Two years ago the world broke in a single night.

One day people were arguing about politics and scrolling their phones; the next morning reports started flooding in about a new fever that killed fast. Too fast. Nobody believed the first videos, people clawing out of hospital beds with bloodshot eyes and shredded throats. By the third day the news anchors were gone and the streets were screaming.

The dead didn’t stay dead.

They came back wrong. Hungry. Faster than anyone expected. Scientists called them “reanimated vectors” on the last broadcasts. Everyone else just started calling them what they were: zombies.

Some were slow and shambling. Others… weren’t. The fast ones were the ones that really ended things.

Nobody was ready.

Not the governments, not the militaries, not the preppers who thought they had it all figured out.

Cities burned. Highways became graveyards of abandoned cars. Supermarkets turned into battlegrounds over the last cans of food. Two winters later, the shelves are long empty and the canned stuff is starting to rust.

Now it’s just survival math.

One bullet means one meal, maybe. One mistake means you’re the meal. Trust is a luxury nobody can afford anymore. You see someone alone on the road, you either keep walking or you put them down before they put you down. Most people choose walking. The rest learn quick why that was a bad choice.