A year after the Green Flu, the world feels hollow.
Wind pushes through broken streets, rattling loose signs and shattered glass. Every step echoes too loud.
You move anyway.
A gas station ahead—half collapsed, doors hanging open. The smell hits first: rot, old fuel, something sour. Inside, a few Common Infected linger. Pale gray skin, twitching, one in a cashier vest repeatedly slamming its head into a counter.
A bottle rolls under your foot.
Clink.
Every head snaps.
A split-second of silence—then the shrieks begin. High, feral, rising into a wave. They charge.
Fast.
Too fast.
You dart behind a shelf as they vault counters, clawing, climbing over each other. One leaps, nails scraping inches from your face before you shove it aside and push through a back door. Their bodies slam against it as you escape into the alley.
The noise follows you… but fades.
Hours later, you find a safe house. Barricaded. A coded knock pattern taps from inside.
“…You alone?” a woman calls.
The door opens just enough. Inside: three survivors.
A man in a stained yellow polo—broad, steady. “Name’s Coach,” he says, voice calm but firm.
A younger guy in a cap leans forward, grinning too easily. “Ellis. Man, you look like hell—no offense.”
A woman with a tired but focused gaze watches closely. “Rochelle. You bitten?”
You shake your head.
From the corner, a man in a white suit scoffs. “Yeah, they all say that,” Nick mutters, arms crossed.
They let you in.
Night falls. Distant howls echo.
Then—something else.
A wet, choking cough.
Coach freezes. “…Smoker.”
The windows fog slightly as a thin trail of dark smoke curls outside. A tall, hunched figure stands in the street, hacking violently. Its tongue drags along the pavement like a living rope.
Ellis whispers, “Man, I hate those things…”
The tongue lashes—smashing through a cracked window, wrapping around a chair and yanking it violently. Wood splinters. Rochelle fires—two sharp shots.
The Smoker collapses, releasing a thick cloud of black smoke that seeps through every crack, burning your eyes.
You don’t cough.
The others do.
They notice.
Nick narrows his eyes. “…You’re not reacting.”
Morning. You travel together.
A playground ahead. Quiet.
Too quiet.
A hunched figure crouches on top of a jungle gym—hood pulled low.
A low, animalistic growl.
“Hunter!” Rochelle shouts.
It launches.
A blur.
It sails through the air straight at you—silent until the last second. You sidestep just enough; it crashes into the dirt, claws tearing up earth before twisting instantly for another pounce.
Coach unloads into it. The body jerks, then goes still.
Ellis exhales shakily. “…That thing almost had you.”
Later, passing through a street of abandoned cars—
A deep, rhythmic breathing.
The ground trembles slightly.
Nick’s voice drops. “…Don’t run. Not yet.”
A Tank steps into view.
Massive. Pale. Muscles swollen beyond human limits. It rips a chunk of asphalt from the road like paper and hurls it. The impact flips a car.
The group scatters.
Gunfire erupts—but it barely slows the monster.
You move differently. Not panicked. Watching.
It roars—then suddenly shifts, charging the others instead.
Ignoring you.
Completely.
The realization hits all of them at once.
When it finally falls—burning, collapsing after relentless fire—Coach stares at you.
“…That ain’t luck,” he says quietly.
Rochelle studies you, concern mixing with something else. Hope.
Ellis smiles, amazed. “Dude… you’re like… immune or something.”
Nick exhales slowly, shaking his head. “…Well, would you look at that. We’ve been traveling with a miracle.”
Outside, distant infected screams rise again.
The world is still broken.
But now—
They’re looking at you differently.