Before the world collapsed into chaos, before the undead roamed the streets, Peter was just another army mechanic stationed at Camp Morison—a mid-sized military base far from any major city. On a quiet Thursday morning, he and his crew were in the garage, scrubbing down Humvees, checking oil levels, and making jokes to pass the time. It was routine, uneventful—until it wasn't.
BOOM!
A massive explosion shook the base. Tools clattered to the floor. Dust rained from the ceiling. Alarms began blaring, red lights flashing throughout the garage.
"What the hell was that?!" one of the mechanics shouted, panic creeping into his voice.
Andrew, Peter's older brother and head of the mechanics crew, immediately took control. "Everyone, gather up! Get the trucks ready! Someone will come with orders soon!"
The crew scrambled, tuning up the remaining vehicles. One by one, groups of soldiers came rushing in, barely pausing before jumping into the trucks and roaring out of the base. None of them spoke. None explained what was happening.
Peter finally asked, "Andy, what's going on? Is it war?"
Andrew shook his head. "No clue... but something's off. We stay here. We wait."
Days has passed.
The base, once buzzing with activity, fell silent. Deserted. Eerie. Like a ghost town.
Andrew gathered the remaining mechanics. "Something's wrong. We need answers."
Suddenly—CRASH!
An army truck plowed through the main gate, smashing through fences and slamming into one of the garage's support beams before rolling to a stop. Smoke and dust filled the air.
The driver stumbled out, bloodied and wild-eyed. "Help! Get your weapons!"
Mechanics stared in confusion.
Andrew ran toward him. "What happened?! What's going on?!"
Behind the truck, soldiers appeared—limping, blood-soaked, with open wounds and vacant, dead eyes.
"SHOOT THEM!" the driver screamed. "THEY'RE INFECTED!"
Andrew and Peter froze. "Are you crazy?! We need a doctor!" Peter shouted.
But it was too late. One of the undead leaped onto the driver, tearing into his throat as he screamed.
Peter could only watch in horror.
"NO!" Andrew yelled, grabbing Peter and shoving him back.
Another creature lunged. Andrew intercepted it—getting bitten in the neck in the process.
"ANDREW!!!" Peter screamed as his brother fell, blood gushing from his wound. His eyes wide with shock.
He couldn't move.
Until Carl—another mechanic—grabbed him. "Peter! We have to go! Now!"
Snapped out of his trance, Peter ran. But he kept looking back, watching his brother being devoured.
The base fell quickly.
Peter and Carl barricaded themselves in the cafeteria. Two weeks passed. Food ran low. The air grew thick with dread.
Peter laughed bitterly, losing grip on reality. "We're gonna die. We're gonna die!"
Carl snapped. PUNCH!
Peter stumbled, stunned.
"Get a grip! What would Andrew say if he saw you like this?!"
Carl mumbled we need to get out of here, We need to look for the others as well.
Tears welled up in Peter's eyes. "You're right… Let's do it."
They crafted makeshift weapons from kitchen tools—metal skewers, mop handles, sharpened steel trays. Grabbed what remained of the food—canned beans, crackers, and two bottles of water.
They unblocked the doors. Creak...
Silence.
The halls were empty, but blood stained every inch. Mangled bodies. Drag marks. They made their way through the camp—past wrecked offices, turned-over desks, and abandoned weapons.
At the garage, they found a beat-up Willys jeep missing a wheel. Its trunk gaping open.
Without speaking, they went to work.
It took hours, but the two mechanics got the jeep running. When they tried to start it, it coughed, then roared to life.
"We're almost out of gas," Peter said.
"Maybe that crashed truck still has some," Carl replied.
They approached the wreck.
Peter kept watch, gripping his kitchen knife, while Carl siphoned fuel into a canister.
They poured the gas into the jeep and tried again. It sputtered, then purred. Ready to go.
"We need real weapons," Carl said. Peter nodded.
They made their way to the armory—still mostly untouched. They loaded up: two M4 carbines, a shotgun, several pistols, and enough ammunition to survive a few firefights.
Loaded with guns and supplies, they returned to the jeep.
Night had fallen. The gate loomed ahead.
As they drove through the entrance where the truck once smashed in, Peter glanced back—at the base, the home that now belonged to the dead.
CRUNCH.
"Carl! What's wrong?!"
Carl pointed ahead. "Look."
Two figures stood in the moonlight—guns slung, blood staining their fatigues.
It was Malcom and John.
They wore the uniforms. But their eyes… they were wrong.
And so began a new chapter in Peter's nightmare.