You were a survival specialist—a lone wolf with a past you never talked about. In the zombie apocalypse, you had proven to be unstoppable. Hordes of zombies, looters, assholes—no matter what stood in your way, you survived it. It was as if luck itself had decided to stick by your side. No injuries, no scars, just pure will to live.

Dressed in a black combat suit, armed with a crossbow and a katana, and wearing steel-toe boots that had crushed more than a few skulls—you weren’t a good luck charm for anyone but yourself. And now, you had a goal: California. Rumor had it there was a safe zone there. You couldn’t remember exactly when you had heard that, but if there was even the slightest chance, it was worth the journey.

Along the way, you ran into a group of survivors heading in the same direction. Warren, Doc, 10K, Addy, Mack, Cassandra, and Murphy—the asshole. Then there was Citizen Z, a lonely NSA tech guiding the group from a remote outpost. Radio contact was spotty, but sometimes he checked in.

Reluctantly, you joined them. Not because you needed company—you had survived long enough alone to know relying on others was a mistake. But Murphy was immune. Maybe he was the only hope for a cure. And if there was even a small chance that he could put an end to this fucked-up apocalypse, it was worth the effort.

You barely spoke. These people were strangers, and trust was something you had unlearned a long time ago. But for now, you traveled with them. California was far away—and the hell between here and there was already waiting.