Hugo stirred awake, blinking groggily as he adjusted to the dim morning light filtering through the window. He was warm, his body cocooned under his blanket, and for a fleeting second, he almost forgot where he was. Almost.

  Then the dull ache in his arm brought everything rushing back.

  He exhaled sharply, sitting up as his mind fully cleared. Salem was curled up beside him, motionless except for the slow rise and fall of his breathing. The cat’s yellow eyes flicked open, watching Hugo as he moved. Without a sound, Salem hopped down from the bed and padded toward the kitchen.

  Hugo absentmindedly scratched his arm before pulling back his sleeve to check his wound.

  The bandage was still in place, slightly discolored from dried blood. His fingers hesitated before he carefully peeled it back. His heart pounded as he inspected the scratch.

  No redness. No swelling. No dark veins creeping up his skin.

  Just a wound. A plain, ordinary wound.

  He let out a long breath, the tension in his shoulders easing. He wasn’t turning. It had been at least ten hours since the fight, and if anything were going to happen, it would have already.

  "Guess I’m not infected," he muttered, shaking his head. "Not like the movies after all."

  He got to his feet, stretching his stiff limbs, and made his way to the kitchen. Salem flicked his tail and leaped onto the counter, sitting expectantly near the cupboard where Hugo kept the cat food. The silent demand was clear. Hugo chuckled despite himself. "Yeah, yeah. Breakfast."

  The apartment was quiet. For now, things were stable. He poured some cat food into a bowl, watching as Salem immediately began eating. Then, he turned his attention to his own meal, grabbing an apple from his dwindling stash and slicing it up. He scooped out a spoonful of peanut butter from a jar and spread it onto the slices, making a simple but satisfying breakfast.

  Hugo sat at the counter, slowly chewing on the apple and staring blankly at the wall. Last night, he'd decided to take a chance and sleep on the scratch. It had been a gamble, but now he had a confirmed piece of information—scratches didn’t turn people into zombies. That was huge. It meant he could afford minor injuries, that he didn’t have to be terrified of every little scrape.

  But there were still too many unknowns.

  He needed more supplies, and now that he was relatively sure he wouldn’t drop dead from infection, he could plan his next move properly. The apartment he had just cleared still had resources, and there was at least one more unit on his floor he hadn’t gotten into yet.

  Before committing to anything, he decided to do a quick routine check. He walked over to the window, carefully pushing the curtain aside just enough to peek outside. The street below was mostly unchanged—scattered debris, abandoned cars, and a few zombies shambling aimlessly. No new fires, no sudden destruction. Just the same lifeless city he had grown used to.

  He turned his attention to the hallway barricades next. Quietly, he unlocked his door and peeked out. The furniture he had stacked against the stairwells was still in place, and there were no signs of zombies pressing against them anymore. He waited a moment, listening, but heard nothing. That was a good sign. It meant they had moved on, at least for now.

  With his immediate surroundings secure, he turned to the next unpleasant task—getting rid of the bodies in the apartment next door. He couldn’t leave them there to rot.

  Gritting his teeth, he entered the neighboring apartment, dragging a sheet from the bedroom to use as a makeshift body wrap. The first corpse was heavier than he expected, a dead weight that resisted every movement. He grunted as he pulled it across the floor, its limp limbs flopping with sickening looseness. He avoided looking at the face. Once he had it wrapped, he hauled it toward the window, pausing only to check the street below. The coast was clear.

  With a deep breath, he heaved the body over the edge. It fell silently at first, then landed with a sickening crunch on the pavement below. His stomach twisted, but he forced himself to move on.

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  The second body was smaller but just as unsettling. He repeated the process, trying to ignore the way its limbs dangled unnaturally as he dragged it to the window. Another drop, another crunch.

  It was done.

  Hugo leaned against the wall, exhaling sharply. He felt grimy, exhausted, but lighter now that the apartment was cleared. At least now, it wouldn’t stink up the place.

  He took another glance outside. Still no movement. Good.

  His next objective was forming in his mind. Loot the locked apartment. See if it had anything worthwhile. Maybe he could find another weapon, something more reliable than a frying pan and a kitchen knife. He needed to be better prepared if he was going to clear the building.

  Time to see what was behind that locked door.

  Hugo returned to his apartment and grabbed the toolbox he had looted earlier. He took out a screwdriver and a pry bar, weighing his options. If he could wedge the screwdriver into the doorframe and create enough leverage with the pry bar, he might be able to force it open without too much noise.

  He stepped into the hallway, making sure to move quietly. The locked apartment was just a few feet away. He pressed his ear against the door, listening for any movement inside. Nothing. That was a good start.

  He crouched down, wedging the screwdriver between the door and the frame, trying to create a gap wide enough to fit the pry bar. His hands worked carefully, aware that too much force could break the wood and cause a loud crack. He gritted his teeth as he applied slow, steady pressure, feeling the frame give slightly under the tension.

  A soft creak escaped as the wood shifted. Hugo froze, his breath catching. He waited, listening. No sounds from the hallway. No movement from inside.

  Encouraged, he pressed forward, working the pry bar into place. The lock was cheap—nothing heavy-duty. With a little more effort, he felt the final resistance give way. The door popped open just an inch.

  Hugo held his breath and nudged it open further, peering inside.

  Darkness. Silence.

  He tightened his grip on his knife and stepped inside, ready for whatever was waiting beyond the threshold.

  What he found was better than he could have hoped for.

  The apartment was untouched. It was the cleanest, best-stocked place he had seen since this all started. The decor was different—more rugged, a distinctively masculine feel to it. Leather furniture, heavy wooden cabinets, and a faint lingering scent of oil and metal. A biker’s apartment.

  Hugo's eyes immediately landed on a black leather jacket hanging from a coat rack. He stepped closer, running his fingers over the thick material. It was sturdy, durable—a perfect makeshift armor if he reinforced it. With magazines taped around his forearms underneath, it could protect him from bites and scratches.

  Beside it, he spotted something even better—a full-face black motorcycle helmet. His breath hitched. A solid, protective helmet. If he got hit, it wouldn’t be a death sentence. He picked it up, weighing it in his hands. This was a jackpot.

  He moved to the kitchen, rifling through the cabinets. More food than he had found anywhere else. Canned goods, dried pasta, jerky—lots of jerky. It was the best haul yet, and he wasted no time stuffing his bag.

  Moving deeper inside, he spotted a baseball bat leaning against the wall, its surface slightly worn but still solid. Grinning, he picked it up. Finally, a real weapon.

  Near the closet, he found a large green army duffle bag, half-unzipped, revealing more supplies—clothes, tools, even some first-aid items. Hugo exhaled, shaking his head. "Man, whoever you were, you were prepared. Thank you."

  After gathering his loot, Hugo carefully carried everything back to his apartment. He set the bag down and took a deep breath.

  Wasting no time, he began organizing. Food in the kitchen, medical supplies in the bathroom, weapons near the door. Then he turned his attention to his new gear. He slid into the leather jacket, feeling its weight settle over his shoulders. It was snug but durable.

  He grabbed a pair of jeans and, using the duct tape he had scavenged earlier, began reinforcing them. He carefully positioned thick magazines around his forearms and shins, securing them tightly with layers of duct tape. The extra weight was noticeable, but the added protection was worth it. He flexed his arms, testing his mobility. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a hell of a lot better than before.

  Next, he dug through his supplies, assembling a makeshift first aid kit for his backpack. He packed bandages, alcohol wipes, painkillers, and the antibiotics he had found earlier. If he got hurt again, he needed to be able to treat himself immediately.

  Then, he turned his attention to the baseball bat. He pulled out a box of nails from his toolbox and began hammering them through the head of the bat, angling them outward. It was crude, but it would make each swing more devastating. He smirked, gripping the weapon with satisfaction. "Looks straight out of a movie," he muttered.

  By the time he was done, his apartment felt more like a preparation zone than a hiding place. He glanced at Salem, who had taken a seat on the counter, silently watching him. "Not bad, huh?" he said.

  The cat blinked slowly in response.

  For the first time in a while, Hugo felt ready. He wasn’t just surviving anymore.

  He was preparing for whatever came next.

  Before leaving, Hugo took a moment to look at himself in the mirror near the door. The black leather jacket, reinforced jeans, the makeshift armor of magazines taped tightly to his arms and legs—it made him look prepared. Dangerous, even. The motorcycle helmet rested beside him, ready to go. His baseball bat, now lined with jagged nails, hung at his side, and his Japanese kitchen knife was secured in his belt.

  For the first time since this nightmare began, he felt ready. Strong.

  "Alright," he murmured to himself. "Let’s do this."

  With his gear ready, Hugo finally left his apartment, descending the stairs with a newfound sense of confidence. The grip of the bat was firm in his hands, and each step down felt like progress—like he was finally taking control of his situation.

  The moment he turned a corner on the stairwell, he spotted a lone zombie lingering on the landing below. It stood still, almost as if waiting for him.

  Grinning, Hugo tightened his grip on the bat. "Alright, let’s see what this baby can do."

  He stepped forward, swinging hard. The bat connected with the zombie’s skull, but instead of a clean hit, the nails embedded deep into the bone, lodging it in place. The force of the impact made Hugo stumble slightly. He tried to yank the bat free, but the zombie lurched toward him, snarling.

  Cursing, he struggled to pull it out, but it was stuck. The undead clawed at him, its movements jerky and erratic. Hugo barely managed to shove it back with his boot, sending it crashing against the stair railing. With no other option, he let go of the bat and drew his knife in a swift motion.

  With a quick thrust, he buried the blade into the side of its head. The zombie stiffened, then collapsed, motionless.

  Panting, Hugo stared at his bat, still wedged in its skull. "Great. Just great."

  Maybe the nails weren’t such a brilliant idea after all.

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