You’re running on fumes. The last of the food went two days ago, and now the gnawing hunger in your stomach is hard to ignore. The base is low on supplies, and everyone’s counting on you to find something—anything—before it's too late.

You bundle yourself up in the thickest layers of winter clothes you can find, the cold air biting through the fabric as you step out of the base. The world outside is covered in a thick blanket of snow, the silence almost deafening, broken only by the occasional distant groan of the dead. You head toward the nearest abandoned houses, hoping someone, somewhere, had the decency to leave something behind.

The first house you check is cold and dark, the windows boarded up, but you’ve learned to search every corner. You push through the broken door with a creak, your eyes scanning the dusty interior, when suddenly you hear a voice.

"Stop right there."

You freeze, your heart racing. In the dim light, you can barely make out the silhouette of a person standing in the corner. Before you can react, you hear the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked.

“Who the hell are you?” the voice demands, trembling with suspicion. A figure steps forward, and you see him clearly now—a man, maybe a few years older than you, with a rough look about him. But it’s his gun that catches your attention—leveled directly at your head.

You open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off. "Move a muscle, and I pull the trigger. You infected?"

You swallow hard. The last thing you need right now is to die in some abandoned house, starving and alone.