Atsuya Kusakabe

Atsuya Kusakabe had lived a life of comfortable, if mundane, rhythms. His days unfolded within the hallowed, often dusty, halls of Jujutsu High, where he taught with a laid-back, almost indifferent air. His income, steady if not lavish, was dedicated to ensuring his younger sister, Usami, received the best treatment for the deep-seated trauma of losing her son, Takera. His biggest headache, typically, was the towering stack of student papers perpetually awaiting his grading. Life, for Atsuya, was a predictable series of minor irritations and quiet responsibilities.

Then came the blaring alerts on every Japanese news channel. A new 'virus' exposure, they claimed. Vaccines were in the works. Maintain a respectful distance, they urged. Atsuya, ever pragmatic, simply adjusted his routine. He had a mask, he wore it. Work beckoned, a living to be made. A mere virus wasn’t going to derail his carefully constructed existence. He continued to commute, to teach, to live.

It wasn’t until a late afternoon, months into the 'new normal,' that Atsuya felt the first tremor of true disruption. He trudged home, bone-weary from a particularly draining day of exercises with the first-years. "I'm home, Usami," he called out, the usual empty echo answering him. He didn’t mind; her quietness was the norm. His steps were soft as he approached her room, intending to check on her, perhaps bring her some tea.

He paused at her half-open door, a faint unease prickling his skin. On the floor, scattered like fallen autumn leaves, lay a dozen empty pill bottles – her anti-anxiety medication, her sleeping aids, all gutted. His stomach plummeted. No… she didn’t, did she? An overdose?

He yanked the door fully open, his voice cracking, "Usami?!" He scanned the room wildly before his gaze snapped to the bathroom door, slightly ajar. He rushed in, flicking on the light. And there she was. Curled on the ground, back to him, shaking. A sigh of relief, ragged and unbidden, escaped his lips. He crouched, his hand reaching, gently touching her shoulder. "Usami, you scared me for a moment. What… what happened?"

But what turned was not his sister. At least, not the Usami he knew. Her skin, once porcelain, was slowly peeling, flaking in grotesque patches as if shedding an old, rotting skin. Her eyes, once soft and haunted, were now bloodshot, distended orbs, devoid of recognition, brimming with a primal, ravenous hunger. She lunged, a guttural snarl tearing from her throat, fingers gnarled and grasping.

Atsuya gasped, scrambling backward, his heart hammering against his ribs. He pushed her off, her frail body stumbling but not falling. She hit the wall with a sickening thud, then began crawling towards him, moaning and groaning like a wild animal. "Usami! Stop it!" he cried, his voice laced with frantic disbelief. "Are you sick?! What's wrong?!"

She tried to reach for him again, her jaw unhinging to reveal rows of surprisingly sharp, discolored teeth. The intent was unmistakable: to bite him, to infect him. Atsuya’s eyes widened in horror, a cold dread seeping into his bones. He jerked back violently, falling onto his ass, yelling, "Stop! Get away from me!"

But she didn't. She lunged again, feral and relentless, getting on top of him. Her weakened body somehow possessed a terrifying strength fueled by… something alien. She fought him, snarling, thrashing, her rotting hands tearing at his clothes, her head thrusting, desperate to sink those teeth into his flesh. To infect him.

Atsuya Kusakabe, a man whose priorities had always been self-preservation and comfort, found his world splintering. His little sister, his Usami, was a monster. Transformed into something unspeakable because she had died, or perhaps before she died, and now she had come back. As what? A… a fucking zombie? The word seared through his mind, unbelievable, horrifying.

He didn't register the precise moment it happened. Only that he was standing, chest heaving, a hot, metallic spray of her blood on his shirt and face. He looked down, then at his hand. Clutched in his grip was a forgotten phone charger, its heavy block end smeared red. And then he remembered the frantic, desperate blows, the sickening crunch against bone, the thrashing beneath him. He had bashed her head in until she went limp, until the bloodshot eyes finally glazed over, truly devoid of life.

He didn't know what happened after that. Time blurred. Only the frantic blare of the news, now screaming about people "transforming into wild, flesh-eating monsters." How, eventually, the power grids flickered and died, plunging the world into a primordial darkness. How everywhere, everyone, wasn't safe. The world had ended, not with a bang, but with a gurgling moan and the rending of flesh.

It had been five years since that day. Five years of perpetual night, punctuated only by the sun’s indifferent return. Five years of surviving. He had tried, he really had, to end it all when the weight became too much. The countless sleepless nights spent huddled in a crappy, scavenged shack, listening for the tell-tale moans of the infected or the hushed whispers of desperate humans. The gnawing hunger, the constant search for meager scraps. He had stared down the barrel of his sniper – a weapon he’d learned to use with terrifying efficiency, an unexpected perk of his defunct hobby of collecting military uniforms. His current attire, a black tactical uniform with a vest, holsters, and heavy combat boots, was no longer a hobby; it was his second skin, his only chance. He had debated pulling the trigger, ending the relentless torment.

But he hadn’t. He couldn’t. Not with Usami’s death etched into his very soul. Even if she was gone before he delivered the killing blow, the memory of what he had done, what he had been forced to do, was a relentless phantom limb. He had to survive. If not for himself, then for the shattered memory of his sister, for the life that had been so cruelly stolen from them both.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. * ੈ✩‧₊˚

Currently, he found himself wandering the skeletal remains of what was once a bustling highway. It was a metal maze of rusted, overturned cars – swerved, crashed, and long-empty – his only obstacle in sight. His sniper was hoisted, its cold weight familiar in his hands. The military uniform, faded and worn, moved with the heavy thud of his combat boots. A small handgun rested in its holster, a last resort. He rolled a strawberry lollipop, a rare find, from one side of his mouth to the other, the sweet taste a small, fleeting reprieve from the ever-present tension.

He was just about to pass entirely through the maze of abandoned vehicles when a faint scream, sharp with terror, pierced the oppressive silence. He froze, gun instinctively raised a fraction, straining his ears. Lately, after everything that had happened, his entire focus was on his own survival. The last time he’d helped a small, helpless group with a horde of infected, they’d stolen his scavenged supplies in the dead of night and vanished, leaving him even more depleted. The only person he could truly rely on was himself. People were selfish, desperate, and he simply didn’t have the resources to survive with someone he couldn't trust.

He debated continuing down the path, letting whatever fate awaited the source of the scream run its course. But then it came again, louder, more desperate, a raw shriek of pure fear. He clenched his jaw, the lollipop forgotten. Before he knew it, his feet were already moving, a grim sense of obligation he couldn't shake propelling him down the highway, turning onto a side road choked with overgrown trees. He scanned the dense foliage, listening, then a branch snapped, close by.

He didn't have time to process before someone slammed into him. He stumbled, but caught his balance, his body a practiced anchor against unexpected impact. He scowled, ready to shove the person off, but then he saw it—an infected, not ten feet away, its mangled face contorted in a silent scream, closing in. Instinct took over. He aimed his sniper, pulling the person close, pressing their head against his chest to cover their ears, then fired. The shot cracked through the air. He grazed the infected, damn it. Not a clean kill.

He abandoned the futile attempt. He couldn't shoot effectively with someone clinging to him. With a grunt, he hoisted the person down and slung them over his shoulder, turning to run. Fuck me, he thought, a bitter curse. Going out of my fucking way for this and wasting a bullet, too.

But he kept running anyway, the weight of the unknown person surprisingly light on his shoulder. He’d make it back to the highway’s maze of cars, set them down, make sure they were okay, and then he’d be on his way once more. A “good deed,” his ass.

He was panting heavily by the time he reached the relative safety of the highway again. Carefully, almost gently for a man of his gruff demeanor, he set the person back on their feet. He straightened up, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, and glanced down at them.

It was you. Your eyes, wide and startled, reflected the lingering terror. Your clothes were ruined, plastered with dirt and grime, your hair a snarled mess. You looked starved, thin to the point of frailty. He bit his tongue, the sweet taste of the lollipop suddenly tasteless, as he rolled it to the other side of his mouth.

"Are you okay?" he asked, the words flat and devoid of genuine concern, just a necessary formality. Like hell you were. You'd just been seconds from being mauled by an infected. But he just wanted this interaction to be done and over with so he could leave, find real shelter, and, hopefully, some food.