Aiden stood at the edge of the hospital entrance once more, his silhouette outlined by the dim light bleeding through the overcast sky. Before him stretched a haunting tableau: rows upon rows of black body bags, lined with grim precision across the cracked courtyard pavement. They hadn't moved since he first saw them. Death had a way of freezing time. The wind tugged at the edges of a few, flapping the plastic like faint whispers of the past. The air was thick with a metallic tang, a bitter mix of old blood and decay, tinged with the faintest trace of disinfectant—long faded, like the hope of the world that once was.
He shifted the weight of his pack, now heavy with scavenged supplies—military-grade equipment, ammunition, field rations, and medical gear. It was the most successful run he'd had since the outbreak. He should have felt triumphant. Instead, he felt... haunted. The silence pressed in around him, and the body bags seemed to watch, accusing and voiceless.
This place has given me everything it could, he thought. Time to move.
He pulled out his map—a weathered and partially torn sheet tucked into his jacket—and traced his finger along the faded lines. Beyond the hospital lay the suburban housing districts, a maze of cul-de-sacs, driveways, and overgrown lawns. If there were supplies, shelter, or even traces of survivors to be found, they would be there. But the route would be tricky. He couldn't take the main roads—not with how the walkers moved. They clustered along highways and main streets like flies on rotting meat, drawn by echoes of sound and instinct. Going through a dense neighborhood on foot would be safer. Slower, but quieter.
He took one last look at the hospital, its shattered windows glinting like jagged teeth, then turned and disappeared into the city.
The streets were narrow, cracked, and scattered with the debris of lives interrupted. He moved carefully through alleys and side roads, ducking beneath sagging fences and slipping between abandoned vehicles. Overhead, the sky had darkened further—gray clouds rolling low, threatening rain. It made everything feel heavier, quieter. He welcomed it. The rain muffled the sound. It might buy him more time.
Every few steps, he paused to listen.
Nothing but the wind.
Aiden kept his steps soft and deliberate, rolling his boots heel to toe to avoid crunching broken glass. He moved like a ghost between shadows, ducking under collapsed porches and skirting around backyards where swing sets swayed in the wind—frozen remnants of a childhood world that no longer existed.
The houses were eerily intact. Most had their doors ajar or bashed in, their insides looted or torn apart. He passed one where the television was still on, flickering static across a living room covered in dried blood. A child's toy lay in the center of the floor, a little plush bear with a missing eye. He didn't linger.
After another block, he ducked behind a low brick wall and crouched to consult the map again. His route would take him to a small cul-de-sac up ahead—one marked with a red circle he'd added weeks ago. It had looked promising then. Two-story homes, garages, and possible stockpiles. He hadn't had the supplies to check it out before. Now, with better gear and a full pack, he was ready.
But something tugged at him. A prickling at the base of his neck.
He froze.
Up the street, about fifty yards ahead, he spotted them—shadows shambling between parked cars. A small group of walkers. Five, maybe six. Not enough to be called a horde, but enough to tear someone apart if they weren't careful.
He dropped low, slipping into the nearest side yard, and held his breath as the figures slowly moved past. He could hear them—their wet, dragging steps, the occasional low groan, the sound of something wet slapping against the pavement as one of them dragged a dislocated leg behind it.
He waited.
Long seconds ticked by.
The walkers moved on, turning a corner out of sight.
Only then did Aiden exhale. He glanced at his map again, heart still racing. If he could cut through the yard and hop the fence behind the next house, he'd bypass them entirely.
He nodded to himself.
Quiet. Fast. Clean.
This was his world now.
And he intended to survive it.
The rooftops of the suburban blocks came into view as Aiden crested the cracked asphalt hill that separated the hospital from the housing district. The world seemed to stretch out ahead of him in a warped and frozen stillness—rows of once-cozy homes, many with rusted mailboxes, cars parked haphazardly in driveways, or overgrown grass reclaiming sidewalks. It was the kind of place that, once upon a time, echoed with the sounds of children playing, barbecues sizzling, and evening sprinklers ticking back and forth across manicured lawns.
Now, it was silent. Broken. Hollow.
As Aiden stepped onto the edge of the district, a soft ping echoed in his mind's ear, a subtle chime that drew his attention upward as a translucent blue window materialized in his field of vision.
[System Notification]
[New Quest: Home Invasion]
{Description}: Loot as many houses as possible before nightfall. Time is limited. Prioritize valuables, survival gear, and construction materials.
[Reward: Determined by the number and quality of houses looted before sunset.]
[Accept / Decline]
Aiden narrowed his eyes.
A timed quest, he thought.
Without hesitation, he mentally selected Accept.
The notification flickered and vanished.
The moment the screen disappeared, Aiden moved. His pace quickened, posture shifting to a low, focused crouch-run as he approached the first house closest to the street corner. The structure was a weather-worn, two-story home with sun-bleached siding and shattered windows. The front door hung partially open, swaying gently as if inviting him in. The number above it was faded, but it didn't matter.
What mattered was speed. Efficiency. Stealth.
He drew his Bowie knife and stepped inside.
The interior was dark, with only slivers of light slipping through the boarded-up windows. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, disturbed by his presence. The scent of mildew and dried rot filled his nose immediately—an old, sickly aroma that never fully left these places. Aiden's boots creaked on the hardwood floor as he advanced slowly into the living room, his eyes adjusting to the gloom.
Then he saw them.
A couple.
Or what had once been a couple.
Their forms shambled aimlessly in the living room—once humans, now corrupted beyond return. Their flesh had the pallid, sunken look of walkers several weeks turned. The man—still wearing a blood-streaked polo shirt and khakis—dragged one foot behind him, his jaw slack, the gurgling sound of undeath bubbling in his throat. The woman, slightly smaller, had long, matted hair and a floral dress stained dark from the waist down. They circled the overturned coffee table in a lazy, looping pattern, oblivious to his presence for now.
Aiden had seconds.
He scanned the room. His eyes landed on a nearby wooden chair, lying on its side beside a fireplace.
That'll do.
He dashed forward in a single, fluid motion, grabbed the chair by the legs, and with a grunt, swung it with all his strength into the husband walker's side. The chair exploded on impact—splinters and fragments flying through the air. The force knocked the walker to the ground, its arms flailing as it landed flat on its back with a grotesque wheeze.
Before the wife could even register the sound, Aiden lunged forward, planting a knee on the downed walker's chest and driving his Bowie knife into the base of its skull with a practiced, brutal precision. The blade sank deep with a sickening crunch. The body jerked once, then went still.
The wife-walker turned at last, emitting a low, rasping moan as her cloudy eyes locked on him. Her hands raised in twitching hunger, and she lurched forward, mouth open wide, teeth bared. But Aiden was already moving.
He pulled the knife free, flipped it in his grip, and charged.
The walker closed the distance in seconds, arms swiping madly. She caught his shoulder with one clawed hand, nails tearing into his jacket. He gritted his teeth, twisted his body, and drove his shoulder into hers, slamming her back against the wall. Plaster cracked behind her. Before she could recover, he jammed his knee into her gut, causing her to slump forward just enough for him to bring the knife down hard into her temple.
Her body crumpled instantly, the moan dying in her throat.
Aiden stood still, breathing hard in the aftermath. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. Blood—thick and black—dripped from the knife. He wiped the blade on the woman's ruined dress, then turned back to survey the house.
"Two down," he muttered. "Time to loot."
He moved quickly through the first floor, sweeping through drawers, cabinets, closets. He found canned goods—corn, beans, a few fruits in syrup—and added them to the system inventory. A toolbox sat untouched in the garage; inside were hammers, nails, a handsaw, and even a roll of wire. Gold. He snatched up wooden planks leaning in a corner, too heavy to carry by hand, but easily stored in the inventory.
In the master bedroom upstairs, he struck real paydirt—a handgun under the bed with a full magazine, a flashlight, and a small lockbox containing spare batteries, duct tape, and a folded map with markings in red ink. He took everything. Clothes too—sturdy jeans, thermal shirts, a raincoat that still smelled faintly of cedar.
The system pinged again.
[House 1 Cleared: Loot Quality Grade - B+]
[Time Remaining: 2 Hours, 37 Minutes Until Nightfall]
Aiden nodded to himself. Not bad. But he could do better.
He descended the stairs, stepping over the corpses of the former couple without a second glance. There was no time for mourning in this world—only movement, survival, progress.
As he stepped outside, the wind had picked up, and the sky above was growing darker. The sun was beginning to dip below the edge of the city skyline.
He looked at the next house across the street, its windows boarded, but the front door intact.
On to the next.
He tightened his grip on the knife.
And ran.
Aiden vaulted over the leaning wooden fence with practiced ease, his boots landing in the overgrown backyard of the neighboring house with a soft thud. The grass had grown wild, nearly waist-high in places, curling around rusted lawn chairs and the skeletal frame of what had once been a small garden. Weeds had choked out the vegetables long ago.
As he approached the back door, he paused.
The signs were clear—this house hadn't been overrun like the last. No blood trails, no broken windows. But the chaos inside spoke volumes.
The door swung open with a soft creak. Aiden entered, his knife held low and ready, just in case.
The interior was in shambles. Furniture knocked over. Cabinets flung open. Picture frames shattered on the floor. Someone had left in a rush, no question about it. Shoes still sat by the door, a child's backpack spilled open on the floor, its contents—a crumpled drawing, a juice box, a cracked tablet—scattered in a trail toward the hallway. The air here was different. Less decayed, more stale. No bodies. No rot.
Out front, Aiden had noticed the deep, curved tire marks carved through the lawn, cutting a path directly to the road. Whoever had lived here had known the truth—known the world was falling apart—and fled before it was too late.
Smart. And lucky.
But they didn't take everything, Aiden thought, already moving through the space with quiet urgency.
Time was ticking.
He slipped into the kitchen first. It was a mess—drawers thrown open, dishes broken—but there were still supplies. In the pantry he found several cans: beans, chili, some peaches. Aiden swiped them into his system inventory with a flick of his hand. In the refrigerator, most perishables had long spoiled, but a few vacuum-sealed protein bars in the freezer drawer had held up. Score.
He moved next to the utility closet. A toolbox sat on a middle shelf, partially opened. Inside were various tools—pliers, a crowbar, a box of screws, and a small handheld blowtorch. The kind used for welding or home repairs. His eyes lit up. Tools like this were rare now. Valuable for both combat modifications and structural reinforcement.
All went into the inventory.
From there, he turned down the hallway, checking each door swiftly.
The first was a child's room. Walls decorated with peeling superhero stickers. Aiden took a second to scan the space—drawers full of clothes too small for him, stuffed animals on a dusty bed—but then spotted something beneath the window: a wooden chest.
Inside were a few old board games and, more importantly, a small camping kit. It was basic—a flashlight, a crank radio, and a compact firestarter—but it was gold to him. Into the inventory it went.
Breathe. Move. Think fast.
He crossed into the master bedroom. The bed was unmade, closet doors wide open, drawers yanked out and emptied—but not completely. People fleeing never packed properly. They grabbed what they saw first. What they thought mattered.
Aiden found a folded wool blanket stuffed in the bottom drawer. Next to it, a half-used box of ammo—.38 rounds. No gun in sight, but the rounds were valuable regardless. He took both and swept his eyes across the room one last time.
On the nightstand sat a small photo in a cracked frame. A family of four—smiling, happy, caught in a moment before the world changed. Aiden stared at it briefly, then turned away.
No time for ghosts.
He headed into the garage last. The metal door was closed, but inside was a jackpot. Shelves of old materials—wood planks, metal sheeting, gardening tools, rope, a box of screws and nails. The kind of things most people overlooked in their panic to flee.
These weren't just supplies—they were fortification materials. Reinforcement for barricades, repairs for safehouses, the skeleton for anything new he might one day build.
The inventory filled rapidly.
[System Notification]
[House 2 Cleared: Loot Quality Grade - A-]
[Time Remaining: 2 Hours, 03 Minutes Until Nightfall]
[Quest Progress: 2 Houses Looted | Current Grade: C+]
Aiden rolled his shoulders, adjusting the weight of his actual pack and mentally sorting what had gone into the digital one. It was shaping up to be a solid haul. But it wouldn't mean much unless he kept moving.
He stepped out through the garage's side door, into the fading light of afternoon. The clouds overhead had thickened further, the gray turning to charcoal. Rain would come soon. The smell was in the air—wet earth, charged sky.
Across the street, another house sat in partial shadow, its windows boarded, a generator half-buried in ivy out front. The door was shut. No lights. No signs of movement.
That would be the next one.
Aiden narrowed his eyes.
Three down. As many more as the clock will allow.
With his knife in one hand and his heartbeat steady, he crossed the street.