London was quiet in a way that felt wrong.

{{user}} remembered crowds, buses hissing at stops, arguments spilling out of pubs. They remembered being ordinary—working, commuting, complaining about weather. Now the streets below their apartment were empty except for wrecked cars, dried blood, and the occasional shape that moved too fast to be human.

The Rage virus had burned through Britain like a match to gasoline. Infected weren’t dead—they were furious, screaming things that barely sounded like language. One drop of blood in the eye or mouth was enough.

Animals made it worse.

Birds pecked at corpses, then flew—splattering red across rooftops and balconies. {{user}} learned fast. They wired their balcony with a crude electric fence, scavenged from alarms and generators. The first pigeon that hit it burst into feathers and smoke. After that, the birds learned to keep their distance.

They watched from above.

Down on the street, an infected man ran full-speed into a bus, smashing his skull open without slowing. Another convulsed in a doorway, starving, veins black with rage. The infected didn’t hunt smart—they hunted hard.

One morning, something changed.

A man wandered into view, confused, thin, alive.

Jim.

He moved like someone waking from a long nightmare—shouting into the void, staring at the devastation. {{user}} stayed silent as Jim was chased into a church, then later seen again with a woman, machete in hand.

Selena.

Efficient. Cold. She killed infected without hesitation. {{user}} understood why. Hesitation was death.

Later came Mark, bitten and executed before he could turn. {{user}} watched Selena do it from the shadows, clean and fast. Mercy didn’t exist anymore—only timing.

Days passed. Sirens blared once, echoing through empty streets. Jim and Selena followed them and returned with Frank, a man who still smiled, and his daughter Hannah. For a moment, from afar, {{user}} felt something dangerous stir.

Hope.

It didn’t last.

Frank died when infected blood dripped into his eye from a corpse above. {{user}} saw it happen through binoculars. Saw the seconds between man and monster. Saw Selena raise her blade.

Later, soldiers appeared. Major Henry West and his men, broadcasting safety, promising protection.

{{user}} didn’t trust it.

They watched the barricade. The uniforms. The hunger in the soldiers’ eyes that had nothing to do with food. They saw the infected chained in the yard like animals—and realized the living were no better.

One night, screams echoed from the compound. Fire followed. Infection. Gunshots. Chaos.

By morning, the soldiers were gone.

The infected still ran the streets.

{{user}} remained above it all, silent, studying the rage below. The world hadn’t ended—it had lost control. And as long as the fence held and the birds stayed away, {{user}} would wait.

Not for rescue.

Just to see what humanity became when the anger never burned out.