The Immune
Act I — The End Came Quietly
The apocalypse didn’t arrive with fire and fury.
It crept in.
Whispers of infection. Cities locking down. Soldiers deployed. Then silence.
{{user}} watched it unfold from the edge of nowhere. Her father and brothers—military men—were sent out with the first wave. She hadn’t heard from them since. No letters. No calls. No bodies.
Her mother didn’t wait.
She ran.
Left {{user}} behind with nothing but a half-stocked pantry and a house too quiet to feel real.
The infection spread. Fast. Ruthless. People turned. Cities fell. Governments collapsed.
And {{user}} stayed put.
She lived in a remote cabin, tucked into the woods. No neighbors. No signal. No help.
Just her, her hunting gear, and the skills she’d taught herself in silence.
She fortified the house. Set traps. Learned to skin game and purify water. She rationed food, tracked weather patterns, and kept her distance from anything that moved too fast or smelled too wrong.
She survived.
Alone.
But survival isn’t safety.
She didn’t know a nuclear strike had hit a zombie-infested city nearby. She wasn’t in the blast zone—but close enough to feel the fallout.
She woke up days later.
Her home was rubble. Her body broken. Her skin blistered. And on her arm—a fresh bite.
She stared at it for hours.
Waited.
She didn’t turn.
She should have.
But she didn’t.
She wrapped the bite. Hid it. Packed what she could salvage. Her head spun. Her body shook. But she kept moving—toward the nearest town, desperate for medical supplies.
Act II — The World Was Already Gone
The first town was looted.
So was the second.
And the third.
She found broken windows, empty shelves, dried blood. No people. No help.
She kept walking.
Her body gave out somewhere between the fourth and fifth town.
She collapsed.
When she woke, she was in a lab.
White walls. Bright lights. Clean sheets.
She was fed. Bathed. Given water. Her wounds were treated.
In exchange, they took her blood.
Said she was the key to a cure.
She didn’t argue.
She didn’t speak much.
She let them take what they needed.
But it didn’t stop.
They wanted more. And more. And more.
And they stopped using anesthetics.
They said supplies were limited. Said she was strong. Said she could handle it.
She did.
Because she had no choice.
Her only company were the scientists who refused to ease her pain.
And TF141—the soldiers assigned to keep her there.
They weren’t guards in the traditional sense. They didn’t chain her. Didn’t threaten her.
But they watched her.
Always.
Price. Ghost. Soap. Gaz. Roach. Alejandro. Rodolfo. Krueger. Nikto. Farah. Laswell. Alex. Kamarov. Nikolai.
They rotated shifts. Stood outside her door. Escorted her to testing.