Chapter 1
Michael Evangelista had lived a life of discipline, sacrifice, and war. Born in the Philippines, he had always dreamed of serving his country, inspired by the stories of bravery from his grandfather, a World War II veteran. From a young age, he trained his body and mind, excelling in marksmanship, endurance, and hand-to-hand combat. He enlisted in the military at eighteen, determined to make a difference.
Over the years, he climbed the ranks, proving himself in numerous operations. At twenty-five, he was selected for The Special Forces Regiment (Airborne), an elite unit specializing in counter-terrorism, reconnaissance, and unconventional warfare. His first major battle was the Zamboanga Siege in 2013, a grueling twenty-day conflict against insurgents who had taken the city hostage. Michael fought relentlessly, witnessing horrors that would haunt him for years. He lost comrades—brothers-in-arms who had laughed with him, shared meals, and dreamed of returning home. But war was unforgiving.
After Zamboanga, he transferred to the Light Reaction Regiment, an even more elite unit tasked with the most dangerous missions. He became part of the sniper task group, where his skills in long-range precision and stealth were unparalleled. His next significant deployment was the Marawi Siege in 2017, a battle against ISIS-affiliated militants that lasted five months. From the shadows, he eliminated high-value targets, providing cover for advancing forces. Their confirmed kills numbered 87, but he knew the real count was higher. He had become a ghost on the battlefield, feared by enemies, respected by allies.
Despite his reputation, Michael never sought fame or recognition. He was a soldier, nothing more. He refused promotions that would take him away from the frontlines. While others built families, he remained single, believing it was unfair to burden a wife and children with the constant fear of his death. Instead, he focused on supporting his nephews and nieces, ensuring they had the best education and opportunities. To them, he was their beloved tito—the generous, kind, and slightly mysterious uncle who appeared during family gatherings, showering them with gifts and wisdom before vanishing on another mission.
But even warriors had limits. At forty, he began feeling the toll of his battles. Old wounds ached, his reflexes dulled ever so slightly, and exhaustion crept into his bones. Then came the diagnosis—cancer. The doctor's words echoed in his mind long after he left the hospital. Stage four. Terminal. No cure.
For the first time, Michael faced an enemy he couldn't fight.
His final months were spent with his family. His nephews and nieces, now grown, cared for him like he had cared for them. They held his hands, laughed at his old stories, and wept when he grew weaker. On June 15, 2021, surrounded by love, he took his last breath.
Or so he thought.
The first thing he felt was cold.
His head pounded as consciousness returned, his senses overwhelmed by the metallic scent of blood and the acrid stench of smoke. Groaning, he forced his eyes open, only to be greeted by the sight of a ruined cityscape. Buildings burned in the distance, and the night sky was stained with the eerie glow of scattered fires. The ground beneath him was hard, wet, and sticky—he was lying in a pool of blood.
His blood.
The memories hit him like a freight train.
His name was John Stewart—a soldier, a Green Beret deployed in London to aid the evacuation of civilians. Their mission was simple: assist the British military in securing strongholds, guiding survivors to safety, and containing any potential threats. They had been briefed on the infected—hostile, mindless, extremely aggressive—but the true horror had been beyond anything they could have anticipated. The virus moved too fast. A single breach had led to a massacre. The so-called "safe zone" had become a slaughterhouse.
John Stewart had died in that chaos.
And now, Michael Evangelista—war veteran, sniper, and dead man—was here, trapped in John's body.
His fingers curled into fists, feeling the unfamiliar texture of his gloves. His uniform was soaked in blood, his tactical gear torn and useless. His rifle lay nearby, still gripped in his previous body's lifeless hands. He reached for it instinctively, his years of training overriding the shock of his situation.
Then, the screams started.
Not the cries of the wounded or the desperate shouts of soldiers calling for backup.
No. These were the howls of something unnatural. Something monstrous.
Michael's breath caught in his throat. He knew that sound.
"Putangina..." he muttered under his breath.
This wasn't just a war zone.
This was 28 Weeks Later.
A movie. A horror film he had watched countless times before his life became an endless cycle of missions and bloodshed. He knew this world. He knew what was coming.
And the realization sent a shiver down his spine.
"I don't know how to survive this hellhole."
But he had to try.
He forced himself up, muscles aching as he took stock of his surroundings. The street was littered with corpses—soldiers and civilians alike, their bodies torn apart by infected hands. Blood splattered the walls, and the stench of decay filled the air. He had no time to panic, no luxury to process what had happened to him. The infected were fast. They were relentless. And he was in the middle of ground zero.
His mind raced, calculating his options. First, he needed weapons and ammunition. Second, he needed to find a secure location. And third—perhaps the most crucial—he needed to remember how this movie played out. If he was lucky, he could use his knowledge to survive. If he was unlucky… well, he had already died once.
He checked his gear. His rifle was functional but low on ammo. His sidearm was intact, a Glock 19 with two spare magazines. His combat knife was still strapped to his belt. Everything else—communications, rations, medical supplies—was either missing or destroyed.
A distant sound made him freeze.
A deep, guttural growl.
He turned slowly, eyes locking onto the silhouette of a figure standing in the shadows of a nearby alley. Blood dripped from its mouth. Its chest heaved with unnatural breaths. Its eyes—bloodshot, filled with rage—fixed on him.
Then, it moved.
It didn't walk. It sprinted.
Michael didn't hesitate. He raised his rifle, aiming down the sights.
The infected shrieked, charging forward with terrifying speed.
He pulled the trigger.
BANG.
The bullet struck the infected's head, sending it sprawling to the ground. But the noise had already attracted others. More shadows stirred, and soon, a chorus of unholy wails filled the night air.
Michael clenched his jaw. Shit. I need to move.
He took off, sprinting down the desolate streets, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The infected were relentless, their inhuman screeches echoing behind him. He knew the city wouldn't hold much longer. The British military had already failed. The so-called "safe zones" had collapsed.
There was no backup. No rescue.
He was on his own.
And if he wanted to survive, he had to be smarter, faster, and deadlier than the monsters hunting him.
Because in this world, hesitation meant death.
And Michael Evangelista wasn't ready to die again.
Chapter End.