D-DAY
574 Words
Apartment 6B. 11:02 AM.
(Or, as Dmitry called it: "ass-c***k of dawn.")
The knocking hadn’t stopped.
Tok-tok-tok. Toktoktok. TOKTOKTOKTOK.
It had haunted his door since yesterday. Faster now. Louder. Crazier.
Dmitry—slumped on the floor half-conscious and pissed—finally stood up, scrubbing a hand over his haggard face.
“What did I do to deserve being harassed at this ungodly hour?” he grumbled (ignoring the high sun).
With sluggish, irritated steps, he marched to the door, grabbed the handle, and braced to unleash hell.
As he cracked it open, Dmitry roared:
“HEY! What’s your damn problem bugging me since yesterday?!”
“I owe NO ONE, and I’m NOT joining your cult, dammit!!"
His voice exploded like firecrackers in the empty hallway. He’d yelled without looking—because anyone knocking at dawn deserved pre-emptive curses.
But when he finally saw the figure before him… his words died.
This wasn’t a debt collector. Or a fanatic missionary.
This… was something that had once been human.
Its face was mangled—torn skin, bite marks, blood dripping from its mouth. Empty, terrifying eyes. A low groan rattled from its throat—hungry. Desperate.
Dmitry flinched. His hand flew to slam the door. Too late.
BRAK!
The creature lunged, slamming him to the floor.
“ARGH—f**k!”
They wrestled. Dmitry strained against its arms as teeth snapped toward his face.
His hand scrambled blindly… searching for a weapon… and—yes! An empty glass bottle near the trash.
One swift move—c***k!—he smashed it over the thing’s skull. Shards jutted from the neck. Now a jagged blade in his grip.
STAB! STAB! STAB!
He drove it down—again, again—until the creature stopped moving. Blood (or whatever it was) pooled on his living room floor.
He gasped, trembling. Stared at the corpse. Then muttered flatly:
“Ahh… s**t. That was overkill.”
Just as he tried to stand—thudding footsteps echoed from the hall.
Dmitry whipped his head around. Three more sprinted toward him—faces ruined, bodies bloodied, just like the one he’d killed.
“f**k!"
He slammed the door, locked it, stumbled back. Breath ragged.
“What the hell are they?!” he whispered, panic edging his confusion.
He peeked through the window curtain. And in that moment, the world he knew shattered.
Chaos ruled the streets.
People tearing into each other. Blood everywhere. Screams. Gunfire. Some fought back—knives, pistols—but even when bodies dropped… they rose again.
They got back up.
Dmitry froze. Jaw clenched.
Then he remembered…
“s**t. My big mouth," he muttered, recalling yesterday’s cynical words.
“Well… nothing to do now. It’s not getting better anytime soon.”
He stood. Walked to his room.
Pulled a tactical backpack from the closet. He knew: time to go.
Supplies packed deep: canned food, water, matches, spare batteries. Clothes, gloves, jacket on top.
Food hidden—only one bread roll visible. Like a seasoned survivor who knew how desperate people starve.
From a broom handle, he fashioned a crude spear—sharpened the tip enough to pierce.
Blades tucked into his belt and jacket: a folding knife, scissors, a thick nail.
He stood before the mirror.
Face grim. But a thin smile touched his lips.
“Huuup… Fiuuuh. Let’s get this party started.”
He opened the apartment door. His first step onto a crumbling world.
GAME. START.
- Writer
