Leveling up in Dystopia

Shihab, a 20 years old guy let out a deep sigh, his brow slick with sweat, he tightened his grip on the sanding tool. The rhythmic sound of the sandpaper against the wood was a familiar comfort, a small island of control in a sea of hardship. He worked tirelessly, the extra hours his boos forced him to do were a heavy weight on his already weary shoulders. His colleagues, a pack of wolves in sheep's clothing, had once again turned on him, their accusations stinging. They broke a machine and blamed it on him, he tried to explain the situation but his boss wouldn't believe him, as a punishment he forced him to work an extra shift... it all felt like another cruel twist of fate. 

   

As the sun went down. The usual cacophony of machinery and chatter faded, everyone left to go home to their families leaving him behind. He glanced at the clock after hours of hard work. It was almost midnight. Another four hours to go. 

   

Suddenly, a strange noise sliced through the silence. A loud groan, followed by a metallic clang. Shihab froze, his heart pounding against his chest. He strained to listen, his senses on high alert. 

   

"What was that?" he muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper. 

   

 Then came the screaming. It started as a distant wail, quickly escalating into a chorus of terror. The sounds grew closer, echoing through the vast factory, accompanied by the sickening crunch of something being broken. 

   

Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through Shahab's exhaustion. He cautiously moved towards the factory door, his hand trembling as he reached for the handle. Peeking outside, he saw a horrifying scene unfold. People were running, their faces contorted in terror, their cries lost in the growing chaos. And then he saw them. Figures, stumbling and grotesque, with eyes that burned with an unnatural hunger. They were Zombies. 

   

 He gasped, his breath catching in his throat. "Impossible!" he whispered,

Shihab stumbled backward, his mind reeling."Zombies!" The word, ripped from the pages of horror movies, echoed in the sudden silence. He’d always dismissed them as fictional monsters, a product of someone's twisted imagination. Now, they were here, outside, a terrifying reality. 

   

 He slammed the factory door shut, the heavy metal echoing with a finality that did little to soothe his fear. "This can't be happening," he muttered, his voice barely audible. He moved quickly, his movements  backed by a primal instinct for survival.

He locked every door he could find, the click of each lock a small victory amidst the horror. He knew he had to find a secure place, a sanctuary from the nightmare that had unfolded. The manager's office, with its reinforced door and high-up window, seemed the best option. 

   

Once inside, he went to the window and peered out. The street was a scene of chaos, bodies strewn about, the undead shuffling and feasting. He fumbled for his phone, his fingers clumsy with panic. He needed to know if his family was safe. He called his mother first, his heart pounding with each ring. She didn't answer. Then he called his brother, a growing knot of panic tightening in his stomach. Still nothing. He frantically dialed the numbers of his other siblings, a desperate plea for a connection, a sign of life. But all he got was the cold, impersonal voice of voicemail. 

   

 "Please, answer," he whispered, his voice cracking. He was paralyzed by fear, the image of his family in danger burned into his mind. He didn't know what to do, where to go. The weight of his responsibility, the need to protect them, pressed down on him. 

   

 Then he heard it. A relentless, rhythmic pounding. It started as a dull thud and grew into a deafening barrage. He crept towards the stairs, his every sense on high alert. He peered down. The main factory door. The zombies were at the door, their decaying hands clawing and scratching, their relentless banging threatening to break through. 

   

 Terror seized him. He scrambled for anything he could find, dragging heavy equipment, tools, and anything he could find to barricade the door. But the relentless pounding continued, the wood groaning under the relentless assault. He knew it wouldn't hold. 

   

He retreated, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He had to get back to the office. He scrambled back up the stairs, stumbling and falling, his eyes darting around, searching for any sign of movement. He dove under the manager's desk, curling into a fetal position, the cold, hard wood offering little comfort. "What do I do?" he whispered into the silence, the question hanging in the air, unanswered, as the relentless pounding on the door below continued. 

 

Hidden beneath the desk, the harsh reality of his situation crashed over Shihab in a suffocating wave. Tears streamed down his face, hot and bitter, as he whispered, "I can't believe it , is this the end for mr?" The words were a desperate plea, a lament for a life unlived, a future stolen. "Am I going to die in this factory, at such a young age? As a failure?'"

   

 He replayed his life, a rapid montage of missed opportunities and crushing disappointments. Four years in the factory, a constant grind, a dead-end job. No promotion, no better prospects. The money he earned barely kept his family afloat, his mother still battling her illness. He yearned for more, for the dreams he’d been forced to abandon. He longed to go to university, to play football, to graduate and become an engineer, to work in a respected company, to marry and have a family. He wanted to care for his mother and provide for his brothers, to give them a life free from hardship. 

   

  "will I ever see them again? Will I die here? who will support them after  I die!" The thought was a physical blow, a crushing weight on his chest. 

   

 Yet, amidst the despair, a flicker of defiance ignited within him. The thought of his family, their faces etched in his memory,  pushed him into action. He wouldn't give up. He couldn't. He had to find a way out. 

   

 He wiped his tears, the despair replaced by a steely determination. He had to survive. He had to try. He cautiously peeked out from under the desk, his eyes scanning the office for any possible escape route. The roof. He had to get to the roof. 

   

 He crept out of the office and started to move towards the roof, each step was a battle against the fear that threatened to paralyze him. Reaching the roof access, he cautiously pushed the door open and peered out. The factory, once a place of work, was now a prison. The factory was surrounded. Zombies, a sea of rotting flesh and gnashing teeth, were everywhere. They were shuffling, shambling, a relentless tide of the undead, their eyes locked on the building, their hunger insatiable. Escape seemed impossible. But Shihab knew, with a chilling certainty, that he had to try.

The factory entrance below was swarming with the undead, a gruesome site of moaning figures. Escape was his only option. He inhaled deeply, a desperate prayer on his lips, and sprinted towards the edge. 

   

 With a surge of adrenaline, he leaped, soaring through the air before crashing onto the adjacent building. Pain lanced through him as he hit the ground, a searing reminder of his fall. He pushed himself up, ignoring the throbbing in his leg, and took another breath. The next jump was crucial. He reached the edge again, grasped the edge, and hauled himself up, his muscles screaming in protest. One more rooftop separated him from the relative safety of the mountain and the forest beyond. 

   

 He knew the zombies were drawn to the city, to the concentration of human scent. The forest, by comparison, was a haven. He sprinted, his legs burning, toward the final jump. But exhaustion, the relentless enemy, had caught up to him. The distance was farther than he'd realized. His jump fell short. He plummeted, the world tilting violently before his vision exploded with pain. 

   

  The scent of his blood, a siren's call, drew the horde. They converged, a ravenous tide. He struggled to crawl away, but his leg was broken, a useless weight. Despair washed over him, a bitter wave. Tears streamed down his face, a silent testament to his failure. "I'm sorry, Mom," he choked out, the words a broken promise, "I won't be able to help you do the surgery... I failed you." 

   

 Then, a screen materialized before his eyes, shimmering in the air. Two options glowed: [ You Have Been Selected By The System.

You Have Two Options: 1_ Become a Zombie Hunter - Gain new strength and weapons or 2_Decline and Die.]