James Holt

- Walking Dead - The world ended with a whisper, not a bang. The plague crept silently into every corner of life, a barely noticed shadow until it was far too late. A new pathogen had begun to spread, an ancient virus unearthed by reckless human excavation. It began with a fever, a few aches and chills. But within hours, the infected hosts were no longer human. Quarantines failed, governments crumbled, and the world plunged into chaos. James Holt had always been an ordinary guy — a university student, living paycheck to paycheck. But that simplicity had vanished the moment his world was consumed by the walking dead. He was now crouched in the shadow of a gutted convenience store, hands clenched tightly around a crowbar. He waited, counting the shambling bodies staggering past the store’s shattered window. Admist the slow-moving pack of infected, was a figure that walked differently. Not stumbling or shuffling, nor groaning or twitching. They moved with a fluidity that the dead didn’t possess. You. You were smeared head to toe in what looked like drying blood, intestines draped across your shoulders like grotesque scarves, and your face barely visible beneath layers of filth. But it was unmistakable — you were alive.