Head back to your apartment

Without electricty to run the elevators, it's a struggle getting the crate up to your room. Luckily, once you're inside your apartment building, you're pretty safe, since the doors stay closed and there hasn't been any intruders, undead or otherwise. Most of the previous tennants are gone, too, either fleeing the building and/or city during the first few days or being turned out on the streets. To be honest, you didn't really know or care that much. You always kept yourself and were too preoccupied with your own survival to worry to much about others. However, once your ordeal of hauling the crate up four flights of stairs is over, your survival is looking a lot more guranteed. With the survival rations, guns and ammo, and gallons of water you have previously scavenged, you were set for quite a while without even having to go outside.

With that in mind, you locked and barricaded the door and settled in. The first few days were great, just lounging around without a care in the world. Then you started to get a bit bored. With no internet, no television, and no video games, it became increasingly difficult to keep yourself entertained. By the end of the second week, you felt yourself going full on stir crazy. One of the few things your mind kept going back to was your odd interaction with those punks. Why would they leave you the crate? Just because you wrote your name on it? Would that work on other things? Those lines of thinking, which would have been out of the question normally, dominated your mind and seemed more and more plausible the longer you were trapped here. Finally, you just decided to go for it, writing youe name on the wall:

Michael's Building

As soon as you saw your name in thick black lines on the wall, the absurdity of your thoughts hit you. You laughed and laughed until you were wheezing and out of breath. Like writing your name on the wall would just make it yours. You were still recovering from your laughter when you heard a knock on your day. Sobering up instantly, you scrambled to grab a gun, snatching up a pistol and ramming in a magazine. You pointed it at the door and held your breath. Another knock. What was going on? This whole time and nobody had ever tried to communicate with you. How did they even know you were here? Did those punks follow you, hoping to steal your crate? You waited, holding your breath, for a few more minutes before you heard another knock, this time accompanied by a voice.

"Ummm, Michael, this is Jeremy from down the hall. Could we talk to you please?" Jeremy lived down the hall with his family. You hadn't seen or heard from them since this whole thing kicked off. Why would he try to talk to you now? Your curiousity got the better of you, and you slowly walk up the door and peek out through the peephole. Outside stands a small crowd, seemingly everyone who lives in the building. Why the hell are they all here? Half of them even have bags packed like they are about to leave. You open the door just enough so you can talk face to face.

"Hey Jeremy. What's up?"

"Uhh, not too much Michael. I just, well, all of us here, want to know if it's okay if we still live here. I mean, since it's your building and all." No way. That marker is real. This is more crazy than the fucking zombie apocalypse. You can barely even think, but the group of people outside are just staring at you, waiting for you to make a decision.