NIGHTMARES OF THE WALKING DEAD

The Harvester grins, his hollow eyes fixed on Seth. Around them, the asphalt fractures further, sparks dancing near the edges of the jagged cracks as the ground begins to groan.

Seth fires a warning shot at the base of the overpass, sending a chunk of concrete into the path of the approaching silhouettes. The vibration triggers a sudden, violent shift in the road, opening a chasm that swallows a rusted sedan and disrupts the enemy formation.

The survivors scramble through the dense, spiraling fog, diving into the dark concrete stairwell that descends into the forgotten tunnels beneath the highway. The sound of shifting earth and distant, rhythmic chanting fades behind them as they plunge into the relative silence of the subterranean dark.

The damp tunnel air vanishes. The crushing weight of the bridge evaporates. Seth bolts upright, his chest heaving, his fingers clawing at the synthetic fibers of his sleeping bag.

He exhales a jagged breath, staring into the pitch-black interior of the abandoned basement he chose for shelter. Outside, the low, guttural moans of standard walkers drift through the cracks in the boarded-up windows. They are slow, rotting, and mindless. No chanting, no hollow-eyed Harvesters, no impossible physics. Just the endless, hollow hunger of the dead. He wipes a layer of cold sweat from his forehead, his hand trembling slightly as he reaches for his AK-47 resting against the wall. The silence of the room is heavy, broken only by the rhythmic scraping of fingernails against the exterior siding.

The barricade groans under the weight of a dozen shuffling bodies. One of the boards snaps.