Zurvivor

Survive in a zombie infested america. But the zombies are an ancient human race which evolved differently than us. Not a virus ot parasite taking over existing humans.

Plot

Eighteen months ago, a university-led archaeological expedition in the Nevada Test and Training Range (a restricted military zone in the American Southwest) uncovered a sealed subterranean complex buried beneath layers of ancient sediment. They believed it to be a previously unknown pre-Clovis site or a Cold War-era bunker. When the team breached the final chamber, they triggered a mass awakening. What emerged were the Hollows — a blind, pale, long-limbed humanoid species that had remained in torpor for tens of thousands of years in vast underground hive-nests. Their biology is alien and efficient: no eyes (completely blind), skin translucent enough to show dark veins, elongated fingers ending in curved claws for climbing and tearing, and ears so sensitive they can pinpoint a whispered breath or a heartbeat through several feet of rock. They move with terrifying speed in short bursts when sound guides them, but they are not mindless rage-beasts. They hunt with eerie patience, using echolocation-like clicks and the echoes of their own movements to map their surroundings. They reproduce asexually. Mature Hollows grow fleshy, tumor-like buds on their lower abdomen. The bud swells over 6–10 weeks, feeding on consumed biomass (human flesh is ideal — rich in proteins and fats), then splits to release a smaller, near-identical juvenile that can crawl within hours and hunt within days. A single adult can bud 2–4 times in its lifetime if it feeds consistently. The first wave killed the entire dig team and support staff in under an hour — silent, coordinated, drawn by the noise of drills and generators. The survivors who escaped to the surface carried no infection, only terror and blood. But the Hollows followed. They poured out of the Nevada tomb in waves, using natural cave systems, abandoned mine shafts, and fault lines to spread beneath the continent. The U.S. military responded with overwhelming force: airstrikes, napalm, sonic weapons, flamethrower teams. Nothing worked for long. The Hollows simply went deeper, emerged in unexpected places (subway tunnels, basements, storm drains), and used their hearing to ambush patrols at night. They overwhelmed bases by listening for radio chatter, vehicle engines, and human voices — then striking when the noise masked their approach. Within four months, most of the western United States was lost. The East Coast and Canada held longer behind fortified rivers and urban kill-zones, but the interior is now theirs. Hollows do not form massive hordes. They spread in small family clusters (5–15 adults plus budding young), nesting in dark, humid places and hunting at night. They are fast when they hear prey, but they do not charge blindly — they stalk, wait, and strike with precision. Their reproduction accelerates when food is plentiful, turning overrun towns into silent nurseries of pulsing sacs. You's Starting Situation: You wakes up alone in the back of an overturned delivery truck on the outskirts of a small, half-abandoned town in the American Midwest (roughly 15 months after the Nevada breach). The truck is wedged against a collapsed overpass. The cab is empty, blood smeared across the dashboard, keys still in the ignition. A torn map on the passenger seat shows a red circle around a nearby airbase — someone’s last desperate destination. You has no clear memories of the last few weeks, only flashes: running at night, hiding in crawlspaces, the constant click-click-click of Hollows listening for movement. They are hungry, bruised, and wearing mismatched clothes scavenged from who-knows-where. A half-empty water bottle and a crowbar are the only immediate tools. The town is quiet during the day — Hollows avoid direct sunlight (their skin blisters and cracks under UV). But at night they emerge, drawn by any noise louder than a whisper. The nearest signs of human life are faint smoke plumes to the north (possibly a survivor camp) and a distant, rhythmic tapping coming from beneath the overpass — something moving in the storm drains below. The continent is theirs now. Humans survive in pockets, not because they can win, but because they can stay silent. Your story begins now. What do you do?

Opening scene

You wakes to the smell of rust and old motor oil, curled in the back of an overturned delivery truck. Metal walls dent inward from some long-ago impact. Sunlight leaks through bullet holes and a shattered rear window, drawing thin yellow lines across the floor. Head pounding, tongue stuck to the roof of the mouth. The backpack is still strapped tight; the crowbar rests across the lap like it was placed there while sleep came. No memory of ever falling asleep. The truck sits wedged under a collapsed overpass on the edge of Harlan — a small Midwest town that once held 12,000 souls. Eighteen months ago the Hollows rose from the Nevada tomb and poured east. They didn't conquer in a single night. They simply kept coming — silent, patient, listening. Now highways are graveyards of stalled cars, the grid is dead, and whatever still moves in Harlan belongs to the wind… or to them. No voices. No footsteps. No radio static. Only the low, steady click-click-click drifting up from beneath the overpass — soft, deliberate, like two pebbles tapped together underwater. It pauses… then resumes, closer. The rear doors hang half-open, one dangling by a single hinge. Through the gap lies the town: rows of faded clapboard houses, broken windows, porches sagging under vines, cars abandoned mid-turn. A crooked “Welcome to Harlan” sign leans sideways, bullet-pocked and scrawled with faded graffiti: “THEY HEAR YOU.” Northward, a thin thread of smoke rises — too steady to be random. Westward, open fields offer no cover. Eastward, the overpass shadows stretch long under the dropping sun. The clicking stops. Silence presses in, thick and heavy. Then — a single scrape. Something sliding along concrete directly under the truck. Heart hammers against ribs. It echoes in the throat, loud enough to feel like a beacon. The crowbar is cold in the hand. The backpack heavy. The town sits maybe two hundred meters away — reachable before full dark, if movement stays silent. Smoke to the north could mean people… or Hollows drawn to the same fire. Fields west are exposed. The overpass itself is a death trap if they're already beneath. Sunlight fades fast. Hollows prefer night. Thirty minutes of usable light. Maybe less. What does You do?

Tags: Adventurer Combat Apocalypse Horror Amnesia SlowBurn AnyPOV Modern Suspense Thriller Urban Eerie Tense Bleak Amnesiac Sci-Fi Non-human

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By: clockmerchant72

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