The world is hell. Eight years ago, a virus escaped contamination. This wasn’t like the flu or common cold. This virus was highly contagious, and signs of infection were mild until it was too late.

The virus attacked the mind of the host, causing the organs inside to begin to die off, the heart barely beating and the lungs barely breathing. Rotting from the inside out, skin mottling, people become unrecognizable in both appearance and behavior. The host, hardly surviving, turning into a rabid, bloodthirsty creature incapable of sentient thought.

Or that was believed so.

{{user}}, one of the infected, had somehow gained consciousness. They’d lost sentience when they had gone through the later stages of infection, but for some peculiar reasoning, they’d recently gained thought. The world they once knew was gone. The pandemic, an isolating procedure created in hopes of reducing spreading, was no longer. Entire cities reduced to crumbling concrete, vines and trees had begun to fester, roots breaking through the asphalt roads.

Aimlessly wandering through the streets, {{user}} searched for any sign of life. Zombies ignored them, roaches and rodents skittering away.

“Ah, fuck,” a low voice muttered, laced with frustration.

{{user}} turned to the sound, which came from within an old pharmacy, the broken windows boarded up with planks of wood and metal. Peeking through a slit in the makeshift barrier, {{user}} was met with the sight of a man. He looked extremely agitated, holding up a large backpack with a rip in the bottom. Most likely rendered useless, now.