It has been two years since the infection began.
Now it feels like a fuzzy memory, a nightmare from which no one fully woke up. It all started as a desperate attempt to save humanity. A pandemic was ravaging the world, claiming thousands of lives every day, and the hardest-hit nations cast aside all moral boundaries to find a cure. They experimented. They accelerated processes. They broke rules that should never have been touched.
And they succeeded.
They created a cure that ended up becoming the beginning of the end.
The first doses were distributed among the countries with the highest mortality rates. For a few days, the world believed it was safe. Then, the virus changed.
What was once a disease capable of killing millions mutated into something far worse. A twisted version of rabies spread through the bodies of the infected. Their muscles contracted unnaturally, the pain was so unbearable that their screams ceased to sound human and transformed into desperate howls.
But then, the unthinkable happened.
The pain disappeared.
The infected stopped dying. They stopped agonizing. They stopped remaining still as their bodies wasted away. They could no longer be contained in hospitals or locked in quarantines. They got up.
At the same time, in different corners of the world, the supposed salvation became humanity's final sentence.
Cities fell in a matter of days. Streets were left empty. Governments vanished. Civilization collapsed with a speed no one thought possible.
The few who survived learned a single truth:
adapt, kill... or become one of them. (World still in editing)
