Hugo sat on the edge of his couch, running through the events of the past hours in his mind. The makeshift barricades he had built were out in the corridor. The weight of exhaustion still pressed on him, but for the first time in days—maybe weeks—he felt a sliver of control over his situation. Both stairwells were blocked. The zombies wouldn’t be able to pour in from every direction like before. He had carved out a piece of safety for himself.

  And now, it was time to push forward.

  He clenched his fists, steeling himself for what came next. He had been avoiding it, but there was no point in delaying anymore—he needed to take care of the two zombies in the apartment next door. He knew there was food in there, supplies he desperately needed. If he could clear it, that would be another safe space he could use.

  This time, he was fighting on his own terms.

  He grabbed his knife and the pan, gripping them tightly. The plan was simple—trap them, take them out one at a time, and keep things quiet. No unnecessary risks. No reckless moves. Just methodical, controlled action.

  Stepping into the hallway, he approached the door to the apartment. It was closed, just as he had left it. His fingers tightened around the handle. He forced himself to breathe slowly, in and out, steadying his nerves. Then, with deliberate slowness, he pushed the door open.

  The stench of decay hit him immediately. The apartment was dim, dust swirling in the weak light from the windows. His eyes flickered across the space. He could hear them before he saw them—low, slow movements, the shuffle of feet dragging across the floor.

  One was near the kitchen, its back turned to him. The other was deeper inside, partially obscured by a wall.

  Good. He could work with this.

  He moved in carefully, positioning himself between the first zombie and the door. He tightened his grip on the pan and exhaled sharply. No hesitation. He lunged forward, swinging the pan with all his strength.

  The metal connected with the back of the zombie’s skull with a sickening crack. It stumbled forward, arms flailing, but he didn’t give it a chance to recover. He followed up with another swing, sending it collapsing onto the floor. It twitched, but he was already on top of it, driving his knife down into its skull.

  One down.

  The second zombie let out a sharp, inhuman scream and turned, barreling toward him. Hugo barely had time to react before it slammed into him, knocking him back. He gritted his teeth, grappling with its weight as it clawed at him. Its fingers raked against his arm, tearing through his sleeve and scraping across his skin. Pain flared as he shoved it off, rolling away before it could pin him.

  Ignoring the sting in his arm, he got back to his feet just as the zombie lunged again. He sidestepped, bringing the pan up in a brutal arc. The impact sent the creature stumbling, giving him just enough time to drive the knife into its temple. The zombie jerked once, then crumpled to the ground.

  Silence filled the apartment, except for his ragged breathing.

  He had done it.

  Hugo took a step back, panting. His arms trembled, not just from exertion, but from the lingering adrenaline flooding his system. He had won. He had actually done it.

  Then, he felt it. The sting on his arm. The unmistakable warmth of blood seeping into his sleeve.

  His breath hitched as his mind caught up to what had just happened.

  Scratched. It look like he couldn't get out of it even after retrying. It was the second time, at the same place. What where the chances?

  His stomach twisted. He had seen enough movies to know what this meant. His pulse pounded in his ears as panic took hold. Was he infected? Was this it? Was he going to turn?

  No. No, he couldn’t let himself spiral. He needed to act—fast.

  He tore off his sleeve, inspecting the wound. It wasn’t deep, but it wasn’t nothing either. His hands shook as he rushed to the bathroom, frantically searching for anything he could use. Water. Soap. Alcohol. Anything to clean it. He turned on the faucet, but nothing came out. Of course—the water was long gone.

  Cursing, he grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the cabinet, hesitating only a second before pouring it over the wound. A sharp, searing pain tore through his arm, but he clenched his teeth and powered through it. He had to make sure it was clean.

  Next, he ripped a strip from his already torn sleeve and wrapped it tightly around the wound. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  His mind still raced. He needed antibiotics. Something to fight infection. He tore through the medicine cabinet, searching through old pill bottles, hoping for anything useful.

  He managed to find some antibiotics. There was no internet anymore, so he couldn't check exactly what they were for, but the name ended in "-yne," and that was close enough for him. He had no choice but to take the gamble.

  There was still more to do, but for now, he had to focus. He had won this fight. Now, he needed to make sure he survived long enough for it to matter.

  He went back to the kitchen, his adrenaline still high but his focus sharper. He methodically searched through the cabinets, grabbing the same food he had found last time—cans of soup and beans, a jar of peanut butter, stale crackers, and a couple of instant noodle packets. He stuffed them into his backpack, ignoring the growing weight. Food meant survival, and he wasn’t about to waste a second trip.

  As he opened the cabinet under the sink, his eyes settled on a red toolbox, slightly rusted but intact. His heart leapt as he pulled it out and flipped it open. Inside, a roll of duct tape lay nestled among a few scattered tools. Relief flooded him.

  "If only I had this before," he muttered to himself, gripping the roll tightly. He could have wrapped his arms in magazines and secured them with duct tape, given himself some protection before the fight. The thought made him grimace—he had been too careless. But now, at least, he had a chance to do better.

  Hugo took one last look around the looted apartment before tightening the straps on his backpack. He had everything he could carry, and staying any longer was a risk. The fight had made too much noise.

  Stepping into the hallway, he moved quickly. The air was thick with tension. Then he heard it—the unmistakable sound of movement. Low, guttural shuffles.

  The zombies in the stairwells had stirred.

  His heart pounded. He stole a glance toward the barricaded stairwell at the end of the hall. The pile of furniture held firm, but the shadows shifting behind it told him all he needed to know—they were pressing against it, trying to find a way through.

  Not waiting to see if the barricade would last, he turned sharply toward his own apartment. His pulse quickened with every step. His fingers fumbled with the doorknob as he risked one last look over his shoulder. A dull thump rang out from the barricade, followed by another. They were getting more aggressive.

  Finally, the door swung open, and he slipped inside, closing it quickly but carefully. His hands trembled as he locked it. He pushed the dresser in front of the door for extra protection and pressed his back against it, listening. His own ragged breathing was the only sound in the apartment.

  For now, the barricades were holding.

  Hugo made his way into the bathroom, unwrapping the crude bandage from his wound. The cut was still raw, the edges slightly swollen, but no worse than before. He pulled out fresh bandages from the first aid kit, carefully disinfecting the wound again before wrapping it up tightly.

  As he secured the bandage, a soft rustling sound drew his attention. He turned to see Salem perched on the sink, watching him with those intense yellow eyes. The cat batted at the roll of gauze beside him, then sat down, tail curling around its paws.

  Hugo sighed, offering a tired smile. "Not much help, are you?"

  Salem blinked slowly, then hopped down onto the floor, rubbing against Hugo’s leg before settling beside him. The warmth of the small body was oddly comforting. Hugo let out a slow breath, leaning against the counter.

  He reached into his bag, pulling out the bottle of antibiotics. With a deep breath, he popped the cap and shook two pills into his palm. Better safe than sorry. He dry-swallowed them, grimacing as they went down.

  His gaze lingered on the bottle. The loop seemed to reset after he slept. But what if the infection took hold in a couple of days? What if he couldn’t do anything about it? If he kept dying from infection over and over, he wouldn’t be able to reset past it.

  A shiver ran down his spine. That would be a real nightmare.

  His fingers tightened around the bottle. What should he do now?

  He sat back on the couch, rubbing his temples. He needed more information about how the loop worked, but testing it meant taking risks he wasn’t ready for. His supplies would last a little longer, but eventually, he’d have to leave the building.

  Salem suddenly let out a small, impatient meow and pawed at Hugo’s leg, staring up at him expectantly. Hugo sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re hungry too."

  He stood up and made his way to the kitchen, grabbing one of the instant ramen packets he had looted earlier. He filled a pot with bottled water and set it on his gas stove, lighting the burner with a small flick of his lighter. As the water heated, he rummaged through his spice collection—one of the few comforts from his past life he still had. He sprinkled in some red pepper flakes and garlic powder before dropping in the noodles.

  As the scent filled the apartment, Salem perched himself on the counter, eyes locked on the pot. "I don’t think you’re gonna like this, buddy," Hugo muttered as he stirred. "Too spicy for you."

  He finished cooking and poured the noodles into a bowl, taking a cautious bite. The warmth spread through him, a small but necessary comfort in the middle of all the chaos.

  Salem, unimpressed, let out another meow. Hugo chuckled. "Fine. I’ll get you something, too. But I’m not sharing my ramen."

  After finishing his ramen, Hugo leaned back, staring at the ceiling. His arm still stung, but nothing more. No fever, no dizziness, no growing hunger for human flesh. Two hours had passed since he’d been scratched.

  Wasn’t that enough time for some kind of reaction?

  He pressed his palm against the bandage, feeling the dull ache beneath. It was just a wound. It hurt, sure, but it wasn’t spreading, wasn’t turning into something worse. Maybe he had gotten lucky. Maybe the scratch hadn’t been deep enough. Or maybe—just maybe—the infection didn’t work the way movies had always made it seem.

  He exhaled slowly, tapping his fingers on the empty ramen bowl. He wasn’t going to get an answer tonight. He could sit here, stressing over it, or he could sleep and see what the morning brought.

  He really didn’t want to have to die and redo it all again.

  With a sigh, he picked up Salem and carried him to the bed. The cat settled against his side, warm and content. Hugo closed his eyes, forcing himself to relax. "Guess we’ll see what happens in the morning," he muttered.

  And for now, that was enough.