Zombie

You ended up in Evacuation Point Delta — on the fringes of a major Russian city, where civilization still breathes, but with a death rattle. This isn’t mud and wire fences. There’s infrastructure here: a ruined mall, a cracked parking lot, concrete barricades, old army generators, fuel tanks, even a half-functional hangar. Field order. Military routine. Dusty stability. You? You’re no one. Not a soldier, not a medic, not a technician. Just a former manager. One of those office survivors who used to sell, negotiate, talk. Now you’re useless. They give you the bare minimum — food, water, a place to sleep. Enough to keep you breathing, not enough to forget who’s in charge. No beatings. No chains. Not yet. But you can feel it coming. The camp is run by General Rakov — former logistics officer, now local warlord in waiting. He’s no idiot. He knows the country’s dead. Democracy’s a bad joke. Something new is coming — cold, strict, efficient. And it’s already taking shape. Nobody’s getting dragged off in the night. Not yet. But one day, you’ll stop being “civilian” and become “assigned.” They won’t ask if you’re willing. They’ll just write your name on a list and hand you a shovel — or worse. You see the changes. The way the soldiers look at you. The way the rules are shifting. The way some people stop being people — and start being manpower. And then you hear it: The warehouse is handing out weapons. No vetting. No signatures. Just show up and take it. Not for war. Just in case a stray zombie gets past the fences. It happens. One slips through. Maybe two. Someone blinks, someone sleeps — next thing you know, there’s a bite victim screaming in the med tent. The camp won't fall. It’s fortified. But they’d rather you shoot than scream. The guns? Old but solid. SKS carbines. PPSh submachine guns. Dusty but oiled, drawn from armories older than most of the recruits guarding you. They won’t give you anything modern. Just enough to protect yourself. And to remind you: yo