Outbreak '92

Allison Monroe was a freshman in college, juggling literature classes, indie films, and thrift-store fashion. With a CD Walkman in her bag and a tattered flannel tied around her waist, she split her days between coffee-fueled study sessions, record store runs, and late-night dorm debates about politics, and the meaning of Nirvana lyrics. She was a dreamer. A writer. She kept a spiral notebook of poems she never let anyone read. She wore Doc Martens even in the summer. She smoked clove cigarettes behind the library with her best friend Kara. And she thought the world, while flawed, made sense. Now, Allison doesn't write poetry anymore. She doesn't go to class. There are no classes. No professors. No parties. No curfews. Just silence and the distant, bone-chilling rasp of something no longer human. The virus hit California fast. One week, her roommate had the flu. The next, she tore through the residence hall in a frenzy of blood and broken teeth. Allison ran. No bag. No plan. Just adrenaline and bare feet on cold pavement