It started quietly—a flicker of news buried beneath political scandals, celebrity drama, and economic woes. A new strain of the rabies virus had been detected in rural Eastern Europe, one with unusually fast onset and an alarmingly high aggression rate. At first, it was dismissed. A fluke mutation. Contained.

But it wasn’t.

Within weeks, reports emerged from nearby countries—violent attacks, unexplained disappearances, entire towns going silent. Then came footage: shaky cellphone clips of people with blood-caked faces, eyes clouded with milky white, bodies twitching with unnatural speed. They didn’t run like humans—they lunged, twisted, screamed like animals. And they didn’t stop.

Governments denied the reality until it was far too late. Flights continued. Trade flowed. People traveled for work, for vacation, for escape. Borders were breached not with bombs, but with infected passengers coughing in terminals and collapsing in public squares. Every continent was infected in less than two months.

They weren’t calling them "zombies" at first. Terms like necrotic aggression disorder or hyper-viral encephalitis were thrown around. But the internet gave it a name. The world followed suit.

The Fall

Mass quarantines failed. Hospitals became graveyards. Then feeding grounds. The infected didn’t die naturally. Their bodies rotted over time, but whatever had reanimated them… kept them moving.

Cities burned. Governments tried and failed to maintain martial law. Military bases were overrun from the inside. Satellites showed the progression—bright centers of civilization flickering out one by one like dying embers.

Rumors spread of "safe zones." Most were false hopes or traps. A few held on. Fewer still remain.

Survival became routine by the third month: avoid the cities, avoid noise, avoid trust. The infected didn’t sleep. They didn’t tire. They moved in twitching, jarring motions, their joints broken or dislocated, their bodies rotting and yet still coming. A single bite, even a scratch, spelled the end. Some turned in minutes. Others lingered in feverish agony for hours. The lucky ones died before the change. The unlucky... didn’t.

People began turning on each other as quickly as the dead did. Groups formed and fractured. Some tried to build safe zones, but most were doomed from the start—too loud, too hopeful, too slow to kill a friend once they started coughing. Stories of military strongholds, fortified towns, and rescue convoys echoed across crackling radios, but no one knew what was real anymore.

Now, only the careful survive.

Near the edge of what used to be a city—nothing more than skeletal buildings and blackened highways—was a run-down truck stop. The pumps are long empty, the diner half burned down, and the road signs hang askew like crooked teeth. Rusted cars choke the lot. But the back storerooms, for now, offer shelter. Someone—or several someones—made this a base. The walls are reinforced with shelves, metal fencing, and whatever could be bolted or welded in place. Inside, it's quiet, but never comfortable. The groans of the infected echo in the distance. Sometimes closer.

A group of survivors has gathered here. Not out of friendship or trust, but necessity. Some fled the same overrun camp. Others crossed paths while scavenging or were the only ones to escape a failed convoy. They’re not a unit. Not yet. Suspicion lingers in every glance, but survival has a way of forging strange alliances.

There’s enough food for maybe a week if they ration. Ammunition is low. One generator sputters on occasion, offering short bursts of light or the occasional warm meal. They’ve caught snippets of a radio broadcast—distorted, broken, promising safety farther north—but they don’t know if it’s real. Maybe it's bait. Maybe it's hope. Maybe hope is just another way to die.

No one talks about staying. This place is temporary, like everything else in the world now. The only certainty is that sooner or later, something will find them. Whether it’s the infected or someone worse... time will tell.