Day 1 - The End Begins

The world ended on a Tuesday.

Jackson Cole had been drinking stale coffee in the dimly lit booth of K-102 when the first reports crackled through the emergency broadcast system. Riots downtown. Hospitals overwhelmed. National Guard mobilized.

He’d seen enough disaster headlines to recognize the signs. This wasn’t just another flu, another seasonal panic. This was something worse.

By nightfall, the city had collapsed into chaos. Power outages spread like ink in water. People screamed in the streets. Gunshots echoed through the alleys. And the worst part? The silence that followed.

Then came the monsters.

They weren’t the sluggish, arms-outstretched zombies from old movies. These things were fast when they smelled blood, but slow when left alone, wandering aimlessly until the next hunt. Their eyes were vacant, their skin pale and stretched tight over their bones.

Jackson had locked himself inside the station, barricading the doors with old furniture and radio equipment. The building was sturdy, meant to withstand storms. He had canned food in the break room, a few bottles of water, and—most importantly—an emergency generator.

When the city went dark, he was still on the air.

---

Day 5 - The Last Voice

“—this is Jackson Cole, broadcasting from K-102. If you’re out there, you’re not alone.”

The words felt like an empty promise.

Every night, he spoke into the microphone, telling stories, reading from old books, playing music from the station’s archives. The sound of his own voice kept him sane.

But the static never answered.

The world outside had grown quiet. Too quiet. He’d spent hours staring through the cracks in the boarded-up windows, watching the dead shuffle aimlessly. Sometimes, he saw movement that wasn’t them—a shadow darting between cars, a figure sprinting across rooftops. Survivors. Maybe.

Or just the last desperate people trying to outrun the inevitable.

---

Day 12 - A New Voice

It happened just as he was about to sign off.

The static shifted. A faint crackle. Then—a voice.

“Hello? Is… is someone there?”

Jackson’s breath caught. He nearly dropped the mic.

“Yes! Yes, this is Jackson. Who is this?”

Silence. Then, a weak, static-laced response.

“My name is Sam. I’m in Riverside. We have survivors here. Food. Shelter. If you can make it, come.”

Jackson clenched his fists. Hope was dangerous. Hope could get you killed.

But he’d been alone for too long.

He clicked the mic one last time. “I’m coming.”

---

Day 13 - The Journey Begins

The city was worse than he imagined.

Corpses littered the streets, most of them long since picked clean by the infected or by something else. Cars were abandoned in tangled wrecks. Buildings had burned, leaving skeletal remains of homes and businesses.

And the air smelled like rot.

Jackson moved carefully, a baseball bat gripped in his hands. He had an old revolver at his hip—only five bullets. Enough to save himself, if it came to that.

Riverside was twenty miles away.

It might as well have been the other side of the world.

---

Day 15 - The Wrong Kind of Survivors

He found the first trap by accident.

A tripwire, nearly invisible in the moonlight, stretched across the road. If he had been moving any faster, he would have set it off. And judging by the rusted metal spikes buried in the dirt nearby, he wouldn’t have walked away.

Someone else was alive out here.

And they weren’t friendly.

Jackson tightened his grip on the bat and kept moving.

---

Day 18 - The Signal Fades

The radio crackled again, but this time, it wasn’t Sam.

The message was fragmented, barely audible through the static.

“—they’re coming—run—don’t—”

Then, silence.

Jackson’s stomach twisted.

He wasn’t sure what scared him more—the infected… or the people still left alive.

---

Day 20 - The Road to Riverside

He could see the city in the distance. Smoke curled from the ruins, drifting into the sky like a dying breath.

The road ahead was blocked by abandoned cars, but beyond that, a bridge stretched toward Riverside.

Jackson took a deep breath, adjusted the strap on his backpack, and stepped forward.

The dead weren’t the only things hunting in the dark.

And he wasn’t sure what he would find on the other side.

(To Be Continued…)

Day 21-The Bridge

Jackson crouched behind an overturned truck, scanning the bridge ahead. The rusted steel frame stretched across the river like a skeleton, its bones picked clean by time and fire. Cars clogged the lanes, their windows shattered, doors left open in a desperate last escape.

And in the middle of it all, bodies.

Some were fresh—newly turned, their skin still clinging to the illusion of life. Others were old, dried husks that had long since stopped moving.

He wasn’t alone here.

He could hear them—shuffling feet, the occasional gurgle of something that no longer needed to breathe. The infected wandered aimlessly between the wreckage, their movements sluggish in the cold morning air.

Jackson adjusted his grip on the baseball bat. He had two choices: fight his way through or find another route.

Neither option was good.

But the thought of turning back, of sitting alone in that radio station until the batteries ran dry… No. He had to keep moving.

With a slow breath, he stepped onto the bridge.

Day 21 - The First Kill

The first one didn’t notice him. It was hunched over a corpse, gnawing on what used to be a man’s arm. The wet sound of chewing filled the silence.

Jackson moved carefully, heart pounding in his throat.

Just as he was about to pass, his foot caught on a piece of broken glass. A sharp crunch split the air.

The thing’s head snapped up.

For a moment, they locked eyes—his filled with fear, its filled with nothing.

Then it lunged.

Jackson swung.

The bat connected with a sickening crack, and the creature crumpled to the ground, twitching. But it wasn’t dead. Its fingers clawed at the pavement, trying to drag itself toward him.

He brought the bat down again. And again.

By the time he stopped, his arms were shaking. His breath came in ragged gasps.

It was the first time he had killed something that had once been human.

He wished it would be the last.

It wouldn’t be.

Day 21 - The Gunshot

He was halfway across when he heard it.

A gunshot.

Not far—maybe the other side of the bridge.

Then another. And another.

Someone was fighting.

Jackson ducked behind a rusted sedan, peering through the broken windshield. He could see flashes of movement near the exit of the bridge—figures darting between cars, muzzle flashes lighting up the wreckage.

Survivors.

But not just survivors.

He heard shouting—angry, desperate voices. And then, a scream.

Not the infected.

People.

Jackson’s grip tightened on the bat.

He was walking straight into something dangerous.

Day 21 - The Wrong Kind of People

The gunfire had stopped by the time he reached the other side.

Jackson moved carefully, his breath shallow. He stepped over bodies—some infected, some not. Bullet casings littered the ground. A few fires still smoldered in the wreckage.

Then he saw them.

Three men stood near a burned-out truck, rifles slung over their shoulders. Their clothes were ragged, faces smeared with dirt and blood.

Bandits.

Jackson had seen people like them before—desperate men who had given up on saving the world and decided to carve out their own. They took what they wanted. Killed who they wanted.

And right now, they were dragging someone from the wreckage.

A girl.

She was young—maybe sixteen. Her wrists were bound with rope, her face streaked with tears and grime. She kicked and thrashed, but the men only laughed.

Jackson felt his blood turn to ice.

He could turn back.

He could pretend he never saw this.

He could walk away and live.

But instead, he reached for the revolver at his hip.

And stepped forward.

Day 21 - The First Shot

His hands were steady.

“Let her go.”

The words rang out, clear and strong.

The men turned, their laughter fading. One of them—a burly man with a thick beard—sneered. “And who the hell are you supposed to be?”

Jackson cocked the revolver. “Your last mistake.”

For a moment, no one moved.

Then the bearded man grinned.

“You sure about that?”

Jackson saw it a second too late—the fourth man, hidden behind a nearby car. The moment he turned, the gunshot exploded in his ears.

Pain seared through his shoulder, and he stumbled back.

The world blurred.

He hit the pavement hard, his gun skidding from his grip.

He heard the girl scream.

Then darkness took him.

Day 22 - Captured

When Jackson woke, the pain was the first thing he noticed.

A fire burned in his shoulder, and his head throbbed. His hands were bound behind his back, and the floor beneath him was cold concrete.

He wasn’t dead.

But he was close.

A voice spoke nearby. “Told you he wasn’t alone. Ain’t no way some idiot made it this far by himself.”

Jackson blinked, his vision swimming. He was in a small room—an old storage space, maybe. The girl was there too, tied to a chair, her face bruised.

The bandits stood near the door, talking amongst themselves.

Jackson flexed his fingers, testing the rope. It was tight, but not impossible.

He wasn’t done yet.

And if he had one shot left at this…

He wasn’t going to waste it.

(To Be Continued…)

Day 22 - The Plan

Jackson kept his breathing steady, ignoring the fire in his shoulder. The ropes binding his wrists were tight, but not perfect. He flexed his fingers, testing for slack.

The girl, sitting across from him, met his eyes. She looked scared but not broken. Her hands were tied, too, but her fingers twitched—she was testing her bindings just like he was.

Good.

The bandits were still talking near the door, their voices low.

“Boss’ll want to see him,” the bearded man muttered.

Another man scoffed. “He’s bleeding out already. Ain’t gonna last.”

Jackson clenched his jaw. They were underestimating him. That was their first mistake.

He shifted slightly, feeling something press against his lower back—his belt buckle. Metal.

If he could work the ropes against it…

Slowly, carefully, he started rubbing the rope against the metal edge, keeping his movements small. Every second counted.

The girl was watching him closely now. He gave her the smallest nod.

Her lips pressed together. Then, her body sagged forward slightly, like she was giving up. But her fingers kept twitching.

She was waiting for him.

Waiting for her moment.

---

Day 22 - The Break

It took nearly five minutes, but finally, the rope weakened.

Jackson flexed hard—pain shot through his wrists as the fibers tore against his skin, but then—snap.

His hands were free.

The moment he felt the ropes loosen, he moved.

With a sudden burst of energy, he lunged forward, slamming into the nearest bandit. The man barely had time to turn before Jackson drove his shoulder into his gut, sending them both crashing to the ground.

Pain screamed through his wounded arm, but he ignored it.

The girl reacted fast—while the others were distracted, she kicked her legs up, catching a nearby chair leg and knocking it over. The bearded man cursed and turned, reaching for his weapon.

Jackson didn’t give him the chance.

He grabbed the first man’s knife from his belt and plunged it into his throat.

Blood sprayed as the man gurgled and went limp.

The bearded man spun—too slow. The girl lunged at him, biting down on his wrist like a wild animal. He screamed, trying to shake her off.

Jackson didn’t hesitate. He ripped the knife from the dead man’s throat and threw it.

It wasn’t a perfect throw—but it was enough. The blade sank into the bearded man’s chest, and he staggered, choking on his own breath.

The girl scrambled free just as he collapsed.

Two down.

One left.

The last bandit, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, fumbled for his gun. Jackson lunged, but the man was faster—he swung the pistol up, aiming right at Jackson’s head.

Then there was a deafening bang.

For a moment, Jackson thought he was dead.

But then he saw the bandit’s eyes go wide, his body jerking as a fresh hole appeared in his skull.

He dropped.

Behind him, the girl stood, the dead man’s gun still shaking in her hands.

She had pulled the trigger.

She saved him.

Jackson exhaled. “Nice shot.”

She swallowed hard, lowering the gun. “First time I ever fired one.”

Jackson gave her a grim smile. “Could’ve fooled me.”

---

Day 22 - Names

They searched the bodies quickly, gathering whatever they could—ammo, water, a half-eaten protein bar. Jackson found his revolver and tucked it back into his belt.

Then he turned to the girl.

“You okay?”

She nodded, but her hands were still shaking.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She hesitated. Then, “Emily.”

Jackson offered his hand. “Jackson.”

She stared at his outstretched hand for a moment, then shook it.

The gesture felt… human.

And in this world, that meant something.

---

Day 23 - The Escape

They left before sunrise.

The bandits had a truck, but the tires were slashed—probably from a fight before Jackson even got there. Walking was their only option.

Riverside was still ahead.

Jackson didn’t know what they would find there—if Sam’s message was real, if there were actually survivors waiting.

But it was the only hope they had.

And for the first time in a long time, Jackson wasn’t making the journey alone.

---

Day 25 - Riverside

The city rose in the distance, shrouded in morning fog. Smoke curled from the ruins, but Jackson could see something else now—movement.

Lights.

A barricade.

And beyond it, people.

Real people.

Emily let out a shaky breath. “We made it.”

Jackson adjusted his grip on his bat, scanning the road ahead.

They weren’t safe yet.

But they were close.

To Be Continued…