**Location:** Miller's Farm, Texas.**Date:** November 2022.
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The smell was the first thing Jake noticed. It wasn't the metallic tang of blood or the familiar scent of death he knew from hunting deer. It was something... chemical. Like burnt plastic and ammonia.
Old Man Miller lay in the cornfield, or what was left of him. The AR-15 round had done its job cleanly, taking off the top of his skull. But the black ichor seeping into the dry Texas soil sizzled as it touched the ground, killing the grass instantly.
"Sorry, neighbor," Jake muttered, pulling a greasy bandanna over his nose.
He couldn't leave the body here. Not with coyotes prowling around, and certainly not with... whatever *this* was potentially spreading into the water table.
**[System Analysis: Corrosive Bio-Agent detected.]****[Recommendation: Immediate Incineration.]**
The blue text floated above the corpse, confirming Jake's gut instinct.
He dragged Miller's body to a clear patch of dirt, away from the dry corn stalks. It was heavy, surprisingly dense for an old man who used to complain about his hip. The muscles under the flannel shirt were rock hard, like cured leather.
Jake doused it with a can of gasoline from the tractor shed and struck a match.
The flames roared to life, turning green and purple as they consumed the infected flesh. The smoke was acrid, choking.
Jake watched for a moment, his hand tightening on the rifle grip. Then he turned toward Miller's farmhouse.
The front door was open, swinging creakily in the wind. Inside, it looked like a tornado had hit. Furniture overturned, glass shattered. But there was no sign of Mrs. Miller.
Jake moved through the house, AR-15 raised, checking corners like he'd seen in movies.
Kitchen: Clear. Rotten food on the counter. Maggots.Living room: Clear. Family photos smashed on the floor.Bedroom: ...Empty.
On the nightstand, next to an overturned lamp, was a leather-bound diary. Jake picked it up. The last entry was dated two days ago.
*October 30th. Martha's coughing up black stuff again. Doc says it's just a flu, but her skin is burning hot. She tried to bite me when I brought her soup. Locked her in the basement. God forgive me.*
Jake froze. The basement.
A low growl emanated from beneath the floorboards. A sound like wet gravel grinding together.
**[Proximity Alert: Level 2 Infected detected.]****[Target Status: Elevated Threat.]**
He backed away slowly. Level 2? Miller was Level 1. What the hell was down there?
He didn't have enough ammo to find out. Not yet.
Jake shifted gears. Scavenging mode.
He raided Miller's workshop first. It was a goldmine for a redneck engineer.
* **Arc Welder (Heavy Duty)*** **Three spools of barbed wire (Rusty but functional)*** **Two jerry cans of diesel*** **A generator (5kW, portable Honda)*** **A box of 12-gauge shells**
And leaning against the workbench, a dusty Remington 870 shotgun.
"Jackpot," Jake whispered.
He loaded everything into the back of his F-150. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the fields. He needed to get back to his own farm and fortify.
But just as he was lifting the generator onto the tailgate, a shadow moved in the barn.
*Screech!*
A Runner. Fast, lean, and covered in sores. It sprinted at him on all fours, faster than a coyote.
Jake didn't have time to reach for the rifle. He swung the heavy generator around like a club.
*CRACK!*
The metal frame connected with the Runner's skull. Bone shattered. The creature yelped and tumbled into the dirt. Before it could recover, Jake stomped on its neck. A sickening crunch followed.
**[Combat Experience: +50]****[Strength Check: Passed.]**
He wiped sweat from his brow. That was too close.
Back at his own barn, Jake got to work immediately.
**[System Blueprint Unlocked: Spiked Barricade (Reinforced).]****[Materials Required: Scrap Metal (50kg), Barbed Wire (10m), Welding Equipment.]**
He stripped the panels off an old, rusted-out Chevy pickup sitting in the weeds. The System guided his hands. When he welded, his movements were precise, machine-like. The welds weren't just strong; they were perfect.
He welded the scrap metal into jagged, waist-high barriers and wrapped them in barbed wire. He placed them at the main gate and around the doors of the farmhouse. It wasn't a fortress yet, but it was better than nothing.
As night fell, the silence of the farm was broken.
Not by crickets.
But by a howl.
It came from the direction of the highway. A long, mournful sound that morphed into a guttural shriek. Then another. And another.
They were coming.
Jake sat on his porch, the Remington across his lap, watching the treeline.
His phone buzzed again. No signal, but the radio crackled to life.
*"...Emergency Broadcast System. This is not a drill. All residents of Brazos County are ordered to shelter in place. Do not attempt to evacuate. I repeat, do not attempt to evacuate. The military is engaging hostile targets on Highway 6..."*
The military.
Jake looked through his scope towards the distant highway. He could see flashes of light—gunfire. But they weren't shooting at the infected.
They were shooting at a line of civilian cars trying to leave town.
**[System Alert: Hostile Faction Detected.]****[Faction Identity: U.S. Military / BioCorp Containment Unit.]**
Jake's blood ran cold.
His dad wasn't just warning him about the zombies. He was warning him about the cleanup crew.
(End of Chapter)