No Rest for the Weary
I had ended up inside a zombie apocalypse novel. But just because I was lying down didn't mean I could rest. The constant banging from the front door made sure of that. I wasn't nearly gutsy enough to ignore the racket and fall asleep, so I had to come up with some kind of plan.
First things first: I needed to scout escape routes. I scanned the room. "The veranda...?"
Luckily, it looked like I could get out that way. Nothing seemed to be moving outside. Better yet, the veranda connected to the room where the manager's corpse lay. So the plan took shape: lock the living room veranda door, rest in the manager's room. Even if the front door gave way, I could barricade myself in there. After getting some real sleep, I'd slip out through the veranda. It was a decently detailed scheme, all things considered. I moved immediately.
I shut the living room veranda door and drew the curtains so nothing could see inside. Tearing my eyes away from the still-rattling front entrance, I hauled everything I might need into the manager's room. Then I closed that door and, straining hard, shoved the densely packed bookshelf in front of it to block the way.
The zombie stench was pretty nauseating, but I could tolerate it. Smell is the sense that fatigues fastest, after all. I'd adapt soon enough.
.........
The sound, though. That was unbearable. Every knock made zombie groans echo in my head like hallucinations. In the end I had no choice but to jam the cat-ear headset over my ears and use the overstuffed backpack as a pillow.
Thankfully, once the noise was muffled I managed to sleep fairly comfortably. I'd been exhausted beyond belief; when I finally came to, it was already five in the morning the next day.
"...Clock."
I needed a way to tell time, preferably something that didn't rely on batteries or electricity. Fortunately I spotted a watch on the manager's arm poking out from under the blanket. A note said not to feel guilty about using the deceased's belongings, so I took it. The watch was still running; it looked like he'd maintained it well. It was even the wind-up kind.
"Fuck."
On the back, the manager's name was engraved beside a little heart. It read "Our son." Must have been a gift from his parents. My mood soured instantly, but there was nothing I could do about it. I carefully snipped the strap with scissors and slipped just the watch into my pocket.
After that I sat there blankly staring into space for a while. When I snapped out of it, I realized I'd been so focused that I could actually hear the ticking from inside my pocket. I checked how much time had passed, then frantically crushed a pack of ramen noodles inside its bag. I sprinkled the soup powder over it, sealed the bag, and shook it hard so the seasoning coated everything evenly.
"Not bad."
It was the kind of food I wouldn't have looked at twice before. I'd have laughed and asked why anyone would buy ramen just to eat it like this. But right now it tasted genuinely good. The texture I used to hate actually felt satisfying.
I downed two packs, then drank about half a bottle of water. Stuffing the rest of the necessities into my bag, I checked for anything else useful. Luckily I found a fanny pack in the room.
"Lucky break."
I loaded the remaining food and less-critical medicine into it and strapped the pack around my waist. Then I tore open some gauze to treat the wound on my left arm.
"Fuck."
I'd thought it was healed because it didn't hurt, but the second I touched it pain flooded in. I gritted my teeth, applied more ointment generously on both sides, and wrapped it with fresh gauze. Hurry up and heal already.
With that done I slowly opened the veranda door, crouched low, and crept across it. All I had to do now was check below, drop down, and run.
"Ah."
I had to be careful. It looked like the zombies had finally broken through the front door overnight; I could see their feet through the gap in the curtains. This glass door clearly wasn't strong enough to hold them back. The lock might buy me thirty seconds at best. I shouldn't count on more.
.........
The railing to the ground looked like roughly eighty centimeters. I had to drop that distance—half my height—while carrying heavy bags and using only one hand. The thought of whether I could actually pull it off crossed my mind, but I clenched my teeth. I had to.
I gripped the baseball bat tightly, slipped off the headset I'd been wearing, and tightened it around my neck so I wouldn't lose it. Then I stepped on the outdoor AC unit, climbed onto the railing, sat on the edge, and slid down to the ground.
"Ugh!"
Everything had gone fine until I forgot the ground wasn't perfectly flat. I must have landed on something uneven; stinging pain shot up both legs. But there was no time to stop. I couldn't hide anywhere anymore. I had to get out of this officetel as fast as humanly possible.
I scrambled up and forced myself to run. Thankfully the pain in my feet faded after a few moments.
.........
Conceal. Cover. Conceal. Cover. Then get somewhere safe. My heart hammered and my head spun. Instinct told me to stay out of sight, so I used cars and buildings for cover. Beyond that I had no real plan. I was just hiding clumsily, running clumsily, surviving clumsily.
"Fuck."
Would things have been easier if I'd gone to the military? At least then I could've pretended to be one of those female high-school vets. But I was a fat normie through and through. I'd started gaining weight in my second year of high school just to dodge the draft, and I'd even faked a mental illness I didn't have. I was an expert at writing suicide notes and stirring up gallery drama, but this situation was completely outside my skill set.
Still, my luck wasn't the worst. I reached the main road without any zombies spotting me. Crossing it, though, looked dangerous. The road was wide open. Well, not completely—crashed cars from drivers who'd turned mid-accident provided at least some cover. But there was no telling what might be lurking behind them. A zombie trapped by its seatbelt, screaming? Or half a body under a car, ready to grab my ankle? Even the author wouldn't know.
The thought suddenly made me furious.
"You bastard. No matter what, this is too far. You reincarnated me?"
I had never written one of those long 5,700-character rage posts that were the standard for reincarnation stories. Not during the BL drift arc, not when the author got caught jerking off, not in any of the countless other situations. I'd only ever posted suicide notes. Oh, and I had caused plenty of chaos. Still, I'd never sent any long messages. ...Well, I had spread a ton of bait using the author's name and his parents' names in the gallery, but that wasn't just me. So it felt unfair that I alone had been thrown into this novel.
Complaining wouldn't change anything. I had zero intention of becoming a zombie's meal, so I took a slow breath and burned the escape route into my memory.
First, sprint at full speed to the car in the middle of the road and hide. Then move to the car that had slammed into the traffic light, hide there, and immediately dash to the building with the PC Bang. If anything went wrong, I could hide in the bathroom.
With the plan set, I moved. This time I reached the car without being spotted.
.........
Zombies at this stage didn't have great vision. That was a relief. The fucked-up setting where evolved survivors caused zombies to evolve too meant going outside would only get more dangerous. Those damn variants would turn spacing out into a death sentence later on. Come to think of it, there was also a setting that the more zombies you killed, the stronger the host virus became. I'd have to kill one or two when I had the chance, I decided as I moved to the next car.
The instant I hid, a child zombie crawled out from under the vehicle like it had been waiting. It grabbed my ankle. Heart pounding, I stomped on its hand with my other foot and crushed it. Luckily I didn't scream. My heart had nearly stopped, but since I hadn't made a sound it was fine.
Before any more could appear, I sprinted toward the building at full speed. The PC Bang was in the basement, so I headed for the stairs—then a new worry hit me. What if people were already barricaded inside? Not everyone would have fled outside just because the outbreak started. But I was already running, and the horrible zombie chorus was ringing in my ears. There was no turning back now.
I slammed into the door with my shoulder. It wouldn't budge. In a panic I saw the "PULL" sign. Of course the novel had specified even this tiny detail. I let out an "Ah," followed by a very loud "Fuck."
"Ah, fuck!"
I yanked the door open, slammed it shut behind me hoping it would hold for even a few seconds, and bolted down the stairs. Terrible moans came from the opposite side too, but thankfully the staircase itself was clear.
I raced down, opened the next door, and cursed again.
"This is fucked!"
The shutter was only halfway down, so I'd have to crawl. Still, half-down was better than fully closed. I dropped flat and wriggled into the PC Bang, then pulled the door so it would latch and lowered the shutter the rest of the way.
.........
No presence of anyone inside. But I wasn't stupid enough to let my guard down. My left arm had taught me that lesson the hard way. I gripped the baseball bat and swept the room. Fortunately, it looked like I was the only one there.