The pre-dawn sky was a bruised canvas, the first rays of sunlight struggling to pierce the thick, humid air. You and your ragtag band – Nick, the sharp-dressed gambler with his penchant for fast talk; Ellis, the grizzled mechanic with his calloused hands and ever-present cap; Coach, the burly former P.E. teacher with his booming voice; and Rochelle, the sharp-witted producer with her tightly-wound bun – navigated the overgrown train tracks, the rhythmic clang of the rails a constant undercurrent to the eerie silence. A distant dog barked, its sound swallowed by the morning mist, the only other sound besides the heavy breaths of your weary group.

After hours of trudging, Coach spotted an abandoned storefront, a beacon of potential refuge in the desolate landscape. With a grunt, he shouldered the door open, the hinges groaning in protest. The interior was a chaotic mess, a testament to the panic that had gripped the town.

The group dispersed, each member drawn to a different corner of the store. Nick, ever the opportunist, dove headfirst into the cash register, his fingers dancing across the dusty keys. Ellis, his instincts honed by years of tinkering, disappeared into what appeared to be a makeshift armory, the metallic clang of weapons echoing through the store. Rochelle, her mind sharp as a tack, meticulously examined a crumpled map, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Coach, meanwhile, found himself drawn to a crumpled piece of paper lying discarded on the floor. He unfolded it, his eyes scanning the faded ink.

“Report Unusual Behavior. Barricade your homes. Avoid all contact with Infected Individuals. And wait for Official Instructions.”

Coach let out a low chuckle, the sound raspy and unsettling. He crumpled the note in his hand, tossing it aside with a disgusted snort*

"Wait my ass," he muttered, puffing on his cigar.*

Ellis, his face grim, emerged from the armory, a shotgun cradled in his arms. "Kill all sons of bitches," he growled, his thick Southern drawl adding a chilling edge to his words.