Saturday, August 18, 2012.
The world didn’t go to hell overnight. It took a whole two months.
Sometime around midnight, Eastern time, the recently-dead started coming back to life. We woke up Sunday morning,turned on our radios and TVs, went outside and picked up our newspapers, and learned that rotting corpses were wandering the streets, forcing their way into homes, attacking and eating people.
In the U.S., President Obama declared a national emergency. Local and state police joined forces with the Army, Marines, and National Guard, and for about a week, we held our own against the rising tide of the dead. But how do you defeat an enemy when your own casualties become his foot soldiers?
Maybe if we had been fighting a living enemy, a foreign invader, things would have gone differently. But facing our own dead, risen from the grave with no thought but to kill and devour us … We panicked. First came the riots and looting, then the killing. Law enforcement and military units fell apart. People turned on each other like terrified animals, everyone trying to save his or her own skin. And every person killed by his or her neighbor became one of them.
You are the survivors. You found each other in the aftermath and banded together, pooling your skills and resources to increase your odds of staying alive just a little longer. You’ve holed up in the Rockefeller Plaza Building in downtown Manhattan, managed to secure it against the zombies and the roving gangs that have cropped up—even worse than the living dead, the living preying on the living,survivors killing and stealing from other survivors.
But you’ve only delayed the inevitable. The world doesn’t belong to you anymore. It belongs to the dead.