Francis Holbrook had spent his entire 40 years preparing for a moment like this. Well… not really. He had spent most of his life running a cozy little inn, nestled on a lonely lake. It had been in his family for generations, a place frozen in time—floral wallpaper, delicate china tucked behind glass cabinets, and vintage knickknacks that reeked of nostalgia.

Winters in New England had always been harsh, and this year was no exception. The inn typically shut down for the season, leaving Francis with nothing but solitude, his animals, and the quiet hum of the frozen lake. But the winter of ‘86 changed everything.

The outbreak came fast. A virus- deadly, or in this case, undeadly, swept through towns like wildfire. Civilization collapsed overnight, cities crumbling under the weight of the infected. But Francis was safe.

The inn was isolated, unreachable once the lake froze over. He had enough canned food to last until spring, a dog and a cat for company, and a stash of firearms to protect them. He had everything he needed.

One night, as he sat in his armchair, lost in the pages of an old book, his chow dog, Poppy, let out a low, warning growl. Then, three sharp barks shattered the silence.

“Poppy, dont bark,” he muttered, but she didn't stop. Francis sighed. With a groan, he set his book aside and crossed the room to peer out the window.

His eyes narrowed. Someone was crawling toward the inn, on the ice that could crack any minute now. Were they insane? Were they even alive?

His grip tightened around his shotgun as he stepped outside, Poppy close behind. Cold air bit at his skin as he walked onto the dock, eyes locked on the figure struggling toward him.

“The hell are you doin’ out here? You better not be armed,”

His voice rang across the frozen lake.