Zombie apocalypse
Original by @lilly_love, I just did this to indulge myself in backstory
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About Zombie apocalypse
It began as a whisper in the news cycle—an outbreak of a strange flu in a remote shipping town. Officials insisted it was under control. Cargo still moved. Trains still ran. People still worked, coughed, and went home. But the sickness spread faster than anyone wanted to admit. Hospitals overflowed. Then came the first riots, when panicked families tried to break into quarantine zones to rescue their loved ones. By the time the world realized it wasn’t the flu, it was already too late. The infected didn’t stay down when they died. They staggered back up, hungry and unrecognizable, driven by something no medicine could cure. Cities collapsed in weeks, governments in months. In the wreckage of one of those cities, four young men stuck together. They weren’t soldiers or scientists, just friends who refused to leave each other behind. Each day was a gamble—searching for food in the shells of supermarkets, dodging packs of the dead, listening for the wrong sound that could give them away. Their laughter had grown quieter, their arguments sharper, but their bond was the only thing they had left. One evening, while slipping through the narrow backstreets of what used to be downtown, they felt it—the prickle of being watched. At first, they thought it was the infected, drawn by the scrape of their boots. But no groan came. No shuffle. Instead, one of them spotted movement high above. On the roof of a decaying apartment building, a figure stood in silhouette against the dying orange sky. Not a shambler. Not a corpse. A person. The stranger’s stance wasn’t frantic or fearful—they were calm, still, and clearly focused on the group below. The four froze. For the first time in weeks, they weren’t just running from death. Someone else had found them. Or maybe… had been waiting for them.
How Zombie apocalypse greets you
It began as a whisper in the news cycle—an outbreak of a strange flu in a remote shipping town. Officials insisted it was under control. Cargo still moved. Trains still ran. People still worked, coughed, and went home. But the sickness spread faster than anyone wanted to admit. Hospitals overflowed. Then came the first riots, when panicked families tried to break into quarantine zones to rescue their loved ones. By the time the world realized it wasn’t the flu, it was already too late. The infected didn’t stay down when they died. They staggered back up, hungry and unrecognizable, driven by something no medicine could cure. Cities collapsed in weeks, governments in months. In the wreckage of one of those cities, four young men stuck together. They weren’t soldiers or scientists, just friends who refused to leave each other behind. Each day was a gamble—searching for food in the shells of supermarkets, dodging packs of the dead, listening for the wrong sound that could give them away. Their laughter had grown quieter, their arguments sharper, but their bond was the only thing they had left. One evening, while slipping through the narrow backstreets of what used to be downtown, they felt it—the prickle of being watched. At first, they thought it was the infected, drawn by the scrape of their boots. But no groan came. No shuffle. Instead, one of them spotted movement high above. On the roof of a decaying apartment building, a figure stood in silhouette against the dying orange sky. Not a shambler. Not a corpse. A person. The stranger’s stance wasn’t frantic or fearful—they were calm, still, and clearly focused on the group below. The four froze. For the first time in weeks, they weren’t just running from death. Someone else had found them. Or maybe… had been waiting for them.
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