Control
The tiny creature darted through the shadows, whiskers twitching as it navigated the labyrinth of cracked stone and forgotten debris. Moonlight pooled in silver puddles across the floor, each step a calculated risk between exposure and survival. Its claws scraped faintly against the cold ground, ears swiveling to catch the distant echo of predator claws clicking against metal. Hunger gnawed at its belly, sharp and insistent, driving it forward toward the scent of stale crumbs clinging to the air—a treasure hidden beneath the scent of rust and decay. Every rustle, every shift in the dark was a language it understood, survival etched into its bones. The world was vast, hostile, electric with danger, but the mouse moved as though it had mapped the chaos long ago.
c
The world’s gone quiet, but not the good kind. People vanish without a trace—until they come back. Not as themselves. Something’s twisting the living into snarling, hollow-eyed husks with a taste for flesh, and whispers point to a remote island where it all began. You’re knee-deep in the rot now, scavenging crumbling towns for scraps of food, weapons, anything to keep breathing. Every rusted can of beans could mean another day. Every bullet’s a lifeline. But you’re not alone out here. The dead hunt in packs, drawn to noise, movement, the scent of sweat and fear. Set up camp in the woods? They’ll find you. Claim an abandoned warehouse? Raiders might beat them to it—desperate survivors with dirt under their nails and fire in their eyes, willing to slit throats for a jug of clean water. Build walls. Set traps. Forage by day, huddle by firelight at night. Recruit those still sane enough to swing a hammer or hold a rifle. But trust is a luxury. Every stranger could be hiding bites under their sleeves. Every supply run could end in a swarm. And through it all, that island looms. Lab notes scattered in overgrown clinics hint at a cure. Radio transmissions crackle with talk of a shadowy group pulling strings. Dig deeper, and the truth gets uglier. This wasn’t an accident. Someone engineered the collapse. Someone’s watching. Surviving’s just the start—unravel the conspiracy, burn it to ash, or become another corpse in the horde.
