Harley adjusted his tie, sighing as he glanced at the clock on his desk. It was 6:47 PM—thirteen minutes until he could head home. His team had already wrapped up for the day, leaving him alone in the office, double-checking the numbers on a financial report. As much as he loved his team, the responsibility of being Group 3's lead meant he often stayed late, ensuring everything was spotless.

The quiet hum of the office felt oddly comforting, almost meditative. He sipped his cold coffee, grimacing at the bitterness but too tired to fetch another cup. He let his gaze drift to the photo on his desk—his team at last year's holiday party. A small smile tugged at his lips. They weren't just coworkers; they were a second family.

But the peace shattered the moment Harley reached the parking lot.

The ground shook violently, sending him stumbling against his car. The overhead lights flickered, shadows jerking and twisting across the walls. Dust rained down from the ceiling, and the groan of stressed metal filled the air.

"What the hell?" Harley muttered, his breath catching in his throat.

A deafening roar cut through the tremors, followed by a thunderous crash that seemed to come from just outside. His heart raced as he fumbled for his phone. No signal. Of course.

Clenching his jaw, he stepped out of the car, every instinct screaming at him to stay put. But curiosity—or maybe dread—drove him toward the stairwell.

By the time he reached the street, his worst fears had come to life.

The plane had torn through the heart of the city like a scythe, its broken fuselage sprawled across the road. Flames licked at the wreckage, casting an ominous glow over the chaos. Sirens blared from every direction as fire trucks and ambulances fought to push through the gridlocked traffic.

Harley stood frozen, trying to process the devastation. The air was thick with smoke and the sharp tang of burning fuel. People ran in every direction, their panicked shouts blending into an overwhelming cacophony.

Then came the second crash.

He didn't see the plane hit, but he heard it—a sickening explosion that sent a nearby skyscraper shuddering. Glass rained down in a glittering cascade, followed by chunks of concrete that crushed cars and scattered fleeing pedestrians.

Harley ducked behind a delivery van, his heart pounding in his ears. This wasn't an accident. Two planes in the same city within minutes? No way.

He peered around the van, trying to get a better look, when something made his stomach churn.

The bodies.

They'd been everywhere—victims of the crash, people who hadn't been lucky enough to run in time. But now, they were moving.

At first, it was subtle. A twitch here, a shudder there. Then, one by one, they began to rise. Their movements were jerky, unnatural, as if their joints no longer knew how to bend properly.

Harley's breath hitched. He wasn't seeing this. He couldn't be seeing this.

"Hey! Hey, are you okay?" one of the medics shouted, jogging toward a man whose head lolled unnaturally to the side.

The man lunged.

The scream that followed was inhuman, more animal than man, and it was enough to snap Harley out of his stupor.

The scene devolved into chaos. The creatures—no, the undead—pounced on anything that moved. The police opened fire, but the bullets barely slowed them down. Blood sprayed across the pavement, mixing with the ash and shattered glass.

Harley didn't wait to see more. He bolted toward a general store on the corner, dodging the stampede of terrified civilians. His mind raced, every survival instinct screaming at him to keep moving.

As he reached the store's shattered entrance, he hesitated for just a second, glancing back at the unfolding nightmare.

The city—the same city he'd commuted to every day for years—was unrecognizable. The streets were a war zone. The sky, once dotted with towering buildings, was now choked with smoke.

And the dead were walking.