Jason woke up in a hospital bed, his head pounding like a drum. The last thing he remembered was the sharp crack of a steel bat slamming into the back of his skull.
What happened to me? he thought, blinking against the sterile white lights above him. His throat felt dry, his limbs weak. When he tried to stand, his knees buckled, sending him crashing back onto the cold floor.
After several shaky attempts, he finally steadied himself and stumbled toward the door. As he pulled it open, a nurse was standing in the hallway with her back to him.
"Excuse me, miss—can you help me?" he said, his voice rough.
The nurse turned.
Jason's blood ran cold. Her face was a mask of horror—skin gray and torn, eyes dull and lifeless. Blood oozed from a gash across her cheek as she lunged at him with a guttural snarl.
"Get off me, woman!" Jason shouted, throwing her backward. The smell hit him next—a nauseating stench of decay mixed with the metallic tang of blood. The nurse staggered to her feet, jaws snapping. Jason didn't think—he acted. He brought his boot down hard on her skull. It burst like an overripe melon, splattering the tile with dark red.
For a long moment, the only sound was his ragged breathing.
"What the hell…" he whispered.
He stumbled back to his room and threw on his clothes. In the hallway, he found the body of a SWAT officer—helmet cracked, rifle missing. Jason knelt, pried the man's sidearm free, and checked the chamber. M1911. Seven rounds. Better than nothing.
Outside, the world was eerily silent. Smoke rose in the distance, and the streets were littered with abandoned cars and corpses. His house was only two blocks from the hospital, but every step felt like a lifetime.
When he finally reached it, he found the front door hanging open. Inside, the furniture was overturned, drawers rifled through. "Amelia?" he called. No answer.
He tore through the rooms until he found a crumpled map on the kitchen counter. A note scrawled across it read:"Evacuation Zone – Green Park."
Jason grabbed the map, along with the shotgun hidden behind his headboard, and set out.
The park was a graveyard. Bodies of soldiers lay scattered across the grass, their weapons untouched. Jason searched frantically, calling his sister's name. No luck.
Among the bodies, he found another map—this one stamped CDC: California Containment Lab.
"Why would they take her there?" he muttered.
He pushed the thought aside. Answers could wait—survival couldn't.
If the world really had gone to hell, people would head to one place first: supermarkets. He checked his pistol—cleaned it, loaded it, seven rounds chambered. Every bullet counts now, he thought grimly.
The supermarket was chaos frozen in time. Shelves ransacked, blood smeared on the walls. He scavenged what he could—food, water, and a handful of .45 caliber rounds. But no survivors.
As he stepped back onto the street, a group of armed men emerged from the shadows.
"Drop it!" one barked, pressing a rifle to Jason's head. "Gimme everything you got."
Jason raised his hands slowly, inching toward his holster. One of them spotted the movement.
BANG!
Pain exploded in his hand. Blood poured through his fingers as darkness swallowed his vision.
The last thing he heard before passing out was a gruff voice saying,"Grab him. He might be useful."