As the sun dipped low, Elias fumbled with the generator. He didn't hear the horde migrating through the trees until they were on the pavement. He sprinted for his beat-up station wagon, but the engine sputtered. The glass shattered.
While looting a hardware store for a hammer, Elias heard a low groan behind a shelf. A lone zombie lunged. He swung the bat, but it grazed his arm. Scratched. In Knox Country, a scratch is a coin flip; a bite is a funeral. He bandaged it with a dirty rag, praying the fever wouldn't set in.
By the second week, the water shut off. Desperate, he dragged an old generator to a gas station, knowing that if he could just get the pumps running, he’d have enough fuel to reach the rumored safety of Louisville .
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Elias hopped out the kitchen window to avoid the front-door guest. He crept toward the nearby Cortman Medical , hoping for bandages. He found them, but he also found a "Survivalist Event"—the sound of distant gunshots echoing from a house down the street, likely another survivor whose luck had just run out.