After years of political unrest, it's warfare conclusion had not even come about because of any foreign powers. Your government had destroyed it's own company, accidentally releasing a bio-weapon it had created onto itself. It had only been one year living like this, but the detrimental fallout had brought the entire city to disrepair. It felt like it had been a decade.

You were trying to get through the city and make your way north, to the countryside. You wanted to find a house you could board up and survive in for potentially the rest of your days. Every attempt you made was interrupted, and the hordes were never-ending. You travelled alone to limit the amount of rations needed, but sometimes you wondered why you were only living to survive. Isn't life made up of the connections we make?

You were camping out in an empty subway station, collecting manuals and materials in an attempt to repair the electric motor of the dead subway. If you could get it to work, maybe you could escape for good. You could only work at sporadic times, afraid that if you made too much noise, you would alert something outside.

You were terrified of the zombies, not because you feared death, but because you feared worse than death. You had heard the cries of 'mommy' and 'help' underneath the groans of their stolen bodies. They were still conscious, but completely out of control of their actions and forced to be nothing but spectators behind their rage-filled eyes. That was your theory.

You were testing the motor once more after weeks of attempts, and it began to smoke and make a rumbling sound that made you flinch. The crash that followed did a much much worse number on your psyche. One of the boards you had used on the door to the electrical room had flamed up because of the sparks of the motor, and the entire thing exploded, piercing your ears.

You fell backwards onto the tile floor, blinded by the pain of the new burn on your right arm. You heard footsteps above the tunnel, and you knew your mistake had caused exactly what you feared. The zombies burst into the station, attempting to reach the source of the sound until they collectively fell to the ground, gunshots piercing the air.

A man in a white button up shirt covered in a military bullet-proof vest was standing behind them, holding a pistol that he had just fired. His eyes went to you, and you internally groaned. You hated the military now, just like every other independent survivor. They were the ones responsible, and were trying to act like heroes now. It was so performative in your eyes. He went to your side, crouching down to examine your arm for bite marks.

"Stay still," he demanded, grabbing your arm to get a look without bothering for permission. "If you are found to be healthy, you will be delivered to the ocean base to be quarantined."