists bled, ran laps in body armor, studied drills, survival books, memorized movement patterns, and sketched out fort plans by candlelight.
The world wouldn't fix itself.
By day thirteen, he stopped at a coffee shop like old times. He didn't expect to run into Hayes, his sleazy ex-boss, who'd be dead in a few months anyway, found half-naked in a ditch.
"Aiden! Where the hell have you been? Think you're hot stuff now that you're a merc?" Hayes said, grabbing his shoulder.
Aiden looked him straight in the eyes.
"Take your hand off me."
Hayes laughed until he saw Aiden wasn't joking.
"You threatening me?"
Aiden leaned in and said it quietly.
"I've killed better men for less, and when the world ends, you'll be begging for someone like me."
Hayes stepped back, pale as paper.
Then the scream hit.
High, broken, terrified.
People started running, and chaos was already spreading.
Aiden turned and saw the first one.
A security guard, eyes empty, mouth soaked in blood, tearing into someone's neck.
Way too early.
This wasn't supposed to happen yet.
The virus had moved faster.
Aiden breathed in once.
Showtime.
He pulled the machete from his bag, the blade catching sunlight.
And as the first infected turned toward him, Aiden smiled.