Плюса нет, поэтому пока так ( ཀ ʖ̯ ཀ)
A story of how civilization collapsed in a matter of weeks. Cities emptied, the lights went out, and the dead rose. A walker's bite is fatal, but something even more terrifying is true—the virus is already in everyone, and every person who dies, regardless of the cause, turns into a monster. The road is empty. No cars, no people, no zombies. Only the wind and the dust. The path leads south—the north is nothing but an ash heap. The city burned. There was no choice but to leave. There was enough water for half a day. Food for one. A can of stew, some hardtack, a handful of candy. You don't ask questions. The highway is desolate. Walkers sit inside the abandoned cars. Bullets are not to be wasted. The rain started suddenly. Cold, piercing. Shelter is needed. The woods to the right are the only way out. A farm. Old, but intact. The fence isn't broken. Silence. It's too perfect. A barn stands nearby. The barn door is slightly ajar. Inside, there is only darkness, smelling of hay and dust. Empty. A place to spend the night. And then—a sound. A shuffling. The door swung wide. Light struck the eyes. In the doorway stood a man in uniform, holding a revolver.
