It went to shit

The soldier was being ordered to stand down, but he just smiled. It wasn't a smile of recognition or defiance—it was something far worse. It was empty, inhuman. A slow, unsettling curl of the lips that sent a deep, primal fear through the room.

"Stand down, soldier!" one of the commanding officers barked, his voice wavering.

The infected man didn't respond. His breathing was uneven and shallow, as if he was fighting something inside himself. Blood trickled from the deep bite on his neck, staining the front of his uniform. He took a slow step forward.

That was enough to send the room into chaos.

"He's turning!" someone shouted.

Panic took over.

BANG!

One soldier fired. Then another. Then all of them.

The room erupted with gunfire. The infected soldier's body jerked violently as bullets tore through him, blood splattering across the marble floor. But even as he was riddled with holes, his smile never faded. He staggered but refused to fall. It was only after a final shot to the head that he finally collapsed, his body twitching before going still.

For a brief moment, there was silence. Labored breathing. Shaking hands gripping weapons. The First Lady pressed herself against the farthest wall, trembling, her eyes darting between the soldiers.

Then came a scream.

A gut-wrenching, blood-curdling cry from the other side of the room.

One of the soldiers standing near the shattered window convulsed, his rifle slipping from his grasp. His hands shot up to his neck, clutching at the deep, jagged teeth marks that now oozed dark red.

Behind him, through the broken glass, a pair of glowing eyes stared hungrily into the room.

A zombie had clawed its way through the shattered window. Its mouth was smeared with fresh blood, its hands gripping the ledge as it forced itself inside.

The bitten soldier staggered forward, choking on his own blood, his eyes wide with terror.

Then, as if the entire villa had been swallowed by hell itself, the screaming began.

The UN watched in stunned silence, their jaws slack, eyes wide with disbelief as the presidential villa dissolved into pure chaos. The once-grand hall, filled with tense arguments and desperate orders just moments ago, was now a slaughterhouse. Screams of agony and the deafening crack of gunfire filled the air, but it was clear that the fight was lost.

Blood splattered across the marble walls. Soldiers fired in every direction, but the zombies kept coming, clawing, biting, tearing through flesh like rabid beasts. Even those who tried to flee found themselves cornered. The elite guards, the vice president, the First Lady—one by one, they fell. The camera feed, once a symbol of power and control, had now become a window into horror, broadcasting the fall of a nation's leadership in real time.

But for President Nkomo, the true nightmare wasn't the fall of his government. It was the moment his daughter—his sweet, innocent little girl—stood up again.

He had watched it happen. He had seen her go down, the shrieks of pain piercing his ears as she was torn from the arms of her security detail. He had watched her tiny frame get dragged under the weight of the creatures, had seen her outstretched hand reaching for help as she screamed for him—"Daddy! Daddy, help me!"

And now, there she was.

Her small figure, barely recognizable under the torn and bloodied dress, twitched as she stood unsteadily on her feet. Her skin had already turned an unnatural gray, her once-bright eyes now clouded over with an eerie, vacant hunger.

She took a shaky step forward, her little hands still reaching out—only now, they sought not protection, but prey.

President Nkomo collapsed into his seat, his body trembling violently. His hands gripped the table, knuckles white. His breath came out in ragged gasps, his vision swimming as he felt himself drowning in a grief too heavy to bear.

Somewhere in the room, a world leader muttered, "Jesus Christ…"

The reality of the situation had finally sunk in.

The discussions shifted.

The word nuke was uttered for the first time.

At first, it was met with shock—then consideration. Zimbabwe was already lost. The infection had spread too fast, the chaos too widespread. If they didn't act now, it would be their cities next. Their families.

More voices joined in, some hesitant, some coldly pragmatic. The death toll was already beyond comprehension. What was a few million more if it meant saving the rest of the world?

The decision wasn't official—yet. But the seed had been planted.

Meanwhile, President Nkomo was barely aware of the discussion.

He didn't resist as security escorted him out of the chamber, his body weak, his mind broken. He sobbed openly, not as a leader, but as a father who had just lost his world.

The heavy double doors to the UN meeting room burst open with a thunderous crash, silencing the heated debate within. Before anyone could react, a hailstorm of bullets ripped through the air.

President Nkomo, his eyes wild with rage and grief, stood at the entrance, an assault rifle gripped tightly in his trembling hands. His once-dignified suit was now stained with tears and sweat, his face twisted with fury.

"You did this!" he roared, his voice hoarse and raw. "Your greed! Your selfishness! You watched as my country burned! You let my people die!"

He pulled the trigger again, spraying bullets indiscriminately across the room. Leaders scrambled for cover, ducking behind tables as security personnel rushed in, their own weapons drawn. Screams echoed through the chamber as officials collapsed, some clutching their bleeding wounds, others lifeless where they fell.

But Nkomo wasn't done.

He stalked forward, his hands shaking but his grip firm, his mind lost in grief and madness. "You pretend to be saviors! But you are cowards! Parasites! You drained my land, and now you want to wipe it away like it was never there!"

He conveniently ignored his own role in the downfall of his nation—the years of corruption, the hoarding of resources, the prioritization of his own wealth and power over his people's survival. In his mind, the blame belonged solely to the West, to the powerful nations that had been slow to act, that had left Zimbabwe to rot when it was no longer useful to them.

The chaos ended in seconds that felt like an eternity.

A sharp crack rang through the room. A single bullet found its mark.

Nkomo staggered, his furious eyes widening in shock as a red stain blossomed across his chest. He dropped the rifle, his knees giving way as he collapsed onto the cold floor. Blood pooled around him as he gasped for breath, his fury flickering into something else—pain, regret, maybe even the brief realization that none of this would change anything.

The room remained deathly silent for a moment. Then, security forces stormed in, securing the area, checking the injured, and dragging Nkomo's lifeless body away.

Despite the bloodshed, the meeting had to go on.

With several world leaders critically wounded and others visibly shaken, the discussions resumed behind closed doors. But the tone had shifted.

The time for hesitation was over.

A consensus was reached.

Aid would be sent to the most desperate countries. Emergency response teams, supplies, and—most importantly—military reinforcements would be deployed. Zimbabwe was lost, but the world would not make the same mistake twice.

For the first time since the crisis began, action would be taken.

But whether it was already too late remained to be seen.

As soldiers departed their home countries to provide aid to those hardest hit by the invasion, a new catastrophe struck. In the heart of New York City, a massive gate erupted into existence—a swirling vortex of crimson and black energy, crackling with otherworldly power. Unlike previous incidents, this was no random outbreak of zombies spilling into the world. This was an open floodgate, a direct link to whatever hellish dimension had birthed the monsters.

From that moment, humanity's grip on survival began to slip. What had once been a contained crisis—though dire—turned into an unstoppable wave of destruction. The undead and mutated horrors poured through the gate in endless numbers, their numbers bolstered by creatures never before seen. Military forces deployed with everything they had, but it was futile. What was once a battle to contain turned into a desperate struggle to flee.

A thousand years later, scientists would uncover the truth: the dimensional portals weren't just bringing destruction; they were altering the very fabric of the world. The energy seeping from them, later known as Chaos Essence, had gradually mutated the environment and even reshaped the genetic makeup of surviving life forms. This revelation, one of the few times the ruling class made research public, was ultimately useless. By the time it was fully understood, civilization had already crumbled.

In the ruins of the old world, the ultra-rich had solidified their power, hoarding technology, resources, and knowledge.