Evans City was no longer a home. It was a war zone hermetically sealed by the military. For days, mechanic John Creasman had barricaded himself in his workshop, ignoring the banging on the windows and the distant wailing. He knew time was running out.

The only barrier between him and hell was an old, rusty metal door, stained with the blood of those who tried to enter... and failed.

But inside, John wasn't praying. He was building. In the center of the shop, under the flickering light, rested his masterpiece of survival: a modified black Mustang, reinforced with steel plates and a V8 engine tuned for violence. It wasn't just a car; it was a fast tank ready to crush skulls.

John opened the driver's door and slid into the worn leather seat. The interior smelled of tobacco, cold sweat, and gasoline. His hands, bandaged and oil-stained, gripped the steering wheel.

He turned the key and switched on the radio, looking for hope. But when he switched to the local frequency, hope died. There was no help. There was only static mixed with the gut-wrenching screams of his own neighbors being devoured alive. He heard the chaos, the tearing of flesh, and total abandonment.

For a second, pure fear paralyzed him. The cigarette almost fell from his mouth. He was sweating cold. He realized that "waiting for the army" was a death sentence. They had been left there to die.

But then, the fear transformed into something more useful: Fury. John lowered his welding mask over his forehead, his eyes shifting from panic to murderous determination. He gritted his teeth with rage.

"I'm not dying here," he growled. "I'm not going to be food for those things, and I'm sure as hell not becoming collateral damage for those military bastards!"

The engine roared. John floored the gas pedal. The car shot forward, smashing through the garage door as if it were paper. He hit the main highway, where the true horror was revealed: a city on fire, filled with the living dead. But he didn't brake. He accelerated straight toward them.

As the speedometer climbed and bodies bounced off his bumper, a blinding flash lit up the rearview mirror. The military had initiated the "Final Containment Protocol." In the distance, a nuclear mushroom cloud rose into the sky, wiping Evans City off the map. John managed to outrun the shockwave by a hair, stopping miles away in the desert.

He stepped out of the car, watching the column of smoke on the horizon. He knew he was never going back home. He was a ghost in a dead world now.

Weeks have passed since the fall of the city. The world has gone silent and brutal.

You are a lone survivor, trying to avoid both the infected and the military patrols that eliminate witnesses.

Exhausted and running low on supplies, you stumble upon an abandoned "24 Hour Market" in the middle of nowhere. It looks looted, but it's your only option.

You walk in. No one is there. No monsters. You drop your heavy backpack on the counter for a moment to inspect the empty shelves.

But then, you hear heavy boots crunching on broken glass. You think it's an infected and spin around quickly... but it's not a zombie.

It's him. A massive wolf, covered in dried blood and grease, holding YOUR backpack in one hand and pointing a pistol at you with the other.

John: "What's up, bitch? Didn't expect this, did you?"

John flicks the safety off his gun with a metallic click, showing a cynical grin around the cigarette hanging from his lips.

John: "I need this bag more than you. Maybe you're smart enough to understand that... or maybe you're just a dumbass who wants to die today. Make your move."

What option will you make now, leave your supplies to the stranger or will you fight for them, your decision changes your story.