Chapter 3: The Wall

Day 4

I woke abruptly, the remnants of a dream lingering in my mind like morning mist. In the depths of my sleep, I had heard a voice—deep and resonant—calling out to me. "Steve," it had said, over and over, as if trying to reach through the fog of my unconsciousness. The name echoed in my mind, unfamiliar yet oddly comforting.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I sat up and tried to grasp the fragments of the dream. The voice had felt real, almost tangible, resonating with a clarity that dreams seldom possess. Who was this "Steve"? I didn't recognize the name, but in the absence of any other identity, I felt compelled to accept it. If someone—or something—thought I was Steve, then maybe that was who I was meant to be in this strange new world.

I rose from the bed I had dragged up to the bell tower of the church, the first light of dawn streaming through the windows set into the cobblestone walls. Each morning, that light brought a small measure of hope, a reminder that the night had passed and I had survived once again.

The bell tower had become my sanctuary, a refuge painstakingly fortified against the horrors that roamed the village after dark. I had sealed the entrance to the church by filling the doorway with cobblestones from the chests I had discovered. It was a crude but effective barrier, a wall of stone that no zombie or skeleton could breach.

To enter and exit the church, I had crafted a makeshift ladder using sticks scavenged from the chests. I rigged it to the tower window, creating a vertical entrance and escape route that only I could navigate. The undead might be relentless, but they lacked the dexterity to climb a ladder, and the spiders, though fearsome, were too large to squeeze through the narrow openings of the windows. Each night, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I retreated to my aerial stronghold, securing the ladder behind me.

Though safe, I was also a prisoner. The tower, which had once represented hope and survival, now felt like a gilded cage. Every sunset marked the beginning of a new siege, a nightly ritual of fear and vigilance. The moans of the undead and the skittering of spiders became the soundtrack of my evenings, a constant reminder of the danger lurking below.

"Steve," I whispered to myself, testing the name on my tongue. It felt right, somehow. A name to anchor me in this chaotic existence, a thread of identity to cling to as I navigated the mysteries and dangers that lay ahead.

Day 5

As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the bell tower window this morning, a surge of determination washed over me. I couldn't spend another night trapped in this makeshift fortress, besieged by the undead. I needed a way to reclaim the village, to create a safe zone where I could move freely and rebuild some semblance of normalcy. As I looked out over the village, an idea began to take shape in my mind: a wall. A sturdy barrier to keep the horrors of the night out and give me the space I desperately need.

However, the scale of the task quickly became apparent. The village sprawled out before me, a patchwork of homes, crop fields, and paths. It was too large to be enclosed easily, and the cobblestones I had in the chests would barely make a dent in the project. I would need to be resourceful, finding more materials to supplement the stone and perhaps even rethinking the design of the wall to make the best use of what I had.

After formulating a plan, I took a moment to assess the landscape beyond the village boundaries. Rolling hills surrounded the village, their undulating forms creating a natural barrier that made it difficult to see far into the distance. This terrain not only obscured my view but also provided ample hiding spots for the undead. If I wanted to gather more materials and secure the village, I needed a better vantage point.

I decided to head for the tallest hill I could see, a prominent mound rising above the others to the east. From there, I could survey the area and start mining the stone I needed to build the wall. Armed with my stone tools and some basic supplies, I set out cautiously, always wary of any lingering undead that might have sought refuge in the shadows. The walk was unnervingly quiet, the eerie stillness a stark contrast to the chaos of the nights.

Upon reaching the hilltop, I started to shovel away the dirt on top. Once cleared, I found the backbone of the hill; solid grey stone. I began the arduous task of mining. The stone was hard and unyielding, but each chunk I pried loose brought me closer to my goal. As I worked, I kept a watchful eye on the village nearby and the horizon beyond. The elevated position offered a clear view of the surrounding area, and I made mental notes of potential threats and resources. The hilltop would not only provide the materials I needed but also serve as an early warning point for any approaching danger.

Returning to the village with my haul, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. The stone I had mined would be the foundation of our defense, a bulwark against the terrors that came with the night. With each load of stone, I was one step closer to creating a safe haven, a place where I could reclaim my freedom and perhaps even begin to understand this strange world I found myself in.

Day 6

Today, I decided to take a break from the relentless mining and focus on another crucial aspect of my survival: combat. I needed to be prepared to face the undead not just defensively but offensively as well. With this in mind, I gathered some stone and sticks and crafted a rudimentary armor stand. I equipped it with some spare leather armor I had found, creating a makeshift training dummy.

Standing before the dummy, stone sword in hand, I began to practice my swings. The weight of the weapon was more cumbersome than I had anticipated. Each swing required effort and precision, and it didn't take long for my arms to ache from the exertion. As I hacked at the armor stand, I thought about the encounters I had witnessed—the relentless, shambling zombies and the sharp-eyed skeleton archers. The memory of that arrow piercing my shoulder was a stark reminder of the dangers I faced.

Despite the difficulty, I knew I had to endure. Each swing, each strike, was a step towards building the strength and skill I needed to survive. I imagined the armor stand as one of the undead, focusing my energy and will on overcoming this inert opponent. My movements were clumsy at first, but gradually, I found a rhythm. The key was to stay balanced, to let the weight of the sword work for me rather than against me.

As the sun climbed higher, I continued my practice, sweat pouring down my face and soaking my shirt. My muscles screamed in protest, but I pushed through, driven by the knowledge that my life depended on it. When I finally stopped, panting and exhausted, I felt a sense of accomplishment. I was far from being a master swordsman, but I was stronger and more prepared than I had been yesterday. And in this harsh, unforgiving world, that progress meant everything.

Day 7

Today, my pick broke. It's not that big of a deal since the crafting table has a blueprint to make another one. I took some cobblestones to the furnace, lit the coal with some flint, and waited for the stones to melt. The molten cobblestones slowly dripped into a sand mold, then cooled and hardened into a new pick head. After attaching the head to a stick, I was back in business.

Of course, this means that I have to routinely use the same cobblestones intended for the wall to make tools to mine for more cobblestones. I do manage to produce more cobblestones than I use to make new tools, but my wall progress is inevitably slowed by the necessity of tool-making. If only I could use a different material for tools, perhaps then I could make real progress on the wall without these constant interruptions.

The cycle is frustrating: gather cobblestones, build a section of the wall, break a tool, craft a new tool, and repeat. It feels like I'm running in place, making only incremental advances while the looming threat of the undead persists. There has to be a better way, some resource I haven't yet discovered or a technique I haven't yet mastered. For now, though, I'll keep pushing forward with what I have, hoping that the next breakthrough is just around the corner.

Day 8

As I continued my mining task, chipping away at the stone on the hilltop, I suddenly heard a sound that sent a chill down my spine—the distinct, eerie rattle of bones. I glanced over my shoulder and, out of the corner of my eye, saw a skeleton emerging from behind a nearby rock, its bony fingers gripping a bow, ready to attack. My heart raced, but I knew I had to stay calm. If the skeleton realized I had spotted it, it would start shooting arrows immediately.

With feigned nonchalance, I began to walk away from the skeleton, making sure to move in a zigzag pattern to make myself a harder target. My mind raced as I plotted my next move. I needed to get to cover, to a place where I could turn the tables on this relentless foe. Just ahead, I spotted a sturdy oak tree, its thick trunk offering the perfect shield against the skeleton's arrows.

As soon as I reached the tree, I darted behind it, pressing my back against the rough bark. I heard the twang of the bowstring and the whistling of arrows hitting the tree trunk with dull thuds. The skeleton was relentless, but it was also predictable. It would continue firing as long as I was in its line of sight. I had to use this to my advantage.

Peeking out from behind the tree, I saw the skeleton advancing, its empty eye sockets fixed on my last position. I examined the skeleton, curious to understand how it had managed to walk around in the sunlight without bursting into flames like the others. As I looked closer, my eyes fell upon its headgear—a leather helmet, battered and worn, but effective nonetheless. The realization hit me: these undead were more intelligent than I had given them credit for. Some of them are using armor to protect themselves from the sun's deadly rays.

I waited until it was close enough, then sprang into action. With a burst of adrenaline, I charged at the skeleton, my stone sword raised. The skeleton had no time to react as I brought the sword down with all my strength, shattering its bones and scattering them across the ground.

Panting and shaken, I looked around to ensure there were no more threats. The immediate danger was over, but the encounter served as a stark reminder of how vigilant I needed to be. This world was unforgiving, and I had to be prepared for anything.

Once the coast was clear, I cautiously approached the remains of the skeleton. With a swift motion, I removed the leather helmet from the lifeless skull and stepped back, watching as the skeleton's bones ignited in the sunlight. Flames consumed the remains, and in moments, there was nothing left but a pile of dust. It was a grim but satisfying sight, a small victory in my ongoing battle for survival.

I turned my attention to the helmet. It was battered and worn, and while it had served the skeleton well, it was of no use to me. Tossing it aside, I picked up the skeleton's bow. Though heavily used and badly damaged, the bow sparked an idea. I could use this to craft a bow of my own, turning the enemy's weapons against them.

The bow was fragile, but I could still fire a few arrows from it. I checked the skeleton's quiver and found several arrows still intact. They were crude but functional, and they would serve me well in the short term. More importantly, the bow provided a template, a guide for crafting a new, sturdier weapon.

With this newfound knowledge and the skeleton's equipment, I felt a surge of determination. Every encounter, every discovery was a step toward mastering this harsh world. I would use whatever I could find, learn from every battle, and turn the undead's own strategies against them. Survival was not just about enduring—it was about adapting, evolving, and ultimately overcoming the darkness that surrounded me.

Day 9

After studying the skeleton's bow for a day, I managed to find a stick with a generous curve—perfect for crafting a new, sturdier bow. It felt solid in my hands, and I could almost imagine myself drawing it back, ready to face whatever threats came my way. There was just one problem: I needed string. Not just any string, but something tough as steel, yet flexible enough to withstand repeated pulls.

I scoured the village for any sign of string, but my search was in vain. There were no looms, no spools of thread, nothing that could be turned into the yarn I needed. Frustration set in as I realized that without this crucial component, my efforts would be wasted. Examining the skeleton's bow more closely, I noticed something intriguing: the string was made of silk, not plastic or cotton.

Silk. Of course. The only place I could find silk strong enough to use for a bowstring was from the giant spiders that prowled the land. The very thought sent a shiver down my spine, but I knew it was my only option. These spiders were dangerous, their venom deadly, but their silk was the key to crafting my bow. I would have to face them, brave their lairs, and harvest their silk if I wanted to complete my weapon. It was a daunting task, but survival in this world required taking risks. With renewed determination, I began planning my next move.

With my sword and armor, I left the safety of the village, determined to find the string I needed for my bow. Standing on a hill, I used my spyglass to survey the land. In the distance, I spotted a dense forest. If there were any giant spiders lurking around, it would have to be there. Steeling myself for the journey ahead, I set off towards the forest, the weight of my mission heavy on my shoulders.

The forest was a labyrinth of oak and birch trees, their canopies blocking out much of the sunlight. Darkness filled the air, creating an eerie atmosphere. Thankfully, there were no undead around, allowing me to search freely. As I ventured deeper, I eventually stumbled upon a nest of spiders, their large, intimidating forms moving about the area. To my surprise, the spiders didn't seem hostile. They roamed around me, uninterested and unthreatening.

I observed them closely, realizing that these creatures were not inherently aggressive. It dawned on me that the spiders might be peaceful by nature, only becoming hostile when under the influence of the undead during the night. This strange discovery provided a glimmer of hope. If I could harvest their silk now, while they were docile, I might be able to avoid a dangerous confrontation. Carefully, I approached one of the webs, ready to gather the precious silk I needed to craft my bow. Using my sword, I was able to cut down some spider webs, twisting the silk into tough strings for my bow.

Day 10

Today, I decided to practice with my bow. I fashioned a makeshift target by attaching a piece of paper to a hay bale. Taking a deep breath, I pulled back on the string and released my first arrow. It sailed wide of the mark, missing the target entirely. Undeterred, I notched another arrow and tried again.

The first few shots were disappointing, but I began to find my rhythm. Slowly, my aim improved. While I didn't achieve a bull's eye, I managed to hit the target consistently. Each thud of the arrow striking the hay bale brought a sense of satisfaction and progress.

Every arrow loosed, every improvement in my aim, is a step toward survival. The undead won't wait for me to become proficient, and I must be ready to defend myself when they come. This practice session was just one of many, but each one is crucial in sharpening my skills and increasing my chances of making it through another night.

Day 11

I decided to try my luck with hunting today. Armed with my bow and arrows, I ventured out into the open fields surrounding the village. It wasn't long before I spotted a group of wild chickens pecking at the grassy dirt. I pulled back on the bowstring, aiming carefully, and released the arrow. It flew wide off the mark, and the chickens scattered, alarmed by the sudden intrusion.

Despite the initial failure, I refused to be disheartened. I knew persistence was key. I trekked further, scanning the terrain for another opportunity. After some time, I found another flock of chickens, clucking softly as they foraged. I steadied my breath, drew the bowstring back again, and released. This time, the arrow flew true, striking one of the birds cleanly. It fell to the ground, lifeless.

Triumphant, I retrieved my prize. The meat would provide sustenance, and the feathers were crucial for crafting more arrows. This successful hunt was a small victory, but it bolstered my confidence. Each day I survive and improve my skills brings me one step closer to mastering this harsh and unforgiving world.

Day 15

A couple of days have passed, and I settled into a routine of sorts. Each day, I mine for cobblestones, slowly but surely working on the wall that will hopefully keep the undead at bay. In between mining, I train in both swordsmanship and archery, alternating between the two to ensure I'm prepared for whatever may come. The days have been uneventful, a monotonous blend of labor and practice.

However, something odd happened today, something that shook me from the rhythm of my survival routine. Considering the undead horrors and the strange villagers I've encountered, this event stands out as the strangest yet.

As I returned to the hill where I'd been diligently mining for cobblestones, a sight met my eyes that stopped me in my tracks. The hill had a massive hole in it, a gaping wound in the earth that I definitely did not create. It looked as if something had taken a gigantic bite out of the hill. The sheer size of the cavity was bewildering. What could be capable of such a feat?

My mind raced with possibilities, but nothing seemed plausible in the realm of my limited understanding of this strange world. I cautiously approached the site, my eyes scanning for any clues. To the side of the gaping hole, I found the extracted stone. But these were not the irregular cobblestones I had been collecting. No. These were massive blocks of stone, perfectly cut and uniform in size. Each block was a flawless three-by-three foot cube, stacked neatly in a pyramid formation.

I stood there, staring at the pyramid of stone blocks, my mind grappling with the impossibility of it all. Who had done this? How had they managed to cut and arrange the stone so precisely with primitive tools? And most importantly, why? There was no sign of anyone around, no footprints or tool marks to offer any answers.

As I scanned the area, my heart nearly stopped when I saw something in the distance. It looked like a person, but that couldn't be possible. I quickly took out my spyglass and focused it in the direction of the figure. What I saw sent chills down my spine. It was a person, but something was off. This person looked like an exact copy of myself, except for one small, terrifying difference. He had bright, almost glowing white eyes. No pupils or irises, just a stark, unsettling white.

In his hand, he held a blue glass pickaxe that seemed to emit an eerie glow. I put the spyglass away and tried to call out to the stranger, my voice echoing through the still air. He didn't move, just stood there, staring at me with those ghostly eyes. Desperation mounting, I raised the spyglass once more to get a better look, but in an instant, he vanished. There was no trace of him, not even a retreating figure. It was as if he had been a specter, there one moment and gone the next.

As I write this entry, I question whether he was really there or just a figment of my imagination, a result of being alone in this hostile world for so long. For the first time since I arrived in this place, I am truly afraid. The thought of an identical figure, a doppelgänger with those haunting white eyes, fills me with a dread I can't shake. Who or what was he? And what does his appearance mean for me? The questions swirl in my mind, making it hard to focus on anything else. My only hope is that I can uncover some answers before it's too late.