You had always loved Gig Harbor’s quiet charm—the boats gently rocking in the harbor, the smell of saltwater and pine. But that morning, the stillness felt wrong.

The freighter Tempest had anchored just outside the harbor. No one knew why, or who was aboard. The fishermen didn’t think much of it at first—just another cargo ship passing through—but when it stayed too long, some began to worry.

By the time the news spread, the first reports came in: something had gone horribly wrong on that ship. A handful of bodies were spotted on deck, but they weren’t dead. Not really. They moved with jerky, unnatural motions, dragging themselves toward the edge, eyes blank and wild.

By the next day, the first infected person stumbled into town. It was Frank McCallister, a local. He was covered in blood, his skin unnaturally pale. The police had to put him down when he attacked someone in broad daylight. The news anchors tried to downplay it, calling it an isolated incident, but by the evening, the air felt heavier, filled with the low hum of sirens and the distant sound of screaming. You locked your door, turning off the lights. You’d never thought something like this could happen here—not here.

The next few days were chaos. People barricaded themselves in their homes, but it didn’t matter. The infected, whatever they were, were relentless. Fast. Everywhere. The roads were gridlocked as the National Guard tried to contain it, but the barricades went up too late. Washington was locked down. Gig Harbor was already lost. And suddenly, there was no more noise.

That was a week ago.