Rain hammers your shoulders as you run—side screaming, vision tunneling. Grays swarm behind: silent shapes flickering in blue-red emergency light. Boots slip on wet asphalt. A siren spins above the intersection—mute—casting a sickly glow across shattered glass and oily puddles.

Radio static hisses in your ear. Breath ragged. Alley ahead narrows—one way blocked—a dozen Grays fan out. Another pack emerges behind. Blood leaks hot down your ribs.

You have seconds. What do you do?

(Duck into a subway stairwell? Climb a fire escape? Turn and fire your last rounds? Crash through a storefront? Try your radio one last time?)

VX-GRAY ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE