Miles turned his back away from the door, as he walked into Unit 103-the previous unit that was locked.
Although it was secured tight and he didn't know how to open it normally, he had an idea.
"Hehe, I can finally try that action."
Something he'd seen countless times in action movies, usually during raids or gunfights when there was no time to pick locks or wait for keys.
He glanced down the empty corridor one last time, then positioned himself in front of the door.
Gripping his M17 in his dominant hand, he lifted his tactical boot and aimed for the lock plate, reinforced metal, but the wood around it looked old and worn from years of use.
Taking a quick breath to steady himself, he drove his heel forward with sharp force.
The wood splintered with a loud crack, sending splinters flying across the hallway. He struck again, and again-each blow jarring up his leg, but weakening the frame more each time.
On the fourth kick, the lock gave way entirely. The door swung inward with a groan, revealing a dark entryway beyond. Miles immediately raised his pistol, sweeping the room with his night vision as he stepped inside
'I surely look cool doing that' Miles thought feeling a bit smug and thrilled. But, he still fixed his eyes ahead.
The air here was different, cleaner somehow, with no trace of the metallic scent or decay that had filled the other units.
The furniture was neatly arranged, curtains drawn but not closed tight. A small lamp sat on the side table near the couch, its cord still plugged into the wall
He flipped on the light switch near the door, and warm glow filled the space-no hidden threats, no twisted shapes lurking in corners. Everything was exactly as it should be: a neatly kept home.
The sofa had fresh cushions, a stack of magazines sat on the coffee table, and a small potted plant on the windowsill still looked green and healthy.
The kitchen was just as orderly, dishes stacked neatly in the drying rack, food still in the fridge; a calendar on the wall marked with appointments up until three days ago. A jacket hung by the back door, keys still in the lock of a nearby cabinet.
Miles moved through each room carefully, bedroom, bathroom, even a small study nook.
"There's no one? Could, the people living here left before the apocalypse descent..?"
"Well, I could use this for myself then. Hahaha, my room was in complete wreck after all."
He wandered into the bedroom, running a hand over the crisp sheets on the bed. It felt strange to see something so normal in a world that had gone so wrong.
While wandering around the unit, he went to the closet, he found clothes hanging neatly men's and women's, there's also a small backpack sat on the top shelf, and when he pulled it down and unzipped it, he found a first-aid kit, a bottle of water, and a few energy bars still sealed in their packaging.
"Score!" he muttered.
In the study, he noticed a portable radio on the desk, still plugged in.
He flipped the switch, and after a few seconds of static, a voice crackled through.
"...to any survivors within the metro area- this is a repeat broadcast. Safe zone established at Fort Lazaro, coordinates 14.5654° N, 121.0596° E. We have medical supplies, food, and shelters guarded by soldiers. Avoid main roads-stick to side streets and alleyways. The Cursed are less active during daylight hours..."
"Huh? Wasn't the military supposed to have fallen? Could it be some remnants are still holding on? Like those people at Mom and Dad's place back in the province?"
Miles paused mid-step, the radio's static crackling in the background.
'Well, maybe it's the same kind.' He thought, after listening for a minute. The message looped over and over, word for word, no updates, no new information, just the same broadcast on repeat.
"...Fort Lazaro is not safe-repeat, not safe. It's a trap, they're... static...using survivors to.. crackle... find a cure that doesn't exist. If you're hearing this, head for the northern highlands-static.. San Mateo, there's a community there that's actually keeping people alive..."
Miles froze, switching back to the original frequency.
The clear, steady broadcast about Fort Lazaro was still playing; two different messages, one promising safety, the other warning of danger.
He had no way of knowing which was true.