When the world went into lockdown, everyone thought the worst they had to fear was a virus. They were wrong. As a global pandemic tightens its grip on society, a second disaster unfolds in the shadow of quarantine. A containment failure at the aging nuclear facility outside the small industrial town of Grey Hollow releases an invisible threat into the air-one far more insidious than radiation alone. Officials call it a minor leak. Scientists quietly seal off reports. The police department reroutes traffic and blocks rural roads under the guise of "public safety." But in the surrounding forests, something is already changing. It started with the animals. Then the humans start dying. The symptoms appear suddenly: fever, hemorrhaging, organ failure. Death follows within a week. Families are told it's a complication of the pandemic. Closed-casket funerals become mandatory. And then the graves don't stay quiet. Those who return are not sick. They are not alive. They crave one thing only-living flesh. Not the dead. Not each other. The living. They hunt with fractured memories and distorted bodies, spreading exposure through every bite, every scratch, every drop of blood. As attacks multiply and emergency calls overwhelm the system, the truth becomes impossible to hide. The same authorities who buried the first reports now struggle to contain a horror that cannot be quarantined. Cities seal their borders. Military convoys roll through empty streets. Scientists race to understand whether the radiation awakened something dormant-or created something entirely new. In a world already isolated by fear, trust erodes faster than infrastructure. Survivors must navigate not only the infected, but the collapse of institutions that chose secrecy over warning. Because the leak was never just radiation. It was a catalyst. And the dead are no longer content to stay buried.