At 7:30 AM, the alarm on his phone jolted Alaric awake. He rose and walked to the living room, following his usual routine of inventorying remaining supplies. The cabbage he'd desperately harvested from the neighboring yard five days ago still occupied more than half the space, with around six pounds of rice remaining. The cigarettes had run out yesterday - the encroaching nicotine cravings felt particularly unpleasant.

  Forget it. This might be the perfect opportunity to quit smoking anyway. A healthy body was the foundation for combating the infected outside. In this world, getting injured or falling ill simply wasn't an option.

  BANG! The iron gate on the first floor shuddered from an impact.

  The zombies had been battering the door incessantly since five days prior. Fortunately, the reinforced metal held firm, though their insatiable hunger kept them permanently camped outside his entrance.

  Alaric couldn't help marveling at their persistent memory. Letting them keep pounding the door wasn't sustainable - it trapped him indoors, condemning him to eventual starvation. Eliminating the half-dozen infected at his doorstep had become imperative.

  The faint stench of decay permeated the air, likely emanating from the rotting corpse of the zombie he'd killed near the gate. Alaric had grown accustomed to the odor. Sometimes he caught himself believing this putrid atmosphere was normal, the civilized world of before fading into distant memory until only primal survival instincts remained.

  Entering the kitchen, he activated the induction cooker to reheat yesterday's leftover boiled cabbage with a packet of instant noodles - his identical morning and evening ration.

  After breakfast, Alaric took his customary position by the computer room window, observing the shambling figures below while contemplating strategies to handle them. The road's terminus dissolved into gloomy, ash-gray skies that hadn't seen sunlight in what felt like ages.

  He desperately wished to see military convoys materialize at that distant horizon - government soldiers armed with flamethrowers, professionally purging the city's infected hordes before warmly greeting him: "Hey friend, you're safe now!"

  But fantasy remained fantasy. The undead still roamed while Alaric's survival calculations continued. Returning to the living room, he began daily physical training - every incremental improvement in stamina could mean the difference between life and death.

  Completing push-ups and sledgehammer swings, Alaric wiped sweat from his brow and settled on the couch to strategize against the four gate-pounders. Without the shield he'd abandoned outside, direct confrontation was too risky. Past encounters proved the infected's low intelligence - exploitation through tactics was essential.

  The outward-swinging iron gate couldn't be secured from inside. His only viable plan: crack the door slightly while stabilizing it, then dispatch the zombies individually through the gap using reach weapons.

  His father's old fishing spear from wilderness trips proved easily retrievable. The solid wooden shaft remained sturdy, though the tip showed rust and dullness. Undeterred, Alaric shattered a ceramic plate, using the shards to repeatedly sharpen the spearhead until its edge gleamed dangerously.

  Next, he had to figure out how to secure the iron door - a high-stakes challenge that held the key to surviving the zombie threat. If the door couldn't be properly fastened after opening, all four zombies would inevitably charge into the house, leaving him no escape except certain death.

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  Frustration mounting, Alaric clawed at his hair before staring blankly at the landline phone. He hadn't paid the phone bill for months. That pretty girl from the service center had probably turned into a zombie too - maybe suffering a worse fate, torn apart and devoured by the undead.

  He sighed heavily, his gaze following the telephone cord toward the window.

  Suddenly, inspiration struck. The telephone cord could serve as rope! If he used rope to latch the iron door from inside, he wouldn't need to worry about zombies breaking through after opening it!

  Of course, the flimsy telephone cord alone wouldn't hold. Alaric began frantically searching his home for stronger rope, but came up empty-handed.

  Instead, he found something better: an iron chain.

  Perfect! Even ten zombies working together couldn't break through secured with this! He fastened the chain between the door handle and stair rail, triple-checking its stability. Gripping his spear, Alaric stood before the door feeling momentarily like a superhero - powerful and invincible.

  This illusion shattered the moment he cracked the door open. Retching violently, he clamped a hand over his nose. The rotting stench from the zombie he'd killed days earlier flooded in, its fermented corpse still lying outside. The putrid air burned his eyes with acrid tears.

  Finding no masks, Alaric improvised with a woolen scarf over his face, sprinkling perfume on the fabric for minimal relief.

  When he reopened the door, a pitch-black zombie claw shot through the gap, its owner desperately squeezing into the narrow opening. Prepared this time, Alaric didn't flinch. He studied the decaying hand - flesh desiccated and dull, bone joints protruding like talons, jagged nails capable of gutting a man with ease.

  The zombie wedged its skull through the gap, shriveled face grinding against metal as it tried to "sharpen" its head for entry. Sunken eye sockets fixed on Alaric, who raised his spear with both hands.

  His first thrust struck clumsily, survival instinct overriding technique. He kept stabbing mindlessly until the first zombie collapsed. Bloodlust awakened, a primal urge to kill surging through him. Suddenly, the horde seemed manageable - with proper tactics, maybe he could slaughter them all single-handedly.

  Two more claws slashed through the opening. Alaric reacted swiftly, jabbing his spear through zombie eye sockets. Black viscous blood oozed from the hollow cavities as the creatures slumped onto their predecessor's corpse.

  "Two left," he muttered, not sparing a glance at the twitching bodies.

  Simple, brutal thrusts dispatched the remaining pair. When the last zombie fell, Alaric faced a new problem - four corpses blocking his doorway. He labored to drag the bodies further away, careful not to venture too far. New zombies could appear any moment, and getting caught outdoors meant certain death.