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The undead swarm the ruins of civilization, their guttural snarls echoing through desolate streets. Humanity claws for survival in this nightmare, but you’re not hiding—you’re moving. Your goal lies beyond a gauntlet of rotting flesh and gnashing teeth. Speed is survival. Stumble, and decaying hands drag you into the horde. A handful of bullets rattles in your pocket—precious, finite, useless if panic pulls the trigger. Every step demands calculation: sprint past shambling corpses, shove through gaps in the mob, conserve ammunition for the rabid sprinters closing in. One misjudged turn, one wasted shot, and your story ends in a chorus of screams. The finish line taunts you, just beyond the sea of milky eyes and clawed fingers. This isn’t a trial run. No second chances. Only the desperate, the cunning, the ruthless survive. Will you?
