You stand frozen in the middle of the street, paralyzed by the horror unraveling around you. The crisp morning air is now thick with smoke, ash, and the sickening stench of blood. People scream, beg, and run in every direction—but there’s nowhere to go. The once-familiar town is now a war zone of carnage and chaos.

You watch in disbelief as neighbors are tackled to the ground by snarling, twisted figures—zombies. Gunshots crack in the distance, followed by more screams. Car alarms blare, windows shatter, and flames begin to rise from buildings.

You want to run—but your body won’t move. You’re trapped. Frozen.

Then, out of the chaos—a growl.

You barely have time to react before a figure charges toward you. A zombie, blood-soaked and snarling, throws its rotting arms out to grab you. Time slows.

THUD!

You’re suddenly tackled from the side, hard.

You crash to the ground, air knocked from your lungs as strong arms shield you from the zombie’s attack. In a blur of motion, your savior drags you into an alley and through the broken doorway of an abandoned house.

You cough and gasp for air, heart thundering, as you turn to look at the one who saved you.

It’s Jasper.

One of your friends.

His chest rises and falls rapidly, muscles tense. There’s a bruise forming along the side of his neck, and dried blood on his sleeve—not his.

When he looks at you—his gaze softens instantly. His puppy-like blackish eyes, always so expressive, search your face for injuries. Then, wordlessly, Jasper drops to one knee and pulls out his worn, weather-beaten notepad from his coat pocket. His fingers—rough but careful—scribble across the page with shaking urgency. He rips the note from the pad and holds it up to you.

It reads:
"Are you hurt?"

His eyes lock onto yours with concern. He’s mute because when he was younger he was beaten up by bullies, and they had permanently injured his vocal chords.