Grit scraped against his tongue.
Cold, damp soil pressed into his cheek. He choked, spitting out mouthfuls of dark earth that felt strangely coarse, like tiny, perfect cubes of sand rubbing against his gums.
Where was he?
Trying to blink, his eyelids felt glued shut with dried sweat and grime. A sharp, stinging pain throbbed behind his temples, a rhythmic hammering that kept pace with the erratic pounding of his heart.
He forced his eyes open.
Squinting through the haze, the world came into focus in sharp, jagged lines. Everything around him was constructed of rigid, right-angled geometry. Blocky hills rose in the distance, stacking like children's toys against a pale, blocky horizon. Even the blades of grass beneath his fingers felt thick, square, and unnatural.
"Wake up," he muttered, his voice sounding like dry sandpaper. The sound of his own tongue shocked him, a raspy breath that carried no memory of who it belonged to.
Guttural, wet groaning echoed from the shadows nearby.
Freezing instantly, he held his breath. The sound was deep, a bubbling noise that vibrated through the soil and rattled his teeth. It wasn't human. It sounded like something rotting, something heavy dragging itself through the undergrowth.
Panic flared hot in his chest.
He tried to roll over, but his limbs felt like lead. Every muscle screamed in protest, stiff and unyielding as if he had been asleep for centuries. His fingers clawed at the ground, desperately seeking purchase in the loose dirt.
Another groan ripped through the quiet air, closer this time.
Dragging his knees upward, he pushed himself onto his hands. His palms scraped against sharp edges buried in the soil. He looked down, expecting to see normal pebbles, but instead found sharp, angular fragments of stone that looked perfectly cleaved, as if by a machine.
Who was he?
He reached deep into his mind, clawing at the walls of his consciousness, searching for a name, a face, a single memory of a mother, a friend, a home. Nothing. Only a vast, echoing void greeted him, a dark chasm where his identity should have been stored.
Terror, cold and sharp, pierced through the physical pain.
"Think," he whispered, his knuckles digging into the dirt. "Just think of one thing."
No answers came. The silence in his head was absolute, a terrifying vacuum that threatened to swallow him whole. He didn't even know what his own face looked like.
Rustling bushes cut through his panic.
A figure emerged from the blocky foliage just twenty yards away. It stood upright, but its posture was horribly bent, its arms extended rigidly in front of its chest. Its skin was a sickening shade of decayed green, peeling away in blocky patches to reveal dark, hollow muscle beneath.
Empty, dark sockets stared back at him.
Unnatural, rattling groans ripped from its jaw, which unhinged slightly as a thick, dark fluid dripped from its mouth. It locked onto him, its heavy, square feet stamping rhythmically into the dirt as it began to trudge forward.
Move. He had to move.
Scrambling backward on his hands and knees, he kicked up clouds of dark soil. His heart battered against his ribs like a trapped bird. The creature was slow, but its relentless, mechanical advance carried a terrifying certainty. It was coming to devour him.
His hand slammed against something hard and heavy.
Gripping the object blindly, his fingers wrapped around a jagged, cubical stone. It was heavy, weighing at least five pounds, with edges sharp enough to slice skin. He squeezed it, the sharp corners biting into his palm, the physical pain grounding him in the absolute horror of the moment.
He scrambled up, his legs shaking violently as he tried to find his balance. The world spun for a dizzying second. He braced himself against a massive, square trunk of an oak tree, the bark rough and angular against his shoulder.
Looking down at his own frame, he noticed his clothes. He wore a simple, tattered teal shirt and dark blue trousers, both covered in grime and soot. His arms were lean but surprisingly muscular, corded with tension. He didn't look like a weakling, yet he had no idea where this physical strength came from.
"Who... who am I?" he breathed, his voice lost to the rustle of the square leaves above.
Every detail of this place defied reality. The tree trunk was a perfect column of dark brown wooden blocks, each side measuring exactly the same width. High above, the canopy consisted of massive, cubical clusters of green leaves that blocked out the sky in rigid, pixelated patterns.
Nothing made sense.
"Stay back," he warned, raising the stone. His voice trembled, but a strange, deep-seated reflex kicked in. His fingers adjusted their grip on the stone, sliding into a natural, balanced hold that felt oddly practiced.
Why did this feel familiar?
His muscles seemed to know how to brace for a strike, even if his mind couldn't comprehend the physical laws of this bizarre, blocky world. A strange warmth bloomed in his chest, a fleeting spark of muscle memory that whispered of a past where he wasn't helpless.
Lurking forward, the zombie ignored his warning. It was barely ten feet away now, the stench of rotting flesh hitting him like a physical blow. It smelled of stagnant water, copper, and decay.
Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes. He tightened his grip on the stone, his knuckles turning white. He could see the pixelated details of the monster's skin, the unnatural green hue that defied any logical biology.
This couldn't be real. It had to be a nightmare.
Yet, the cold wind biting through his thin, tattered clothes felt entirely too real. The burning in his lungs was undeniable. The fear screaming through his veins was a living thing, clawing at his throat.
He raised the jagged stone higher, preparing to swing.
If he died here, he would die as nobody. He would disappear into the dirt of this strange world, forgotten, without ever knowing who he had been, what he had done, or why he was here.
Such a silent, meaningless end ignited a sudden, hot fury within him. He refused to be erased. He refused to let this rotting puppet of a creature tear him apart before he could find his name.
"Come on then," he growled, stepping forward to meet the beast.
Instantly, the zombie lunged, its rotting arms swinging downward with surprising, bone-crushing force. He ducked, his instincts taking over as he rolled to the side, the heavy fist of the monster smashing into the dirt where he had stood a split second before.
Dirt exploded upward in perfect, neat cubes.
Impact jarred his entire arm, sending a shockwave of pain up to his shoulder as he swung the stone. The sharp edge bit deep into the green, decaying flesh of its shoulder, but the monster barely flinched. It felt like hitting solid timber covered in wet leather.
Cold, putrid air washed over him as the creature swung its other arm.
Barely avoiding the blow, the rotten knuckles grazed his cheek. A stinging sensation followed, leaving a trail of icy numbness where the dead flesh had brushed his skin. He stumbled backward, his boots sliding against the damp grass cubes.
How could something so slow strike with such sudden velocity?
Watching the zombie reset its posture, he analyzed its simple, mechanical pattern. It was predictable. He noticed the slight delay before it raised its arms, the way its left foot dragged half a second behind the right.
Suddenly, a strange sensation washed over him.
It was a bizarre, clinical clarity that cut through his panic. His eyes tracked the monster's movements, and in his mind, he saw the trajectory of its next step before it even happened. It was as if his brain was a computer, calculating angles, velocities, and weaknesses in a fraction of a second.
His mind began to race, desperately searching for the source of this analytical power. He didn't just see a monster; he saw a biological anomaly, a collection of kinetic vectors. His body wanted to move, to strike at the weak point in the creature's knee, but the sheer lack of memory held him back like heavy chains.
Why did he know how to fight?
What caused his brain to process combat like a seasoned warlord while his conscious mind remained completely blank?
Ignoring his internal questions, the zombie didn't give him time to solve the riddle. It lunged again, its mouth agape, revealing a dark, cavernous throat that smelled of old graves.
Sidestepping with a fluid grace that shocked his own senses, he drove the jagged stone upward. He targeted the hinge of its jaw, hoping to shatter the bone and disable its bite.
Crunch.
The stone connected. The sound of fracturing bone echoed through the clearing, and the zombie's head snapped back. A dark, viscous liquid sprayed across his chest, smelling of copper and ancient rot.
Yet, the monster didn't fall.
It simply stumbled, its empty eye sockets fixing on him with an even deeper, more malignant focus. It shook its head, its jaw hanging loose and crooked, but its arms remained raised, ready to strike again.
"What does it take to kill you?" he spat, wiping the foul fluid from his cheek.
His heart hammered violently, a frantic rhythm that threatened to rupture his chest. His muscles were burning, lactic acid building up in his thighs and shoulders. He was human, bound by the limits of flesh and blood, while this creature was an engine of pure, relentless malice.
Darkness fell completely now.
The square sun had fully vanished beneath the horizon, leaving the blocky landscape bathed in a dim, eerie blue starlight. The temperature plummeted instantly, turning his warm breath into pale plumes of mist.
In the distance, more sounds began to rise.
A high-pitched, metallic clicking echoed from the treetops, like the sound of giant, jointed legs tapping against stone. A long, mournful rattle followed, a sound that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
He wasn't facing just one monster.
Night had become alive with them, and he was standing in the open, armed with nothing but a stone and a mind that refused to remember his own name.
Relentless, the zombie stepped forward again, its heavy feet tearing up the cubical grass blocks beneath it. Every step it took felt like a countdown timer ticking toward his demise.
He raised the stone once more, his muscles trembling from exhaustion and fear.
As the Zombie lurches closer, a cold dread seizes Adam – he doesn't just fear death, he fears the utter blankness of his own mind, a void where his past should be.