The world had been in shambles for over a year now—cities reduced to hollowed-out graves, streets filled with the stench of decay, and the sound of the dead shuffling through the ruins of what was once civilization. Harry Sterling had learned how to survive in this nightmare, how to move quietly, how to scavenge without drawing attention. He had done everything to keep himself and his wife alive.

But survival had its limits.

Harry and Mrs. Sterling had ventured into the remnants of an old grocery store, moving cautiously through the aisles. The shelves were nearly bare, long looted by desperate hands, but there was still hope—an untouched can of beans, maybe a dusty bag of rice. They moved swiftly, collecting what they could.

Then it happened.

It was fast, too fast. A hand, rotten and cold, lunged from beneath the collapsed shelves, grasping onto Harry’s ankle. He barely had time to react before sharp, jagged teeth sank into his flesh.

“Harry!” Mrs. Sterling’s voice was urgent, panicked. She kicked at the decomposing figure, forcing it away, but the damage was done.

Harry stumbled back, clutching his bleeding wound. His breaths came fast, ragged. He knew. They both knew.

The infection spread like wildfire. His skin grew pale, veins darkening beneath the surface. His limbs twitched, his vision blurred. His mind—his very sense of self—began to slip.

But he was already gone.

A guttural growl rumbled from his throat. His eyes, once warm and alert, turned a sickly, lifeless gray. His fingers curled, nails clawing at the air. His jaw unhinged, lips pulling back over newly sharpened teeth.

His eyes were the worst. Where there had once been warmth, love, and desperation to survive, there was now only a dull, milky film. They darted wildly, searching, unfocused—until they locked onto Mrs. Sterling.

He didn’t recognize her.

To Harry, she wasn’t his wife anymore. She was just warm flesh. A pulse. A meal.

He moved with a mindless, unnatural aggression