I picked up anything within reach—a frying pan, a broken chair leg, even a meat tenderizer—turning everyday objects into weapons of destruction.
I killed them all. One after another, their skulls caved beneath my fury. Their limbs were severed, their bodies torn apart.
I ignored the bites and the claws ripping into me, knowing that my body would heal.
I was unstoppable, a force of pure, unrelenting vengeance.
Blood painted the walls, the floor, and my skin. I didn't care. I didn't care that these monsters had once been human.
Whatever they had been was gone, replaced by mindless hunger and rot.
They were no longer people. They were obstacles. They were targets.
And I would not stop until every last one of them was destroyed.
I kicked a runner out of the doorway, its body crashing into the pavement with a sickening crunch.
Stepping outside, I was greeted by the sight of an endless swarm of zombies. They filled the street like a tide of rot and decay, their guttural groans echoing in the night.
Something about their behavior struck me—how they moved with a unified purpose, as though drawn by some invisible thread.
They weren't mindless after all. They were connected, part of something larger.
Good.
If more were coming, that just meant more to kill. If I could destroy enough of them, perhaps I could end this apocalypse before it spiraled any further out of control.
"Come and get me, you motherfucking monsters!" I bellowed, my voice cutting through the night like a war cry. "I'll send you all to Hel!"
A manic smile spread across my face, feral and unhinged. I wasn't smiling out of joy or triumph.
No, it was pure, unadulterated rage that fueled me.
There was nothing in my mind but hatred, a single, searing emotion that consumed everything else.
I charged into the swarm with reckless abandon, stabbing and slashing through rotting flesh. For every zombie I felled, more closed in.
They tackled me, dragging me down under their weight. Their teeth tore into my flesh, their claws raking across my body.
I felt my ribs snap, my organs crushed beneath their relentless assault.
But I didn't stop.
I stabbed at their heads, one after another, my movements fueled by sheer will.
When my arms were broken and useless, I twisted them with a brutal crack, snapping the bones free.
I drove the jagged ends into the skulls of the nearest zombies, their rotted brains bursting as I used my own broken limbs as weapons.
The pain was overwhelming, but I didn't care. My body regenerated almost as quickly as it was destroyed, a grotesque cycle of destruction and renewal.
Grabbing a zombie by the neck, I wrenched its head free with a sickening rip, the spine dangling from the skull like a grotesque trophy. I swung it like a club, the vertebrae splintering against the skulls of the undead.
I tore into another with my teeth, ripping flesh and bone as though I were one of them.
Blood—thick and rancid—spilled over my lips, the taste vile and metallic.
I didn't feel human anymore.
At that moment, I was a monster, feral and unrestrained. This wasn't strategy or survival. This was my way of grieving.
———
For an entire day and night, I roamed through the desolate streets and ruins, cutting down every zombie that crossed my path.
Survivors fled or cowered as I passed them by, but I ignored their existence, single-minded in my mission to slaughter the undead.
Fatigue never touched me—I felt no exhaustion, no need to rest. It was as if the gods themselves had bestowed their blessings upon me, granting me the strength to carry out their will.
Or perhaps this mission was mine alone, even without divine command.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, I discovered something unsettling. At night, the zombies grew stronger, their movements more erratic and feral.
They became faster, more aggressive, and far deadlier. They overpowered me, swarming with an intensity that should have broken my resolve, but I didn't falter.
I met their ferocity with my own, unleashing an animalistic savagery to match their monstrous nature.
I fought as they fought—wild and relentless. They tore into me, breaking my bones and ripping my flesh, but I used their brutality against them.
Each injury I sustained became a moment to strike back, to stab and crush until their heads were split and lifeless. I wouldn't let them win. I couldn't.
No matter how powerful they became, I vowed to always prevail, just as I had always prevailed for my mother.
When dawn broke, I finally came to my senses. The streets were eerily quiet, devoid of any remaining undead.
I looked down at myself—my body covered in drying blood, the crimson stains painting every inch of me. Yet, there wasn't a single scar, not even a trace of the grievous wounds I'd suffered.
My heart pounded as if it were racing to catch up with the adrenaline-fueled carnage of the previous day and night.
Still, I felt no weariness. I was perfectly fine, even after hours of unrelenting combat.
I surveyed the carnage around me, hundreds of zombie corpses piled high, and let out a frustrated growl.
Had I accomplished anything? There were billions of people on Earth before this apocalypse, which meant millions—if not more—of zombies still roamed the planet.
The few hundred I had slain were barely a drop in the ocean.
"Damn it!" I cursed, stomping the blood-soaked ground.
The sheer scope of my mission loomed over me like a dark shadow. This assignment wouldn't end anytime soon.
As I stood amidst the carnage, I couldn't help but wonder how I had achieved such a feat.
Was this truly a gift from the gods? Or was it something else entirely?
A darker force, perhaps, one that I didn't yet understand.
A gnawing sensation pulled me from my thoughts. Hunger and thirst clawed at me, sharp and unrelenting.
My body had somehow suppressed these needs during the chaos, but now, with the immediate danger gone, they returned with a vengeance.
"Food... water..." I muttered hoarsely. Even with my newfound abilities—immune to the virus, impervious to death—I was still susceptible to hunger.
It seemed there were limits to this gift.
———
I stumbled upon the HL Supermarket on Hylan Boulevard, near Otis Avenue. It was shocking to realize how far I had come—from Heartland Village to here, a journey of nearly four miles.
It had taken me an entire day and night, but not because of the distance—because I'd been too busy waging my personal war against the undead.
The supermarket was a graveyard. Blood painted the aisles and walls, streaked with handprints and smeared in frantic patterns.
Corpses littered the floor, their wounds telling stories of a desperate, brutal struggle. Many had wounds to their heads, evidence of people taking their own lives to avoid turning.
It was smart of them. Merciful, even.
My gaze landed on a homeless man clutching a pipe wrench in his lifeless hands. I pried it free from his stiffening grip, testing its weight.
A proper weapon at last.
"Are there any survivors here?" I wondered aloud, scanning the carnage.
Signs of missing people—splatters of blood, scattered belongings—hinted that someone had escaped.
But the silence around me was deafening, and I decided to ignore the thought. Survivors weren't my concern.
I turned back to the task at hand.
This mission was mine, and mine alone. A gift—or curse—had awakened something within me, powers I now called Never Give Up and Dare to Infect Me?
They were forged in rage, born from loss, and sharpened by a singular purpose: to eradicate all zombies from the face of the Earth.
Even in this apocalypse, I couldn't escape responsibility. But it didn't matter.
There was no room left to think of myself anymore. My purpose was clear. My assignment was endless.
And I would see it through, no matter the cost.
———
"How long do you plan on sleeping, princess?" Jarlath's voice cut through the haze, dripping with condescension and laced with sarcasm. "And don't worry, I'm not kissing you. You're no sleeping beauty, that's for sure."
Mary's eyelids fluttered open, her vision blurred as she slowly regained consciousness.
She blinked a few times, her gaze settling on Jarlath kneeling in front of her, one knee pressed into the ground.
"...Huh?" she mumbled, her voice groggy.
"Good morning, ugly hag." Jarlath greeted her with a mocking grin, twirling a small leather-bound book in his hand—her diary. "Or should I say, a girl with a controlling mother? Does that description hit closer to home?"
Mary's face twisted with a mixture of confusion and anger.
She groaned, still fighting off the lingering drowsiness that clouded her mind.
"You...!" she growled, struggling to sit up, her hands balling into fists as her fury mounted.