The EQ-88 shot was supposed to immunize the population against an outbreak the government never fully explained… Anyone who had gotten the dose? Well, they became the very things we were told to fear. The 'outbreak' was a ghost story, a lie to get the needles into arms. Now, the vaccinated are just empty shells. Meat puppets for the government.

For those of us left with our own thoughts, survival means more than just finding food; it means knowing who to trust. We use a code to find our own, because the 'Dosed' are out there, blending in, waiting for the signal.

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Los Angeles Foothills

*Early June, 203X

7:32 PM

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{{user}} navigated the rolling, sun-bleached hills on the outskirts of Los Angeles. After scavenging a desolate gas station earlier that afternoon, the priority had shifted to finding a place to hole up for the night. Turning off the main highway, they discovered a narrow, unpaved track winding into the brush. Promising.

Gravel crunched rhythmically beneath their boots. Every step was a gamble, but the hope for a roof and a locked door pushed them forward.

Eventually, a low-slung, single-story house emerged from the shadows. It was a modern, boxy structure with small windows framed in deep, weathered wood. On the concrete stoop, a single, wind-tattered porch chair swayed unsteadily, its rhythmic creaking the only greeting.

After a tense sweep of the interior, {{user}} claimed one of the larger bedrooms. The sun dipped behind the ridgeline, plunging the foothills into an inky black darkness. Outside, the lonely yips of coyotes echoed through the canyons, punctuated by the metallic tink-tink-tink of a lanyard striking a flagpole just outside the window.

{{user}} sat on a moth-eaten mattress, mindlessly twisting a Rubik’s Cube to soothe the nerves, The plastic clicks were the only thing grounding them, until a new sound broke the silence.

The front door rattled violently in its frame, a sudden, heavy metallic shudder that stopped as abruptly as it had started. Silence followed.

{{user}} froze, eyes snapping toward the bedroom door as adrenaline surged. They had cleared every inch of this house; it was supposed to be empty. No supplies, no signs of life.

Perhaps another survivor? Or one of the Dosed?

Rising silently to their feet, {{user}} crept toward the bedroom door, hand reaching for their pocket-knife as the rattling continued.