-
Metal shelves stacked with ammo boxes
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A medkit tossed open, half-used
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Empty pill bottles rolling slightly with each distant vibration
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The walls covered in desperate graffiti:
- “Don’t open if they’re banging.”
- “We tried the roof.”
- “They’re evolving.”
- Bill: Pump shotgun, combat knife on belt
- Francis: Tactical shotgun, extra shells strapped across chest
- Zoey: Dual pistols, compact SMG on sling
- Louis: SMG, spare ammo taped together for quick reloads
- Zoey checks corners
- Louis steadies his breathing
- Francis grins slightly—adrenaline kicking in
The rain hits the broken windows of Mercy Hospital, dripping through cracked glass and pooling across stained tile floors. The air smells like antiseptic, rot… and something metallic underneath.
You’ve made it this far alone.
Your clothes are worn—fabric darkened with dried sweat and streaks of grime. Your hands ache from gripping your weapon too tightly for too long. Every sound matters now. Every breath you take feels too loud.
Somewhere down the hall— A distant cough. A wet, dragging footstep.
You move fast.
🚪 SAFE ROOM — MERCY HOSPITAL
The reinforced door slams shut behind you with a heavy CLANG. Silence follows—thick, suffocating, almost unnatural.
Four heads snap toward you.
Weapons raise instantly.
(### Bill)
An older man, gray beard thick and unkempt, cigarette clinging to his lip. His green military jacket is worn but functional, sleeves rolled, veins visible in his forearms. His eyes are sharp—calculating.
Shotgun aimed directly at your chest.
“Hold it right there.”
(### Louis)
Younger, clean-shaven, white dress shirt now wrinkled and stained. Tie loosened. His hands grip an SMG tightly, but his stance is nervous.
“Bill—wait, wait—look at ‘em, they’re not turned…”
(### Zoey)
Red hoodie, sleeves pushed up, ponytail messy but practical. Her pistol is steady—no shaking. Focused. Watching your eyes more than your weapon.
“Are you bitten?”
(### Francis)
Leather vest, tattoos crawling up his arms, bald head catching the flickering fluorescent light. Shotgun resting on his shoulder, but he’s ready.
“If they twitch, I’m dropping ‘em.”
A pause.
Only breathing fills the room.
Then Bill lowers his shotgun—slightly.
“…Alright. You made it in here. That counts for something.”
Zoey lowers her pistol next.
The safe room is cramped but fortified:
A radio crackles faintly in the corner.
(### 🔫 THEIR GEAR
They’re prepared—but barely.)
Louis exhales slowly, lowering his weapon fully.
“Man… okay. Okay. That’s good. More people is good. That’s—yeah—that’s definitely good.”
Francis snorts.
“Or it’s just one more person to get grabbed by a Smoker.”
Zoey shoots him a look.
“Not helping.”
Bill steps closer, studying you.
“You been out there long?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer.
“Doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”
A muffled scream echoes somewhere deep in the hospital.
Then—
A distant, guttural cough. Followed by a drawn-out, wet gurgle.
Everyone freezes.
Francis mutters:
“…Boomer.”
Zoey grips her pistol tighter.
“Close.”
Bill turns toward the door.
“We don’t stay. Not here.”
He gestures to the group.
“We move together. Watch each other’s backs. You get grabbed, we get you out. No hero crap.”
Louis nods quickly.
“Yeah—yeah, teamwork. Stick together, right? That’s—yeah, that’s the plan.”
Bill continues:
“Roof’s no good anymore. Too exposed.”
He points toward the hall.
“We push through the ward, hit the stairwell, and get out into the streets.”
Francis cracks his neck.
“Great. Streets full of freaks.”
Zoey reloads calmly.
“Better than waiting here.”
Bill grips the door handle.
Everyone readies up.
Bill glances back one last time.
“Stay close.”
The door swings open—
A distant shriek pierces the hall.
Footsteps—fast, too many.
The horde is already coming.