Ethan refreshed the page.
The post was gone.
He frowned, fingers swiping across the screen as he searched again—different keywords, different filters. Nothing. The video showing that hulking, evolved zombie had vanished completely from the forum. Scrubbed clean. Censored.
"Harmonized," as the old internet crowd used to call it.
It made perfect sense, really. The government was barely holding the country together with duct tape and empty promises. If word spread that the undead could evolve—that they could become something stronger, faster, more dangerous—the fragile thread of public order would snap completely. People were already terrified. Hope was the only thing keeping some of them from giving up entirely.
Better to bury the truth than face mass hysteria.
Ethan locked his phone and tossed it onto the nightstand with a soft thud. Two days. Just two days since the world had fallen apart, and already information was being controlled, manipulated, hidden. The news channels still broadcasted their official statements—calm voices urging citizens to "remain indoors," "trust the national response," and "await further instructions."
But anyone with functioning eyes could see the truth: the system was collapsing, one city at a time, and no amount of government spin could hide it.
He exhaled slowly and pushed himself out of bed, careful not to disturb Rachel. She lay curled beneath the thin blanket, her breathing soft and steady. After everything she'd been through—the panic, the running, the near-death encounters—she deserved the rest. He wouldn't wake her. Not yet.
Quietly, Ethan pulled on his jacket and began strapping on his gear. A knife on his belt. His makeshift vest with reinforced padding. Boots laced tight.
"Can't run a base alone forever," he muttered under his breath, adjusting a strap. "Gonna need proper help eventually. People I can actually trust."
The old hospital he'd claimed and fortified had become his temporary headquarters—a three-story structure with steel security doors, barricaded windows, and a handful of survivors who'd pledged their loyalty in exchange for protection. Most of them were traumatized, shell-shocked civilians clinging to any semblance of safety and order.
And for now, he was that order.
When Ethan descended to the makeshift cafeteria on the first floor, he found several women already preparing breakfast. Canned beef. Instant rice. Bottled water. The meal was simple, unappetizing even, but it was food—and in a world where grocery stores had become death traps, that made it invaluable.
"Morning, sir," one of the women said quietly, setting a metal plate down on the communal table. Her hands trembled slightly. Fear, exhaustion, or both.
Ethan nodded curtly. "Good work. Keep everyone fed and keep the noise down. Sound travels, and we don't need to advertise our position."
"Yes, sir." She nodded quickly and returned to the makeshift kitchen area.
He didn't rule through fear—not entirely. But authority was necessary. In a world that had descended into madness overnight, leadership couldn't afford to be gentle or democratic. Hesitation got people killed. Weakness invited disaster.
A moment later, Emily appeared in the doorway, her dark hair tied back in a practical ponytail. The circles under her eyes told him she'd slept about as well as he had—which was to say, barely at all.
"Morning," Ethan greeted, gesturing to the empty seat across from him.
Emily dropped into the chair with a heavy sigh and picked at the food on her plate. "You kept me up half the night again," she muttered, not quite meeting his eyes.
Ethan had the decency to look slightly sheepish. "Yeah… sorry about that. Turns out motel walls aren't exactly soundproof."
Emily rolled her eyes but didn't press the issue. She'd seen—and heard—far worse things over the past forty-eight hours than her brother's questionable decisions.
After a few bites of bland rice, Ethan leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "I'm heading out today. Need to sweep the surrounding area, clear out nearby undead, and scavenge for supplies—weapons, medicine, fuel, anything we can use. You'll hold down the fort here."
Emily looked up, her expression sharpening with focus. "Understood. I'll organize the others and reinforce the barricades on the second floor. The roof cameras are still operational—I can monitor the perimeter from there."
A faint smile crossed Ethan's face. "That's exactly why I trust you."
Emily wasn't just his younger sister. She was brilliant—a double doctorate in psychology and computer systems engineering, earned before she'd turned thirty. Before the apocalypse, she'd been a university lecturer, respected in her field and admired by her students. Now, her intelligence was the backbone of their survival strategy. She organized supplies, managed people, maintained their security systems, and kept everyone from tearing each other apart under pressure.
Without her, this place would have fallen apart within hours.
Ethan reached into his tactical vest and pulled out his only firearm—a worn M1911 pistol, scratched and weathered but still functional. He placed it on the table between them with a soft clack.
"Keep this," he said firmly. "Only fire it if you absolutely have to. The noise will draw them from blocks away."
Emily hesitated, staring at the weapon like it was a coiled snake. Then she nodded, picking it up carefully and tucking it into her belt. "Be careful out there, Ethan."
He gave her a casual two-finger salute and turned toward the stairwell, his boots echoing against concrete as he descended.
Outside, the world was quiet.
Too quiet.
The hospital's main entrance was thoroughly barricaded—furniture, debris, and welded steel plates blocking any potential breach. Instead, Ethan climbed out through a second-floor window and descended using the external water pipe, his enhanced strength making the climb effortless. His boots hit cracked asphalt with a soft thud, and he straightened, scanning his surroundings.
The streets were empty. Smoke curled lazily from distant fires. Abandoned cars sat at odd angles, doors hanging open, windows shattered. Bloodstains marked the pavement in dark, irregular patterns.
His pack was light—just a few bottles of water, a crowbar, and a combat knife. He'd lost his fire axe yesterday breaking through reinforced glass during an emergency escape. Now he needed better equipment. Preferably guns.
"Police headquarters should be about two blocks north," Ethan murmured, orienting himself using the skyline. "If the armory's still intact… that's a jackpot."
He'd barely taken ten steps when the first zombie shambled out from behind a burned-out sedan. Its movements were jerky, uncoordinated—a standard first-tier undead. Ethan didn't even slow his stride. He stepped forward, pivoted on his heel, and drove his fist straight through its skull.
Bone crunched. The zombie crumpled.
"Still hard as concrete," Ethan muttered, wiping gore from his knuckles. His enhanced Physical Strength made close combat almost trivial against basic undead, but it was still messy, exhausting work.
He scavenged a steel pipe from the rubble nearby, tested its weight and balance with a few practice swings, and continued north. It wasn't elegant, but it would do.
His objectives were clear:
Find firearms. Guns weren't just useful—they were essential for defending the hospital and arming his people.
Locate a durable melee weapon. Something better than scavenged trash. A machete, a tactical axe, anything built to last.
Gather critical supplies. Medicine, food, fuel—anything that could extend their survival and strengthen their position.
"System," Ethan whispered as he moved through the shadowed streets, his senses sharp and alert. "Mark today's mission as: Exploration – Police Headquarters Sweep."
The mechanical voice responded instantly in his mind.
[Mission Accepted.]
[Objective: Explore and clear Police Headquarters.]
[Estimated Rewards: Attribute Points +100 | Item Drops: Variable]
A grin spread across Ethan's face. "Now we're talking."
He tightened his grip on the steel pipe and pressed forward, moving like a ghost through the ruins. The skyline of downtown Seattle loomed in the distance—a jagged silhouette of broken glass and steel, a tombstone marking the death of civilization.
But to Ethan, it wasn't a graveyard.
It was an opportunity.
Somewhere ahead, carried on the wind, came a sound that made him pause. A roar—deep, guttural, and unmistakably inhuman. It echoed between buildings, reverberating through the dead city like a predator's challenge.
Ethan's grin widened.
"Guess I'm not the only one evolving."
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