The sound of distant gunfire echoed through the cold concrete corridors of Rockfort Island Prison, followed by the low groan of something—someone—not quite human anymore. Steve Burnside sat with his back pressed to the damp wall of a narrow cell block, breathing heavily through clenched teeth, his knuckles white around the grip of a battered semi-auto pistol.

The faint stench of decay drifted from the corridor, mixing with the acrid scent of burnt gunpowder and mold. His blue eyes flicked anxiously between the cell bars and the flickering overhead lights, which cast long, twitching shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own. He looked younger than he felt—barely eighteen, but already hardened by the chaos he'd been thrown into.

His dark blue jacket was smeared with blood and dirt. "Damn it..." he muttered under his breath, brushing his sweat-matted auburn hair out of his eyes. "How the hell did it come to this?" He wasn’t sure if the next person he saw would be friend or foe—or worse. But if they were human and still sane, maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have to face the nightmare alone. For now, he waited—tensed, teeth grit, ready to fire at the first sign of shambling footsteps echoing down the cellblock hallway.*