C7 Nightmare of the Rainy
On the 38th day following the virus outbreak, the world finally saw the first rain since the apocalypse—a torrential downpour that was nothing short of terrifying.
"Da Da Da Da Da..."
Raindrops pummeled the windows, creating a dull, thudding sound. The cacophony of thunder, rain, and the howls of zombies in the streets blended into a symphony of doom, casting a ghastly pall over the night.
"What a cursed night! What a cursed deluge!"
Willett muttered curses under his breath from his balcony. He wondered if the thunder had somehow reached the zombies' diminished sense of hearing, as they seemed unusually agitated tonight. Zombies roamed aimlessly, searching for survivors. The thunder seemed to whisper human voices into their ears, fueling their bloodlust and hunger. In packs, the zombies began to tear apart any obstacle in their path, howling and rampaging forward.
"Damn this relentless thunder!"
Willett watched the sky, where lightning streaked intermittently, as he anxiously surveyed his surroundings.
He knew that zombies relied on smell and hearing to locate their prey, their remaining instincts heightened after the loss of touch and sight. Even the faintest noise or the slightest scent of blood could draw a horde of them. The thunderous noise of the night likely roused every zombie around, but the pouring rain masked all scents. To the zombies, it must seem as if food was everywhere, yet elusive, driving their starvation into a frenzy of anger and madness. They began to mindlessly destroy anything they could, and that was what the survivors feared most—random destruction often led to unintended consequences.
"Ah!"
A piercing scream echoed from an old wooden house not far from Willett's home, likely from a young man who had been hiding there. It was a pity; such a place would normally offer safety, as long as one remained silent and the doors were securely locked. But tonight, the storm seemed to have driven a few zombies into a frenzy. They battered the frail wooden door, and it wasn't long before they shattered it and surged in, eager to feast on their newfound prey.
The screams were fleeting, and in an instant, the boy was silenced. He was either completely obliterated or had joined the ranks of the undead. Willett watched everything unfold with a heavy heart, fighting the urge to scream out in terror. He was petrified at the thought of being the next casualty. Everything had seemed so secure before—why did this cursed rain and the damned thunder have to happen?
Suddenly, a dull thud echoed, causing his pupils to constrict. He glanced downstairs and cursed under his breath. The very scenario he dreaded was unfolding. A group of seven or eight zombies was assaulting his front door. Though the door was steel and robust, it wouldn't hold up against the relentless barrage for long. No way could he let the zombies overrun his final stronghold. If they breached his defenses, he'd have no escape.
With this in mind, Willett swiftly grabbed his makeshift spear and the small iron stool he used as a shield and charged downstairs. Yet, he had still underestimated the zombies' frenzy. They rammed the door with all their might, heedless of the bloodshed, one even smashing its head open and collapsing to the side, motionless. The others filled the gap, continuing their assault. By the time Willett reached the ground floor, the door was already buckling.
"Damn, this is it!" he muttered, standing at the foot of the stairs as the door twisted and fell. Already, four or five zombies had stormed in, drawn to his scent, and lunged at him with ravenous hunger.
But Willett was no longer the novice he had been moments before. Despite the dire situation, he steadied himself. He dashed up a few steps and positioned himself inside the stairwell. The stairs were narrow; his parents had designed them that way during the house's renovation to maximize the living space. Barely a meter wide, they could only accommodate one or two people at a time, and now, only one or two zombies could pass. Unbeknownst to his parents, their modest alteration had become their son's lifesaver. Willett stood at the top of the stairs, using the iron stool as a shield against the leading zombies while clutching the sharp spear in his right hand. He felt the icy sensation of the metal and, with a swift motion, thrust the spearhead viciously into the skulls of the advancing zombies. "Puff!"
The sound of blades slicing through flesh rang out as two zombies' heads were punctured by transparent holes, and a blue liquid began to secrete from their bodies, coiling around Willett's arm. The liquid's chill seeped into his brain, invigorating him. With the cooling sensation provided by the blue substance, he was confident he could hold his ground for an extended period.
Zombies increasingly invaded Willett's home, ascending the staircase and lunging at him in an orderly assault. Willett's task was simple: use the iron stool to fend off the zombies, take aim at their heads, and eliminate them one by one, absorbing their energy to sustain himself. He had no idea how long the slaughter would last or how long he could endure. The only thought in his mind was to "Kill!"
As dawn approached and the rain subsided, Willett's carnage persisted. He operated like an automaton, mechanically pushing the stool, thrusting the spear, and retrieving it. He lost count of the zombies he had dispatched, aware only that the staircase was now carpeted with their remains, with more clambering over the bodies to advance. Left with no choice, he retreated and continued his relentless onslaught. After what seemed like an eternity, he realized with astonishment that the stairwell was completely clogged with the corpses of the undead. Peering through the gaps, a sea of zombie heads swam before his eyes. The sheer number made it clear that he could never eliminate them all. A night of fierce combat had left his muscles aching and his limbs feeble. Starving and exhausted, he should have been depleted of strength, but his survival instinct propelled him onward.
The staircase was constructed of reinforced concrete, interlaced with steel bars, making it exceptionally sturdy and durable—a safe choice for any household. But in that moment, Willett found himself wishing the staircase would crumble like a shoddy construction project. Despite his considerable strength, his hammer blows only managed to chip away a modest notch in the concrete. The sounds from below grew ever closer; it seemed the zombies had ascended to the second floor. Willett was acutely aware that it was a race against time. If he could break the staircase and create a gap, he could make his escape. If not, and the zombies reached him before he could clear a path, he would be engulfed by the sea of corpses. As the growls drew nearer, Willett gritted his teeth and hammered away relentlessly. Nothing else mattered now—not even the blood seeping from the split in his hand caused by the hammer's recoil could slow his pace. The zombies below, as if drawn by the scent of his blood, became more frenzied, their roars louder and their ascent quicker.
At last, a significant crack formed in the staircase, but the zombies' roars were right on top of him. Willett looked up in alarm to see the leading zombies had reached the fourth-floor staircase and were lunging at him. With no time to switch to his short spear, he hoisted the hammer with all his might and brought it crashing down on the heads of the advancing zombies. With a sickening squelch, the lead zombie's head and neck were smashed into its torso, and it toppled backward, taking down several others in its wake. Seizing this brief respite, Willett pounded the staircase with renewed vigor, widening the crack. However, it still wasn't enough to prevent the zombies from coming at him; he would need to demolish the remaining meter of the staircase to stop them. As the fallen zombies began to rise again and more swarmed up the staircase in a relentless tide, it was impossible to count their numbers. Biting back his fear, Willett continued to swing his hammer, determined to shatter both the staircase and any zombie that drew near. His sweat blurred his vision, and his hammering slowed, his lips turning pale. His body wavered. "Is this the end?" he wondered.
He chuckled wryly, eyeing the relentless onslaught of zombies lunging at him in waves. His stamina was depleted, the breach still not fully open, and he had abandoned any hope of survival. Barely mustering the energy to flee, he faced the imminent attack with a defiant sneer, "Think you can feast on me? Let's see who's got the bite for it. Come at me, damn it!"
With his remaining strength, he hoisted the hammer and let it drop, targeting the zombie's head. The decayed skull shattered, splattering his face with brain matter, and at that moment, a blue liquid once again infiltrated his body.
Willett had lost faith in the liquid's power. Throughout the night, he had slain countless zombies, each contributing a trace of blue fluid. But after the initial few, the liquid seemed futile. At best, he felt a cool breeze wafting through his mind with each kill, a mere trifle. It was as though he had become immune to the mysterious substance, rendering it useless. Yet, when he expended his final ounce of energy to dispatch this last zombie, his head exploded with a "boom!"—a pain so profound it was akin to the first time he encountered the blue liquid. With this excruciating surge, his limbs rediscovered their vigor.
Gritting his teeth against the mounting agony, his strength swelled. His right arm began to bulge unnaturally, pulsing with a strange energy, grotesquely disproportionate like a well-built man suddenly sporting a Terminator's limb. As his muscles expanded, Willett felt an overwhelming urge to release this newfound power. He swung the hammer with all his might, and with a thunderous "Bang!" the world turned to dust and chaos. Drained of all strength, he collapsed backward, catching a glimpse of the pulverized zombies and the shattered staircase, now just debris tumbling into the abyss, as darkness closed in.
Then, there was darkness...