Day 231 | Saturday | 9:00 PM
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They say silence has a sound. On that night, the silence near U-Zone’s eastern gate buzzed with something unseen. We stood still, waiting… for the reply.
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Earlier that evening, our Chief had introduced a new security unit called “The Defenders” — a team of ten chosen to respond first if anyone approached any of our main gates. It was a risky job. But in this world, nothing came without risk anymore.
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I was proud to be one of them.
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Why me? Because I wasn’t just a helper in the kitchen. I had trained in Silambam, the Indian martial art, ever since I was seven — under the watchful eyes of my grandfather. What began as tradition became my armor.
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At around 9PM, the alarm from Gate 3 buzzed. We rushed to the control room and stared at the screens. On the other side of the gate stood a man — rough clothes, carrying a backpack, holding a gun. His lips were cracked, but he was clearly asking for help.
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Thanks to Encik Shaiful, our quiet genius of an inventor, we had a safety system like no other — a room-sized chamber called the Z-Box. Installed beside every major gate, the Z-Box scanned every inch of a person’s body, even detecting infected blood. It was built from old MRI tech, security scanners, and a little bit of magic that only Shaiful understood.
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The man stepped inside the Z-Box. The screen blinked green. Not infected. Clean.
Truth is, even a person’s eyes could tell the truth — if they were infected, they’d start turning green within minutes.
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We opened the gate and welcomed him in.
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Chief led him to the cabin for a proper talk. His name was Mr. Amar, a retired Warrant Officer from Negeri Sembilan. His story left us stunned.
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He had walked all the way here — from Negeri Sembilan to Ipoh — in search of his wife, who was in Langkawi. After the apocalypse, an explosion at a petrol station left him severely injured while he was fighting off a group of Rottens. But he survived. He recovered. And now… he was back on his feet, continuing his journey to Langkawi.
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We all sat in silence listening to him.
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He told us about his journey — the kind of stories you don’t hear anymore.
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Places that seemed safe… but weren’t.
Groups of survivors.
Ambushes.
Moments of kindness.
A brutal fight with two Bulks at the same time.
He had seen it all.
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And he didn’t just talk about it — he documented everything.
He carried a worn-out diary filled with scribbled notes and pages pasted with Polaroid photos he’d taken during his journey.
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He followed his own survival rules:
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Never travel at night or when it’s raining.
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Always move before noon.
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Never enter any place without an exit plan.
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His weapons?
Handmade. Brutal.
A mini chainsaw fused with a hammer.
He laughed and said he was a big fan of the old game “Dead Rising.”
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He’d spotted U-Zone from far and decided to check it out.
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Before we all left to rest, the Chief made a request:
"Mr. Amar, please stay with us one more day. Tomorrow night we’re holding the naming ceremony for the baby girl born here. Her name will be officially given in front of everyone. We’d be honoured if you stayed to witness it."
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Mr. Amar smiled and nodded.
"I’d be happy to. I’ll continue my journey on Monday."
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By the time everything settled down, it was past 2AM. I don’t know why, but something about him pulled me in. Maybe it was the way he talked. Or maybe I just craved to know more about the outside world.
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So I volunteered to let him stay in my dorm. He nodded with a kind smile.
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Day 232 | Sunday | 10:30 AM
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The next morning, the first thing the Chief did was bring Mr. Amar to the nursery — to see Hope, the newborn baby girl born just two nights ago.
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Mr. Amar leaned forward slowly, looked at the baby, and smiled wide.
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"This..." he whispered, "...this is something big."
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For a moment, he looked like a soldier who’d found the one thing left worth fighting for.
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The whole day, I showed him around U-Zone — our gardens, solar power station, water filter tanks, pedal-powered gadgets, and even our chicken coop. He looked impressed.
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“You all did well here,” he said, his voice low, but full of respect.
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Later at dinner, we sat down together, and he pulled out a few Polaroid pictures from his diary.
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“These… these are the ones closest to my heart,” he said.
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We passed the photos around.
Smiling strangers.
Destroyed towns.
A kind woman who gave him shelter for a night.
A group of kids playing with paper planes.
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And then…
One photograph slid into my hands.
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I stared.
My chest tightened.
My breath stopped.
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The world around me faded into silence.
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I looked again.
It was real.
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In the photo… was a person I never thought I’d see again.
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