Untouched by the Outbreak

Deep within the heart of the government's last stronghold, the sterile, white-lit laboratory buzzed with activity. Dr. Hayashi stood at the center of it all, overseeing his team of scientists and technicians as they made the final adjustments to their latest creation. Rows of containment pods lined the walls, each filled with a figure suspended in a pale blue liquid—the new specimens.

The doctor smirked with satisfaction as the count reached fifty-two. These weren't ordinary zombies; they were faster, stronger, and completely obedient to the control mechanisms implanted in their neural systems. Unlike the mindless hordes outside, these "Specimen Zombies" were the culmination of years of experimentation and sacrifice—a true weapon against the chaos beyond the stronghold walls.

"Specimen batch two is ready for deployment," one of the lab assistants reported, his voice trembling slightly under Hayashi's cold gaze.

Dr. Hayashi walked to the nearest pod, placing a hand on the glass. "Excellent. With this, our dominance over the infected zones becomes absolute. Farming, scavenging, expanding the stronghold—it will all be possible now. The first batch proved their worth; now, the second will secure our future."

He turned, observing the monitors displaying live feeds from outside the stronghold. The first thirteen specimens were already deployed, standing sentinel along the farmland's perimeter. Soldiers patrolled nearby, but it was clear who held the real power. These specimens moved with precision, their pale eyes glowing faintly in the dark, scanning for any sign of intrusion. Whenever a stray zombie wandered too close, the specimens dispatched them with brutal efficiency.

Hayashi couldn't help but feel a surge of pride. This was the future—not scavenging like rats in ruined cities or living under the constant threat of infection, but reclaiming and rebuilding through superior strength and control.

"Begin the activation sequence for batch two," he ordered. "And ensure their directives are clear. No hesitation. No mercy."

"Yes, Dr. Hayashi," the assistant responded, quickly moving to input the commands.

The hum of machinery intensified as the pods began to drain their liquid. One by one, the new specimens emerged, their eyes flickering open as they took their first steps into this engineered existence. They were lean and muscular, their movements eerily fluid, and their claws glinted under the harsh lab lights.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the barren land surrounding the government stronghold. The wind carried the faint smell of decay, but that wasn't the worst of it. The real stench came from the oppressive atmosphere that hung over the survivors forced into labor.

They were called "farmers," but it was little more than a euphemism. They were captives, prisoners of war, given a cruel choice: work the land or be left outside, exposed to the horrors of the infected world. The survivors had no illusions of freedom. Some had once been soldiers, others civilians, but now they were all just cogs in the machine of the government's desperate attempt at survival.

Out on the field, a dozen or so survivors labored under the watchful eyes of the soldiers. They dug, planted, and harvested in grim silence, their backs hunched with the weight of both their work and their situation. A few murmured quietly to each other, their faces etched with exhaustion, fear, and the hopelessness that came with being trapped in a living nightmare.

In the distance, the regular zombies lurked, drawn to the noise and the movement, but the new batch of Specimen Zombies—deployed by Dr. Hayashi—kept them at bay. The government had designed them specifically to keep the regular undead at a distance, and they did their job well. The few zombies that dared approach were quickly picked off, their bodies falling like broken rag dolls under the ferocity of the specimen's attack.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

The soldiers, well-armed and secure in their position, were mostly uninterested in the workers' suffering. They were there to protect the perimeter and keep the infected at bay. But they had a different form of entertainment.

A soldier leader, wearing a faded green uniform with his rank patch barely visible, leaned against the guard tower, lighting a cigarette. He took a deep drag, savoring the moment of peace amidst the chaos. The crackle of the burning cigarette and the distant sound of gunfire were the only sounds that filled the air. He exhaled, letting the smoke curl up toward the sky.

He watched the survivors work, a smirk tugging at his lips. Some of them had once been proud, defiant, but now they were little more than broken shells, just like the rest of the world. The leader had seen to it that the survivors knew their place.

"OI! Work faster, shithead!" the soldier leader shouted, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. He flicked the ash from his cigarette and glared down at one of the survivors who had slowed his pace. "Don't make me come down there and help you. You're lucky you're not out there with the rest of the infected, scraping by like the rats you are."

The survivor, a man in his late thirties with a weary face, flinched but didn't look up. He simply nodded and picked up the pace, his hands trembling as he worked the soil. He knew better than to argue. If he did, he'd end up in the field without any protection, left to face the regular zombies or worse—their new Specimen counterparts. He didn't know what was worse, the constant strain of the labor or the fear that his life could end with a bullet to the head.

The soldier leader sneered, his eyes flicking back to the distant horde of zombies being methodically cut down by the specimens. He could see one of the regular zombies—an older woman, barely recognizable from the decay—shuffling closer to the fence. It didn't stand a chance.

"Take it down, Specimen 12!" the leader barked, raising his hand to signal to one of the specimen soldiers.

Without hesitation, Specimen 12, a tall and imposing figure, lunged forward from its position, moving with terrifying speed and precision. The regular zombie was barely a blur in comparison as the specimen's claws slashed through its neck, severing it in one swift motion. The body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

The leader grinned and took another drag from his cigarette. "Nothing like a little target practice to kill the time," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

"You're all just tools," he continued, glancing back at the survivors. "In the grand scheme of things, you're just resources. The government's got bigger plans. But don't worry—if you keep working hard, maybe you'll get the privilege of eating like the real citizens soon. Maybe."

He chuckled darkly, flicking his cigarette onto the dirt. The survivors, of course, knew better. There was no privilege here. There was just survival, at any cost.

The soldier leader's thoughts drifted back to the night his men had first encountered the Creeper mutants—an incident that still gnawed at him, a bitter memory that lingered like the stale smoke of his cigarettes.

It had started as a simple patrol. The first batch of Specimen Zombies had been deployed for night watch duty, 15 of them in total. These were the elite soldiers in zombie form—enhanced, faster, stronger. They were supposed to be more than capable of handling any threat that might arise during the night.

The leader remembered how confident they had been at first, sending the Specimens out beyond the walls, their tasks simple: patrol the area, keep the regular zombies at bay, and return before dawn. They had been given clear orders, and the soldiers in the stronghold were watching via cameras set up around the perimeter.

But that night, something was different.

The Specimens had been doing their usual rounds, moving quickly through the darkened streets, when they'd encountered something far more dangerous than the slow, lumbering zombies they had been programmed to fight.

The Creepers.

At first, it was only one—a hulking, disfigured creature, faster and more agile than any of the regular zombies. It had emerged from the shadows, its pale white eyes gleaming in the moonlight, and before the Specimens could react, it lunged at the closest one, slashing with its razor-sharp claws.

The leader had watched in shock as the first Specimen fell to the ground in an explosion of blood and gore. The Creeper moved with an inhuman speed, tearing into the enhanced zombie with terrifying precision. It wasn't just its speed that made it dangerous—it was the brute force, the sheer savagery in its movements, that set it apart from anything the Specimens had been designed to handle.

"Pull back!" the leader had barked into his radio, but it was too late.

In a matter of minutes, the Creeper had dismantled the Specimens. They had tried to fight back, but the creatures were too fast, too vicious. Another Specimen was torn apart, its limbs shattered, its skull cracked open with a single strike. The others attempted to form a circle, but they were no match for the Creeper's agility. One by one, they fell.

And then, more Creepers appeared. At least four more, moving in from the shadows. It was a massacre. The Specimens were designed to kill regular zombies, not to fight against something so feral, so ruthless. The leader could only watch as the last of the Specimens fell, their enhanced bodies being shredded by the unrelenting mutants.

As the sun began to rise, the remaining soldiers quickly pulled the survivors of the incident back into the stronghold. The Specimens had failed. They had been no match for the Creepers, and now they were either dead or barely functional, torn to pieces by the mutants.

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That day had been a wake-up call for the government. They had underestimated the Creepers, assuming that their Specimen Zombies—designed with more speed, strength, and intelligence than the regular undead—would be able to handle the new threats. But the Creepers were on an entirely different level. They didn't just hunt—they were predators.

The soldier leader remembered the stark look in the eyes of the government officials when the first report had come in. They were shaken. The loss of 15 Specimens was not just a failure—it was a blow to their confidence, a crack in the façade of their superiority. And since then, the Specimens had been kept under much stricter supervision. After every sunset, they were to return to the safety of the stronghold, the round, reinforced dome-like structure that acted as their barrier between the mutants and the rest of the world.

Now, whenever night fell, the Specimen Zombies were given specific instructions: do not engage the Creepers. The Creepers were far too dangerous, and there was no point in sending valuable resources to be torn apart by them. The Specimens were useful, but they were not invincible.

The leader's gaze lingered on the horizon, his cigarette slowly burning out as he remembered the night of the massacre. He had been a part of that operation, watching the Specimen Zombies fall, helpless against the onslaught of the Creepers.

"Next time…," he muttered to himself, taking another drag of his cigarette. "Next time, we'll be ready."

The leader knew that with every passing day, the Creepers were becoming more of a threat, and the government's efforts to control the situation were growing weaker. There were murmurs among the ranks about Ryo—the man who could walk freely among zombies. If he really existed, maybe he could help turn the tide. But for now, they could only rely on their own resources.