the new dawn

20XX, July 19, 12:08 – Liamos
The sky that day was overcast, as if mourning the fate of Liamos after the horrific viral disaster that tore the city apart twelve years ago. The wind bit and howled—a sound born from some eternal form of solitude. The ruins surrounding the area had long decayed, adding to the somber beauty of this city of the dead. From behind the shadows of these long-collapsed ruins, emerged what could only be called a remnant of the life that once inhabited this place. One of the last heartbeats of the city.
Survivors, the remaining inhabitants of Liamos’ skeletal remains.
Among them was Jack Cinder—a former SWAT officer, witness to the moment hell’s gate opened wide upon this city. Now, he was nothing more than another drifting shadow lurking behind the wreckage of Liamos.

“Ashhound, come in...”
The radio’s crackle broke the silence draping over the ruins of Liamos, its tone echoing with the breeze that slipped through shattered concrete and steel.
Since the failed containment of Liamos twelve years ago, sunlight had never again pierced the city’s heavens. It was as if the sun itself refused to shine on a place drowned in unending despair.

“This is Ashhound... I receive your signal and await orders. Over.”
“Orders are as follows... Proceed with an exploration of the commercial zone southwest of the safe area. Coordinates X:750 – 879 and Y:324 – 569. Avoid unnecessary contact and retrieve any resources that can support survival.”
“Order received, Moderator... Ashhound out.”

Jack clipped the radio back onto his belt. The words still echoed in his ears, but the dusk had already swallowed the last of the light at the horizon, and the journey to the designated location would take at least four hours—under ideal conditions. He looked up at the darkening sky, making a decision he knew well:
This was not the right time to proceed.

Night wasn’t just the absence of light.
It was the beginning of a darkness that was real.
It was the curtain under which Liamos had long been cloaked in dread.
The stage of horrors one would wish never to meet.

When the sun falls, something worse than the average infected begins to stir.

They call them “Insecties”—creatures that were once human, but after prolonged exposure to the virus, had mutated beyond recognition. Their forms lost all traces of humanity. They moved at night with the agility and instincts of true predators. Relentless hunters.

But even they were not the worst.

Lurking in the darker shadows was something smarter… and far deadlier.
Night Feasters.

These were no ordinary zombies—these were the aftermath of failed vaccine experiments. Specimens caught between death and life.
They could still think. Still choose. Still kill.
Not just humans—even other infected became their prey.

And what made them truly terrifying?

They knew how to use weapons.
They laid traps.
They wore armor as they pleased.

Humans no longer sat atop the food chain after dusk.

Night belonged to true predators.
The strong ruled.
The weak curled into corners, awaiting either death… or worse—transformation into the very nightmares that hunted them.

The ruins of the city had become a jungle.
Collapsed buildings loomed like trees, steel beams swayed in the wind like grass.
It was now a playground for predators.

Jack approached a crumbling structure—once an apartment complex, now nothing more than a ghost of human civilization.
The walls were cracked, the windows gaping and glassless, and the silence was so thick it pressed against his chest.
He entered cautiously, sweeping each floor with careful steps. His finger never strayed far from the trigger, his eyes scanning every dark corner that seemed to watch him from the shadows.
One by one, he cleared the rooms—
Silence.
No movement.
No breath not his own.
Only dust and memory.

Once assured of safety, Jack began to seal the place off.
Doors barricaded, windows blocked with anything he could find.
In a world like this, carelessness meant becoming prey… or worse, a part of the madness called the Night Feaster.

Only then did he exhale. His body felt heavier than it should.

He chose a corner where the ceiling had collapsed, letting the cloud-covered night sky become his roof—
A grim painting stretched across ruin.
There, he lit a small fire, surrounded by charred walls and crumbling debris.
The flames danced, casting flickers of warmth across his weary face.

For a moment...
Just a moment...
The world felt a little quieter.

And in a dead city, among whispers of rubble and shadows of the hunt, that was the closest thing to beauty left.

Jack slowly opened his backpack, like someone who knew silence could shatter at any time. He pulled out a small, blackened pot—an old witness to countless travels.
He set it above the flame, retrieved the water canister he’d carried since morning, and poured it slowly.

The water trembled, catching firelight like a tarnished mirror.

From a pouch at his waist, he pulled a few dried mushrooms—the rations given before this mission began.
In a collapsed world, mushroom farming made more sense than conventional agriculture.
No sunlight needed. No wide spaces.
Just hope... and persistence—two things still clinging to life within the rubble.

Before covering the pot, Jack added a few flavor packets he’d scavenged from the apartment kitchen.
Expired? Probably.
But taste wasn’t a luxury now—it was a way to remember the world that once was.

As the lid settled, a faint aroma crept between the scent of ash and dust.
He sat against a broken wall, watching firelight flicker through rising steam.

It wasn’t a feast.
It wasn’t something to move a man to tears.
But in its quiet warmth, there was something tender…
A reminder of a small kitchen, wet earth beyond the window, and the wind through open fields—
A fragment of rural life now confined to memory.

And in a city long dead, memory was the best spice left.

After leaning back against the apartment’s cold wall, Jack let gravity draw the weight from his bones. As his back met the stone, he let out a long breath—one that echoed like a soul sighing under years of burden.

His eyes drifted beyond the ruins and through the open maw where the wall once stood.
The world outside had gone still.

So still, it felt like the entire city was holding its breath—afraid to wake something that should never wake again.

Through the blackened wreckage, he could make out the tip of a tall concrete wall in the distance—a remnant of the barricade built to protect and preserve humanity.
Now, it stood as a silent monument to the failure of its makers.
Proof that they had tried… and failed.

The night wind crept in—cold and soft, like ghostly fingers brushing skin.
And within that breeze, something else slipped in.
Not a sound.
Not a scent.
A memory.

A memory Jack had long tried to bury.
Or perhaps… one that all of humanity had buried with the old world.

Family. Friends. Life.
The small things once taken for granted: laughter at the dinner table, music from an old radio, even a phone ringing in the morning—now felt like dreams too distant to reach.

With slow hands, Jack reached into his helmet.
He pulled out a neatly folded paper.

Photographs—faded but intact.
A fragile treasure amid ruin.
A ticket to longing.

He unfolded them, as if opening a warm but painful door to the past.

The first photo: him and his lover, laughing in a fast-food restaurant.
Where their love began, among greasy meals and flickering neon lights.
A memory of youth, stolen by a dying world dragging humanity with it.

The second: a Christmas photo with his family—two years before the collapse.
Everyone smiling, unaware it would be the last complete Christmas.
A wave of regret hit—he hadn’t cherished it enough.

And the last…
A birthday party photo for the Birdnest Police Chief in Vandalas District.
Laughter filled the office. Empty beer bottles scattered everywhere.
He chuckled softly, remembering a friend tripping over a table, mumbling drunken nonsense.
But the laughter faded—
That photo was taken the day before everything changed.

The day before the city burned.
The day before humanity lost the right to feel safe.

The night stretched on, draping its cold blanket—
But it was peaceful.

Jack hugged himself, back against a crumbling wall, holding onto warmth from within.

And among rubble and memories, he drifted into sleep—
Cradled not by anyone…
But by himself.

He waited for dawn—
For it to rise again above the souls long turned to shadows, piercing the fog and heavy clouds that had cloaked Liamos for almost twelve relentless years.

Without pause. Without mercy.