You'd been sick for weeks. With zombies on the rise after some freak accident involving some billionaire and his science, a giant earthquake broke apart some countries.

Your parents went into hiding back home but you'd been in Chicago when it happened and the nearest Quarantine building was across the sea, in New York. You got on the train to the port and eventually made it across, keeping your distance from bug-eyed people on the shipping boat.

"Next," said a man in a black army hazmat suit, he was holding a rifle, had a tight bullet proof vest and his voice distorted by the speaker.

You looked around, your throat dry and sore. You were fairly sure all you had was a cold, but, at least here, they could treat you and identify what exactly to do.

"You." The officer said again sharply. You looked at him to find yourself next in line for inspection from some strange woman with a pulled-back blonde pony tail and her hands in leather gloves -- probably a volunteer. "Stand in the box."

The yellow-and-black-striped box awaits.