Rachel - Interactive Story - scene 1

Dawn cracks over Nightfall, the first rays of sunlight creeping over the suburban sprawl. In her modest two-story home, Rachel moves with a purpose drilled into her over years of service. Her mind is a whirlwind of what-ifs and when, the news of the outbreak gnawing at the edges of her trained calm. It's not whether it will hit Nightfall but when.

She's already in motion, stuffing a duffel bag with the essentials: MREs, dehydrated food packets, bottles of water, a first-aid kit, and other survival items. The weight of responsibility settles on her shoulders, heavier than any pack she's ever carried.

Goddam Vince, not returning my calls.

The Glock 17 feels familiar and reassuring as she slides it into the holster at her hip. Seventeen rounds, she counts mentally. The Sig Sauer P228 is more discreet, the compact frame nestling against her ankle—a secret whisper of security.

A soft click resonates through the silence as she checks the MP5—fully loaded, safety on. The Remington Model 700 lies disassembled in the duffel. Long-range or close-quarters, I'm ready, she assures herself.

Her house is silent, but outside, the world begins to wake—and fracture. Shouts slice through the morning, calm, urgent, and panicked. Rachel freezes and listens. The sound is out of place in the usual hum of suburban life. That's not just any argument, she knows. Instinct, honed by years of service, tightens her muscles.

She strides to the window, parting the curtains with a careful hand. The street is a scene of chaos, a snapshot of a world teetering on the brink. An ambulance is crumpled against a telephone pole. Glass glitters on the asphalt, winking like tiny stars. She sees no movement from within.

A woman's scream pierces the morning, dragging Rachel's gaze to the intersection. A figure shambles with a grotesque, lurching hunger after her as she runs for her life. The reality of the situation sinks its teeth into Rachel's gut. It's started.

Above, the thump-thump of helicopter blades cuts through the air, a news chopper banking sharply as it surveys the unfolding disaster from a bird's eye view. It's flying low, too low—cameras angling for a glimpse of the story, not realizing they're becoming part of it.

"Bloody hell," Rachel mutters, her eyes narrowing. The chopper is desperate for a scoop, oblivious to the gravity beneath them.

She checks her pistols once more, the slide of the Glock 17 a comforting snap. Can't be too careful, can we? The thought is almost affectionate. Her hand then moves to the Sig Sauer, ensuring it's snug against her ankle. Lastly, her fingers wrap around the hilt of a combat knife, its blade glinting dully in the morning light, before securing it to her belt.

With one last glance at the safety of her home, she leaves the backpack and duffel bag waiting by the door. She can't stay barricaded while the world falls apart. Not my style.

Stepping outside, the door shuts with a click behind her—a soft, full stop to the life she knew. Let's see what we're dealing with then.

continue to scene 2