Eat Human

Although that feeble defensive line was quickly overrun by a horde of zombies drawn by the news, even the military was scared off and scattered in every direction.

Poor people—with bullets flying in front of them and bloodthirsty zombies behind—they could only scatter in every direction, desperately searching for a "safe zone" in the city, hiding trembling until either discovered by zombies or finding the right moment to escape the city.

The irony was palpable—because the military didn't have enough men. With the nationwide outbreak of the T-virus, millions of troops were scattered across hundreds of cities. How could they possibly block off zombies running wild everywhere?

That defensive line soon collapsed under the zombie onslaught, and even the armed soldiers bolted.

One could only imagine that ordinary civilians, like panicked rabbits, would scramble into any hole they could find.

John's eyes burned blood-red as he stared at building after building, thinking that these skyscrapers must be hiding plenty of humans.

After all, most zombies are too weak; coming down from a building is easy for them, but going up is another story.

With that thought in mind, John eagerly climbed the stairs, secretly planning his next move.

He struggled his way up floor after floor in a building that had over sixty stories, taking about ten minutes per floor—it was an exhausting climb.

He'd once pulled off a burglary and checked the residents' roster, so he knew that most of the tenants were single workers—mostly young.

John didn't want to finally find a target only to be ambushed by a bunch of burly guys with lethal firearms, ending with a headshot.

Along the way, he encountered many zombies coming down from the building. With their low intelligence, they had no clue why John was climbing so hard.

They stared at him with bloodshot, vacant eyes, which made him so angry that he reached out and slapped one of them hard, watching it tumble awkwardly on the stairs as he silently vented his frustration.

Alas, only the strong find a way out, while the weak are doomed to starve.

The thought of devouring meat grew more and more urgent in John's mind, but his body was too worn out; the energy from those extra pounds of meat was slowly draining away with every flight of stairs.

He glanced at the floor indicator and noticed he'd reached the 46th floor—finally, a bit of hope.

Taking a short break around a corner, he sharpened his pointed teeth while drool dripped from his mouth, then began searching room by room.

To his dismay, every apartment door on the 46th floor was tightly closed.

Staring at one sturdy iron door after another, and thinking about the arduous climb he'd just endured, John almost passed out from rage.

Just as he was wallowing in self-pity and about to give up, his keen ears caught a "zz" sound—the noise of shoes scraping on the floor!

John's heart nearly stopped. He mustered every bit of strength to slip into a nearby safe passage and peeked through the door crack.

After a moment, a woman in her thirties dressed in white slowly appeared. She moved cautiously, glanced around a few times, then gently closed the door and strolled toward the safe passage.

Hiding behind the door, John's mind screamed, "I want to eat people! I want to savor every bit of a person!"

But when he actually saw her, his once surging bloodthirsty instinct was suddenly suppressed by a wave of conflicting emotions.

Just days ago, he had been living like an ordinary human; now he was like this… The chaos and internal struggle nearly made him want to jump from the 46th floor and end it all.

The woman in white continued to walk forward. For some reason, she abandoned the relatively safe area and risked coming out. Perhaps she, too, was desperate with hunger.

At that thought, John felt a twinge of sorrow.

After entering the safe passage, the white-clad woman slowly descended the stairs, clearly unaware of John hiding behind the door.

Her long, graceful neck and well-maintained, curvy figure—despite being in her thirties—awakened the beastly hunger in John's heart.

She had tied her hair into a simple ponytail, with a few loose strands casually brushed behind her ears.

Tears seemed to well up in the corner of his eyes—was it regret or sorrow? Whatever it was, John couldn't hold back any longer.

Finally, John lunged out from his hiding spot. In that moment, he didn't care if the woman screamed, nor did he pay attention to the cries of his companions nearby. All that mattered was that he bit fiercely into her neck with his razor-sharp teeth.

Blood spurted out instantly, gushing into his starving throat—so much that his vision blurred, as if stained by both blood and tears.

After his feast, John gradually regained his strength.

Clutching the white-clad woman's key in his mouth, he used his teeth to pry open a door and then bit down hard on her clothes, struggling with every ounce of strength to drag her into a room.

John wasn't about to share this rare feast with flies or other zombies—he knew the scent of fresh blood would soon attract a swarm of zombies to cause trouble!

This sumptuous meal was meant for him alone!

Staring at the lonely moon on the horizon, with his face smeared in blood and gore, John almost wanted to cry—but all that came out was a hoarse, hissing sound.

…

As the sun set once again, John lay comfortably on a wide, soft, and bouncy sofa.

He couldn't even remember how many days had passed—maybe half a month.

During that time, he'd managed to find an opportunity to bite a man to death, and his stomach had long forgotten what hunger felt like.

His strength was growing too; the thin scalpel that he once couldn't even hold was now manageable and wouldn't slip from his grasp so easily.

It was ironic—now that he'd become a zombie, he was still racking his brains over what to do with that scalpel. Was he even thinking of using it for self-defense? He just didn't know what he was doing.

No, no—in the world of zombies, it's still survival of the fittest, even more raw and brutal.

For the sake of fighting over a scrap of flesh, a glance, or even a slightly more comfortable place to rest, bloody brawls and fights could erupt at any moment.

Fights between zombies weren't about politeness or exchanging insults—they were like street bullfights, where once the brawl started, it wouldn't stop until one side was dead.