Apocalypse Supermarket: My Four Overpowered Husbands Wontstop Hoarding

Chapter 64: Chapter 64 Psychological torture.

Inside the impenetrable fortress of the elite safe zone, deep within the dungeons where sunlight had never reached, John Allen lay helplessly on the cold floor.

He was weak.

Starving.

And completely dehydrated.

He had already lost count of how many hours he had spent inside the cell, but judging from the state of his body, it had to be close to four days.

Four days without food.

Four days without water.

Four days of lying on the filthy floor with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company.

Allen found it difficult to accept the reality that he was no longer needed.

He had spent so much time trying to protect humanity. He had dedicated everything he had to the movement, believing that together they could eradicate the zombies and give survivors a chance to live.

Yet, after everything he had done, this was the reward waiting for him.

A dark cell.

A pair of cold metal bars.

And a slow death.

Allen swallowed painfully as his throat burned. Even swallowing his own saliva had become difficult.

He desperately needed water.

Just one sip.

Even if it was only enough to wet his lips, he would be grateful.

Using the wall for support, Allen slowly pushed himself up from the floor. His arms trembled violently, and his knees nearly gave way beneath him.

"Come on..."

His voice came out barely above a whisper.

He placed one hand against the wall and began moving blindly toward the door, hoping that someone outside might hear him.

Maybe he could beg.

Maybe someone would take pity on him.

He didn’t need food anymore.

Not immediately.

Just water.

A single cup.

That was all he wanted.

His mind was beginning to deteriorate from the isolation. Every second inside that cell felt like it was stretching endlessly, and Allen could already feel his sanity slipping away.

If he stayed there for another week, he feared there would be nothing left of the man he used to be.

He needed to leave.

That was the only thought keeping him moving.

Just as Allen managed to straighten his body, his trembling fingers brushed against the rough wall.

Then a voice suddenly came from somewhere deeper inside the dungeon.

"Would you stop rubbing your hands all over the wall? It’s affecting me over here."

Allen froze.

His eyes widened.

There was someone else here.

For a moment, he simply stood there in surprise before a small smile appeared on his dry lips.

"At least someone can help me."

The thought came immediately.

But the smile disappeared just as quickly.

Why would he ask another prisoner for help?

The man was trapped too.

If he could get himself out, wouldn’t he have already done so?

Allen slowly looked toward the direction of the voice, though the darkness made it impossible to see anything.

What could that man possibly do for him?

Nothing.

They were both prisoners.

Both trapped.

Both waiting for death.

"Finally, you’ve stopped moving."

The stranger spoke again, his voice carrying a strange mixture of exhaustion and indifference.

"Since you’re here, you better accept your fate. Soon, they’ll dispose of you as a corpse or use you as bait to lure the zombies away from the armies protecting the fortress."

Allen’s face changed.

Bait?

He stared into the darkness.

The man’s voice sounded tired, almost as though he had already accepted his own death.

"Do you know who I am?"

Allen’s voice became stronger despite his weakness.

"They can’t dispose of me. Once they find out I’m innocent, they’ll let me go."

Instead of answering, the prisoner burst into laughter.

It wasn’t normal laughter.

It was loud, broken and almost frightening, echoing through the dungeon like the cackle of a monster.

Allen frowned.

"Is anything funny?"

"Oh, thank you for that."

The man laughed again before finally calming down.

"I haven’t laughed at a joke in so long. This place is so depressing that even talking feels difficult, let alone laughing."

Allen stared into the darkness, completely confused.

How was what he said a joke?

He hadn’t even tried to make one.

"Do you think I’m lying?"

Allen slowly moved back toward the place where he had been sitting earlier, his legs trembling with every step.

"This is Commander John Allen speaking to you. You’re supposed to believe me. Whatever happened, it’s obviously a mistake."

He reached his spot and slowly lowered himself onto the floor.

The prisoner remained silent for a few seconds.

Then he finally spoke.

"Oh, Allen..."

His tone had changed.

"I was awake when they brought you here."

Allen’s heart sank.

"For them to throw you into this place, don’t you understand? You’re not needed anymore."

He paused before continuing.

"People who end up here don’t get out alive."

Allen’s breathing became heavier.

"There is already rationing inside the fortress. Food is limited, so why would they waste it on prisoners like us?"

The stranger’s voice became colder.

"So we have only a few choices. Kill ourselves, drive ourselves insane, or starve to death."

A short silence followed.

"Either way, if we don’t die naturally, they’ll eventually use us as bait to test the conditions outside."

His voice dropped into a whisper.

"That’s what we are now."

Another pause.

"Livestock."

Allen became completely silent.

The word seemed to echo inside his head.

Livestock.

He had spent years protecting people.

He had led soldiers.

He had fought zombies.

He had made difficult decisions for the survival of humanity.

And now he was nothing more than livestock waiting to be sacrificed.

No one was coming for him.

No rescue team was going to open that door.

No one was going to apologize for the mistake.

He was going to die there.

After everything.

Even after betraying his own friends, believing that he was doing what was necessary for humanity, this was where his life had brought him.

Allen’s lips trembled.

"How long have you been here?"

He asked quietly.

There was something almost fearful in his voice.

"Counting normal days?"

The stranger sounded thoughtful.

"I’d say about a month."

Allen’s eyes widened.

A month?

How was that possible?

The man had been locked inside this dungeon for an entire month?

How was he still alive?

"How did you eat?"

Allen immediately asked.

"And water? What were you drinking?"

The question came out desperately.

"It has already been three days for me, and I’m dying here. If you’ve found some way to survive, then please share it."

He waited.

Nothing.

The silence stretched for several seconds.

Allen’s heart began beating faster.

"Hello?"

No answer.

"Are you still there?"

His voice grew hoarse.

"Please, tell me."

He desperately needed something.

Anything.

A sign that survival was still possible.

Finally, the voice returned.

"Oh, silly me."

The man chuckled.

"I made a mistake earlier. I’ve actually been here for three weeks. This week makes it the third."

Allen’s expression tightened.

Three weeks.

Even that didn’t make sense.

He looked down at his trembling hands.

"How?"

He swallowed.

"What have you been eating?"

Again, silence.

"And drinking too. How are you surviving?"

Allen leaned closer to the direction of the voice.

"Please. Share whatever you’re using."

He was expecting an answer that would give him at least a little hope.

Instead, the silence continued for so long that Allen began to worry.

"Hello?"

Nothing.

"Are you there?"

Still nothing.

"Man, please..."

His voice cracked.

"Tell me."

Then the prisoner finally answered.

"My piss serves as my water."

Allen froze.

The next words nearly made his stomach turn.

"And my poop..."

The man laughed.

"...is what I eat."

Allen’s entire body stiffened.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

The disgusting smell he had been noticing ever since he entered the cell suddenly made sense.

He covered his nose with his hand.

"Oh God..."

His stomach twisted violently.

He felt like vomiting.

The man on the other side began laughing like a psychopath.

"This is the only survival tactic I have."

Allen felt disgusted beyond words.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to run.

But there was nowhere to go.

His eyes slowly became wet as the reality of his situation sank deeper into his mind.

"You’re joking."

His voice trembled.

"Tell me you’re joking."

He waited.

"Come on. You’re pulling my leg, right?"

No response.

"We’ll laugh about it later."

Still nothing.

Allen lowered his head.

His shoulders trembled.

The shame of his downfall weighed heavily on him.

Was this really what his life had become?

Was he really going to reduce himself to eating his own waste just to survive?

He couldn’t imagine himself doing it.

Yet the longer he stayed in that cell, the more he began to understand why the prisoner had chosen to do it.

Survival didn’t care about dignity.

Hunger didn’t care about pride.

And death certainly didn’t care about either.

Allen finally slumped against the wall.

The prisoner suddenly spoke again.

"You’re judging me, aren’t you?"

His voice carried a strange amusement.

"Calling me disgusting. Calling me all kinds of names in your head."

Allen didn’t answer.

"You can do that."

The man chuckled.

"Call me whatever you want. But if you don’t survive, you’ll die."

There was a pause.

"And I’m not ready to die yet."

Allen closed his eyes.

Those words struck him harder than he expected.

The man was disgusting.

There was no denying that.

But he was alive but how long? And poop? Was he even healthy or wasn’t he sick?

And perhaps that was all that mattered to him.

Allen had seen what happened when people lost hope.

He had watched soldiers throw down their weapons.

He had seen survivors stop running from zombies because they no longer cared whether they lived or died.

Hope was fragile.

Once it disappeared, survival became almost impossible.

And strangely enough, the prisoner still had it.

A twisted form of hope.

But hope nonetheless.

Allen remained silent for a while.

Then a thought crossed his mind.

Did he even have anything left to live for?

Wasn’t his family somewhere outside?

Were they waiting for him?

Or had they already assumed he was dead?

He remembered the people he had betrayed.

His friends.

His comrades.

The decisions he had made.

The people he had sacrificed.

For what?

Was it worth it?

For a moment, ending everything seemed easier.

Maybe death was better than whatever waited for him in that dungeon.

At least death would be quick.

But he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

He didn’t want the prisoner to know that he was already thinking about giving up.

Besides, wasn’t he still holding onto something?

Even after everything, there was still a tiny part of him that wanted to survive.

That fragile piece of hope was the only thing stopping him from completely breaking.

"One day, John Allen..."

The prisoner spoke softly.

"One day, you’ll join me."

Allen slowly raised his head.

"I hope you won’t judge me so harshly when you do."

That was the last thing Allen heard from him.

"Hey."

Allen waited.

Nothing.

"Are you there?"

Silence.

"Man?"

He crawled slightly toward the direction of the voice.

"Can you hear me?"

Nothing.

"Please."

His voice became desperate.

"I still need to ask you something."

No response came.

Allen remained there, listening to the darkness.

For the first time since entering the dungeon, he understood just how alone he truly was.

The prisoner had been his only source of information.

He had wanted to know how things worked inside the fortress.

How prisoners were treated.

How long people survived.

Whether there was a way out.

But now the only person who could answer him had gone silent.

Allen slowly leaned his head against the wall.

The cold surface touched his burning forehead.

His stomach growled painfully.

His throat felt as though it had been filled with sand.

He looked toward the barely visible door.

There was no sound coming from outside.

No footsteps.

No voices.

Nothing.

Just the heavy silence of the dungeon.

Allen closed his eyes.

"Shit..."

He whispered.

He was trapped in some dark hole.

And nobody was coming for him.