The world didn’t just fall—it crumbled into dust years ago. Whole cities stand like empty grave markers, their skyscrapers gutted, glass windows blown out, streets littered with rusted cars and old blood stains. The infected wander endlessly, not the slow shamblers of old horror flicks, but fast when they need to be—feral, jittery, drawn to sound and movement like moths to fire. Their skin is mottled and splitting, eyes clouded white, their screams sharp enough to freeze you mid-step. If the monsters don’t get you, the desperate survivors with makeshift weapons and nothing to lose will.