The mode of transmission for this virus is divided into airborne and contact infections. The infected exhibit heightened aggression, possess 1.5 times the physical strength of ordinary humans, and move at normal walking speed with limited explosive power. Their teeth and nails have mutated into sharper forms capable of penetrating ordinary clothing. Key external characteristics include: entirely white sclera without pupils, complete loss of vision, rigid gait, heightened olfactory senses, craving for living flesh, and functional hearing. Any healthy individual scratched or bitten will mutate. The infected demonstrate exceptional physical resilience, impervious to conventional injuries—only destruction of the central nervous system or severing the cervical spine can neutralize them. No new mutations have been observed thus far. Conservative estimates indicate over 90% of the global population has been infected. To anyone reading this post: Survive. Survival represents hope.

  There is hope as long as one is alive. Alaric now fully understood this. The crowd outside his window were all infected. He didn't know whether he was already carrying the virus, when his symptoms might manifest, or where this damned outbreak had originated. But he feared death—feared being devoured by those zombified carriers. The mental image of his arm being torn off, his intestines ripped out and fed into a zombie's maw, filled him with primal terror. Pacing restlessly around the room, he struggled to settle.

  He grabbed a bottle of brandy from the fridge and took a deep swig. The burn of alcohol finally steadied him. With societal order collapsed and taxpayers stripped of government or police protection, seeking help outdoors was futile. The horde below hungered for foolish prey. Alaric sat before his computer to strategize survival priorities: food, water, and weapons. He bitterly regretted dismissing his father's firearm training—his current ignorance of guns left him no choice but to improvise melee weapons.

  Tap water was untrustworthy; who knew if corpses floated in reservoir tanks? Thankfully, his habit of ordering bottled water left two full barrels—a temporary reprieve from thirst.

  Next came food inventory. His routine of monthly grocery runs after rent collection on the 10th meant supplies would last only ten days. Today was the 1st. Forbidden from using lights, he scavenged through his cluttered home via phone flashlight. After hours of chaotic searching, he cataloged all provisions: compressed biscuits, canned food, dried fish fillets, instant noodles, milk, steak, cheese, eggs, flour, salt, sugar, two barrels of water, and ten cigarette packs. No vegetables. He patted his stomach—strict rationing might stretch this to a month.

  Finally, securing his shelter. His late-20th-century two-story house stood behind iron gates, which normally deterred infected—unless they detected living prey inside. His computer room on the second floor offered full visibility through windows. He stealthily checked the reinforced front door on the ground floor, sealing all gaps with duct tape. Newspaper covered every window except his observation slit, curtains drawn tight.

  By midnight, sweat-drenched and exhausted, Alaric reviewed his preparations. Electricity remained functional—for now. Jelen City's hydroelectric power station might sustain it for months. But without network maintenance, internet collapse was imminent. His devices would soon become useless. He spent the night downloading survival guides: wilderness skills, wound treatment, improvised weapons, water purification. By dawn, his computer had transformed into a survival encyclopedia.

  Alaric had worked through the night, and the half-pack of compressed biscuits he'd eaten earlier seemed completely digested. The gnawing sensation of hunger surged through his brain again. He forced himself not to look at the remaining instant noodle packets on the writing desk - their food supplies were dwindling, and he needed to ration carefully. Once provisions ran out, human instinct would plunge into despair and fear, leading to complete psychological collapse.

  He could only pour himself a glass of water and gulp it down fiercely, seeking temporary fullness. For the past half-month since the viral outbreak, every morning he awoke questioning whether this nightmare existence was real. The instant noodles were gone. The eggs were gone. Three packs of compressed biscuits remained - barely enough for two days at half-pack per meal, one and a half packs daily. Before the crisis, he'd devoured two packs plus two fried eggs in single sitting. The flour and rice had to be preserved. If he ventured out for supplies, he'd need proper meals to maintain strength against the infected.

  Ironically, what he'd struggled to achieve through diets before - losing five pounds in half a month - now came effortlessly. Alaric found this darkly amusing yet tearfully tragic. Though usually carefree, his sister's unknown fate in another city weighed heavily. In disasters, familial bonds became painfully precious. With the internet collapsing over these weeks, he'd spent countless hours revisiting memories: parents alive and family united, teachers' smiling faces from school days, his first childhood crush, former colleagues, even the pretty barista at the street café. Now his greatest enemy wasn't the zombies outside, but soul-crushing loneliness - the terrifying isolation of being the last human surrounded by enemies. Even his despised former supervisor would feel like family now.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  His sister's phone remained unreachable, likely signaling tragedy. Yet he still prayed for a miracle - that she might appear safely before him someday.

  Outside his window, zombies still shuffled below. Occasionally he recognized neighbors among the horde. The street lay strewn with broken glass, overturned cars, scattered debris, and tattered clothing clinging to bleached bones. Sometimes Alaric fantasized about joining the zombie throng - better than this lonely, half-starved existence. Yet he couldn't stomach their repulsive lifestyle. Nor could he bear contemplating starvation's slow death or being devoured by infected former loved ones.

  Despair overwhelmed him. Convinced death remained his only escape, he numbly retrieved the kitchen cleaver. Pressing the blade to his neck, he shut his eyes and gripped the handle. A single slash would end everything. Yet when his wrist ached from the strain, he still couldn't commit. Suicide required more courage than he possessed. Dropping the blade, he collapsed weeping to the floor - a terrified, ordinary man fearing death's finality.

  Self-loathing consumed him - mediocre student, underperforming employee, now even suicide's coward. As emotions ebbed, new perspective emerged: When 90% of humanity had turned, when 6.3 billion were infected, why did he remain immune? Had God granted him special purpose? Having survived countless video game battles, why not treat real-world survival as his ultimate game? However disastrous the start, shouldn't he at least play seriously before conceding defeat?

  His watch showed 10:17 AM. To avoid starvation, he must confront the zombies. Through weeks of observation, he'd studied their movement patterns and feeding cycles. Notably, the shambling figures near his residence remained consistent - no newcomers joined the local horde. Creeping to the front room, he carefully peeled back a newspaper patch covering the window.

  His elderly neighbor's backyard vegetable patch caught his eye - rows of plump cabbages glistening verdant and tender. Saliva flooded his mouth at the sight; fresh greens had been absent from his diet for weeks. Tearing his gaze from the vegetables, he assessed the terrain. The neighbor's low fence had a two-person-wide breach - perfect for covert access. But reaching it meant crossing 80 feet of road patrolled by six zombies. To safely reach the cabbage patch, he'd need to eliminate at least two

  Here is the faithful English translation of the content, maintaining all details and contextual accuracy while preserving character information:

  Alaric knew bare hands wouldn't work against zombies. He needed proper weapons. Rifling through his father's toolbox, he first picked up a ten-pound sledgehammer but shook his head immediately - too heavy for his strength. After more searching, he found a wooden baseball bat. Testing its weight, he nodded approval. In the kitchen, he grabbed a tin pot lid as makeshift shield. After observing through the window, he seized his moment and slipped out quietly.

  His plan: eliminate the zombie near the cabbage patch first. It stood too close to the vegetables - no way to harvest undetected. He needed to gather as much cabbage as possible within one minute before the horde across the street noticed. Wearing military combat boots, his father's woolen military coat, and thick leather gloves, he quietly unlatched the iron gate. As he crossed the road, the garden zombie suddenly turned and spotted him.

  The zombie paused, then charged with ferocity. This was Alaric's first close encounter - grayish skin, milky-white eyes, a gaping mouth large enough to fit a fist, filled with black-yellow triangular teeth. The putrid stench hit him before the claws could. Fighting nausea, he raised his pot-lid shield. The impact numbed his arm, but muscle memory from past fights kicked in. He swung the bat with full force, smashing the zombie's head. It collapsed. Remembering news reports about headshots being critical, he delivered three more crushing blows until the skull caved in.

  "Not so hard after all," he thought without celebration. Rushing to the cabbage patch, he frantically uprooted vegetables into his sack. Peripheral vision caught movement - a zombie from the cottage was shambling toward him. "Dear God, please slow that thing down," he prayed, stuffing more cabbages. When the creature closed within 20 feet, he grabbed his sack and weapons, sprinting homeward.

  A zombie suddenly lunged from his house's corner, decaying claws inches from his eyes. Death's certainty choked his scream. His legs buckled, shield clattering away as he fell. The attacking zombie tripped over the discarded lid. Seizing the chance, Alaric battered its skull madly with the bat. When clarity returned, the head was pulped - black ooze pooling beneath, stench overwhelming.

  Zombies at the fence noticed him now - three muscular ones leading, followed by a mutated elderly woman he recognized: his neighbor, the cabbage patch's owner. All four snarled hungrily, 30 feet away. Alaric scrambled up, abandoning his shield as he bolted inside.

  Bolting the security door, he leaned against cold steel, exhaling deeply. Safety. His clothes reeked of zombie gore. He rushed to wash up, changing immediately.

  Arranging his haul, he counted ten cabbages weighing over twenty pounds. Outside, frustrated zombies scratched at the metal door, their angry howls echoing. For the first time, Alaric felt genuine hope about survival.

  Hey everyone!

  My new book is live, and some character names are still up for grabs!

  Drop your suggestions in the comments—whether it’s a name you adore, one you despise,

  or even your own (if you’re cool with that).

  Let’s build this story together!