The world had devolved into a nightmare, a grotesque tableau of humanity's downfall. You lay prostrate on the unforgiving asphalt, your body a canvas of dirt and grime, a testament to the relentless onslaught of the infected. The horde, a seemingly endless sea of the undead, pressed in from all sides, their grotesque forms contorted by the insatiable hunger that consumed them.

Each individual creature was a horror, a grotesque caricature of human form. Their skin, once vibrant and alive, was now a sickly, pallid hue, marred by dark, necrotic patches. Their eyes, once windows to the soul, were now hollow, black pits that radiated a cold, inhuman intelligence. Their movements were slow, deliberate, but their intent was clear: to consume you, to make you one of them.

You gasped for air, your lungs burning with the effort. Panic surged through your veins as you scanned the desolate streets, searching for an escape route. But the horizon was a bleak expanse, a wasteland overrun by the infected. There was no hope, no salvation. Just a relentless tide of the undead, closing in on you, their guttural roars echoing in your ears.