The ice cracked like thunder.
For centuries, Antarctica had held its secrets in silence—miles of frozen time sealed beneath the weight of a continent. But the world had grown impatient. Greed had teeth, and now it bit through the crust of the Earth itself.
A black-veined metal shimmered beneath the drilling rig's floodlights. Unlike any substance known to science, it pulsed faintly in the dark, like it was breathing.
"Sample secured," the voice crackled through the comms. "Looks… unstable."
Twenty-four hours later, the Necrosite was en route to the surface world.
Metal Redjade wiped the sweat from his brow, the glow of welding sparks dancing across his goggles. Inside the garage, the hum of old engines and the smell of scorched steel were more comforting than silence.
He hadn't slept in days. Couldn't. Not after what he saw on the news.
"Global alert: Necrosite exposure linked to violent behavioral shifts. Infected individuals described as 'frenzied,' cannibalistic. Further research pending…"
Pending, his ass. He had seen a man rip through a steel door with his bare hands. That wasn't a virus. That was evolution gone wrong.
Metal tightened the final bolt on the armored van's door. "There. She'll hold," he muttered, running a hand over the reinforced plating.
A sharp buzz from his communicator pulled his eyes to the monitor.
Incoming call: Voltic Ashen.
The racer's face lit up the screen—smeared with grease, eyes frantic.
"Dude, you seeing this?" Voltic's voice crackled. "Downtown's a warzone. People are turning. They've locked down the bridges. You gotta get out—now."
Metal cursed under his breath. "How long till they reach us?"
Voltic hesitated. "Not long. I saw a horde rip through a SWAT team like paper. And Metal… some of them glow."
----
Downtown, beneath the flickering ruins of a luxury high-rise, Rosaria Bluemoon pressed her back to the cracked marble wall. Her designer heels were gone, replaced by boots she found in a deserted army surplus store. Her gown, once a sapphire showstopper at an awards gala, now hung in rags, blood splattered across the hem like war paint.
Her breath came fast in the thickening dust.
Two of them.
Zombies—no, Necros—twisted, snarling things that had once been human. Their skin pulsed faintly with a blue-green sheen, veins blackened like tar. Their eyes were nothing but hunger.
Rosaria tensed, clutching a metal baseball bat as a weapon.
The nearest Necro lunged, teeth bared.
She swung hard—metal met flesh with a sickening crunch. The creature howled, and stopped moving.
Behind her, a muffled scream.
Her heart pounded.
She couldn't afford to lose focus.
------
In a dark alley not far from the city center, Lucian Nightfall moved silently, his police badge catching the faint glow of a burning streetlamp. His pistol was drawn, but he hesitated.
He had been on the force for over a decade, trained for violence, but nothing had prepared him for this.
A pair of infected stumbled around the corner, dragging a third, barely conscious victim between them.
Lucian's jaw clenched.
He raised his weapon.
"Drop it!" he barked.
The infected snarled, their jaws snapping inches from the man's throat.
Lucian fired.
The bullets tore through flesh and bone, but the creatures kept coming.
One lunged at him, and Lucian barely rolled out of the way.
The infected's teeth grazed his arm.
Pain flared.
Lucian gritted his teeth, steadying his breath.
He had to keep moving.
There was no backup.
No hope.
Just survival.
----
Outside the city's ruined botanical gardens, Elena Voss crouched behind a fallen oak, camera in hand. The sky was thick with smoke, and the once lush greenery was dying, turning brittle under the taint of the Necrosite radiation.
She filmed everything.
"The glaciers are melting faster than expected," she whispered into her mic, voice shaky but determined. "And with that comes a new danger—something not quite alive, not quite dead."
A rustling nearby caught her attention.
She turned to see a group of Necros shambling through the garden's shattered glasshouses.
Elena swallowed her fear.
The plants around her twitched oddly.
Vines crept toward the undead like silent sentinels, but stopped short of attacking.
Her breath caught.
This was no natural infection.
She needed to get out and warn the world.
----
Further south, Selene Scarlet kicked down a burning door, smoke trailing behind her. Her firefighter's axe gleamed in the firelight as she hauled a screaming child from the collapsed apartment. The flames licked at her skin, burning through her gear.
She gritted her teeth.
No time to feel pain.
Out in the open air, she dropped to her knees, coughing up smoke. The child was safe.
But the sky wasn't.
Overhead, helicopters spun out of control. Smoke plumed from the skyline. Sirens were drowned out by the guttural screeches of the infected.
And far above, a figure fell through the clouds—Aria Solace, a pilot forced into an emergency descent.
Selene narrowed her eyes.
"Are you alright?"
-----
In a cold, flickering hospital ward, Dr. Orian Everhart stared at the results on his screen. The blood sample from an infected subject writhed in the microscope's view—cells dividing, mutating, devouring themselves, and rebuilding.
This was no virus.
This was a living weapon.
Suddenly, his communicator beeped urgently.
"Doctor, you need to evacuate—infected are breaking through the west wing."
Orian's hands trembled as he looked down at his arm.
Days ago, he'd been exposed.
But he wasn't sick.
No fever. No change. Nothing.
He flexed his fingers and found the small abrasion healing unnaturally fast.
A spark of hope.
"Not everyone turns," he whispered to himself.
------
Back at the garage, Metal watched as the city skyline ignited in flame.
Voltic's motorcycle roared into the lot, eyes wild, hands shaking.
"You ready?" he asked.
Metal tightened his grip on his wrench.
"Let's survive this first."
-----