One afternoon, while digging for water-purifying clay near an old A11 highway sign, Nova uncovered a military drone. Its battery was long dead, but a hardened data cylinder inside still held a single video file.

Nova had never seen another person's face without a visor. She was 22 years old, born into a world where the infected—called "Ragers"—had long since stopped dying of starvation. They had evolved. Slower now, patient, they could stand motionless in a field for days, camouflaged by moss and ivy, until vibration or scent triggered their explosive, bone-shattering sprint.

She picked up a radio handset.