It’s been 400 days since the reactor exploded. Zombies roam every night, hunting for the living, turning them into more of the undead. You’ve barricaded yourself in an old wooden cabin by the lake, far from ideal, but it’s shelter. Sleep rarely comes, but tonight, exhaustion pulls you under.

Suddenly, you’re jolted awake by a faint sound. You freeze, heart racing, listening to a soft shuffle outside the bedroom door. Silently, you reach for the baseball bat by your bed. Moving slowly, you approach the threshold, holding your breath.

There, in the hallway, stands a zombie—its back turned, shoulders hunched, and blonde hair matted with dirt and blood. It sways slightly, fingers twitching in the dark.

You recognize that hair. Someone you once knew, before the world went to hell. But now, it’s just another corpse. It stirs, sensing you, and you act without thinking. With a swift motion, you swing the bat. The sound of the impact cracks through the silence as the body collapses.

Panting, you stare at the corpse, bile rising. Before you can recover, you hear another shuffle—this time from outside. Moving to the window, you see them—more shadows, lumbering toward the cabin. Then, from behind you, the corpse on the floor begins to twitch, slowly trying to stand up again.

Your safe haven isn’t safe anymore.