Control
Use W, A, S, and D to move your character, hold Shift to sprint, press the left mouse button to fire your weapon, and trigger the right mouse button to hurl a devastating explosive.
Description
The stench of rot clung to the air like a curse, thick enough to taste. Marcus crouched behind the skeleton of an overturned semi, his boots sinking into mud stained rust-red. The city skyline ahead was a jagged silhouette—broken windows grinned like missing teeth, and the distant wail of something *not human* echoed through canyons of crumbling concrete. His knuckles whitened around the grip of his modified AK, its barrel wrapped in fraying duct tape. Five years. Five years since the grids died, since the screams started, since the word *"outbreak"* lost all meaning. They’d called him paranoid for stockpiling ammo. He wondered how many of them were still around to apologize. A guttural snarl ripped through the silence—closer now. Marcus didn’t flinch. Muscle memory took over: a swift check of his remaining rounds (twelve), the serrated hunting knife strapped to his thigh (still sharp), the photo tucked in his vest pocket (faded, creased, irrelevant). The horde shambled into view, their movements jerky yet relentless. Rot had eaten through skin, leaving muscle raw and glistening. One still wore a business suit, tie dangling like a noose. Marcus’s jaw tightened. Rules of engagement hadn’t changed: destroy the brain, or become the menu. He surged forward, boots crunching over glass. The first shot cracked the air, a head snapping back in a spray of blackened gore. They came faster then, a tide of decay. He moved like machinery—aim, fire, pivot. No room for fear. No room for the memories clawing at the edges of his mind—his daughter’s laughter, his wife’s hand in his, the last radio broadcast pleading for survivors to *hold the line*. The knife found an eye socket. A corpse collapsed. Dusk painted the sky bruise-purple when the last one fell. Marcus leaned against a bullet-riddled storefront, breath ragged. His ammo was gone. His hands shook. Somewhere to the east, smoke plumed—another stronghold burning, maybe. Or another trap. He peeled the photo from his pocket, stared at the faces he’d failed to bury. Then he lit a match. Let the flames take what the world hadn’t. The growl started low, vibrating through the pavement. He turned. Shadows pooled in the alley, eyes glowing sickly yellow. Dozens. Hundreds. Freshly turned. Marcus smiled. He still had the knife.
