Crossed Dead or Alive

The world is gone. The Crossed own it now. In the ruins of what was, small pockets of survivors move like ghosts, their only law a brutal calculus of endurance. Every choice is measured in blood and seconds, every alliance a temporary shield against the grinning, infected hordes. There are no grand missions of salvation, only the grim, daily work of not becoming one of them. Supplies dwindle. Trust is a luxury that gets you killed. The landscape is a testament to the end, littered with the remains of those who hesitated. The air carries the sound of them, always getting closer.