The jazz had barely died down when the screams s

tarted.

Jack “Lightning” Mallory stood on the sideline,

helmet in hand, watching the crowd erupt into pa

nic.

“Zombies,” someone shouted.

“Not again,” Jack muttered.

They’d heard rumors from the West Coast, but nob

ody believed it would hit smalltown Illinois.

Jack was the star quarterback for the local NFL

team, but tonight, the game didn’t matter.

A woman ran past him, her flapper dress soaked i

n something dark.

“Help me!” she cried.

“I’ll try,” Jack said, gripping her wrist.

He pulled her behind the bleachers as a guttural

growl echoed through the stadium.

Then came the moans.

And the biting.

Jack shoved the woman into a locker room and sla

mmed the door shut.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” she panted.

She had fire in her eyes, not fear.

“I’m Eleanor,” she said.

“Jack.”

He looked out through a crack in the door.

Dozens of the infected poured into the stands.

“We need to get to the library,” Eleanor said.

“Why there?”

“My father worked on something—during the war. S

omething secret.”

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“You’re telling me your dad might have the cure

for the undead?”

She nodded.

“In 1918, he was part of a Cold War experiment…

before the war even had a name.”

Jack grabbed her hand.

“Then let’s go.”

They slipped out the back, dodging overturned ca

rs and burning buildings.

Eleanor’s campus library stood at the edge of to

wn, surrounded by oak trees and old secrets.

Inside, the air smelled of dust and diesel.

“My father was obsessed with viruses,” she whisp

ered.

She led Jack to a locked basement door.

“This was his lab.”

They descended into darkness.

Papers were scattered. Glass vials lay shattered

.

But a single drawer remained sealed.

Eleanor turned the key and pulled it open.

Inside was a metal case with a red cross.

“That’s it,” she said.

Jack stared at it.

“How do we use it?”

She hesitated.

“We don’t. Not yet. But my father left notes. He

sent them to someone in New York.”

Jack looked at the window.

More moans. More footsteps.

“We’re running out of time,” he said.

Then Eleanor smiled.

“There’s a train at midnight.”

They raced through the streets, dodging zombies

in jazz suits and flapper gowns.

The town was falling apart.

At the station, the conductor was already boardi

ng.

“Last train,” he called.

Jack and Eleanor jumped aboard just as the dead

reached the platform.

As the train picked up speed, Eleanor opened the

notebook.

“This is bigger than we thought,” she said.

Jack leaned in.

“What do you mean?”

Her voice dropped.

“The virus… it was tested here. On accident.”

Jack’s stomach twisted.

“And New York?”

She closed the book.

“They’re preparing for the next phase.”

Jack looked out the window.

“Then we’d better get there fast.”

The train cut through the night, carrying the la

st hope of a world on fire.

Somewhere ahead, the truth waited.

And behind them, the Roaring Twenties were roari

ng no more.