u/Ok_Comfortable3850

3300 Old Seward Hwy
Anchorage, Alaska
8:52 AM

The cold Alaskan air bites into Danny's skin, he forgot to turn on the heater last night. Outside, birds chirp, and the wind blows through the trees that turn greener here than in any other state south of here.

Danny drinks his coffee bitter, because drinking it any other way reminds him of his ex-wife who would experiment with all sorts of sweeteners in her coffee. Its a weird habit, he admits it, but its something he's done for the past 3 years since the divorce. Drinking his coffee before his shower is also a strange habit he's built, but its to small of a habit for him to care, and to much friction to change such a small thing.

The shower takes minutes to warm up, the cold from outside almost taking the water to its freezing temperatures nightly. After heating, he steps in and the hot water contrasts the bitter cold air perfectly. Stepping out, is another contrast, this time a negative one. Since he owns his own business, he can dress pretty much however he wants to work, within reason. Keeping this in mind he slides on a pair of slightly baggy green Carhartt jeans and a black North Face sweatshirt.

Danny's 2011 Tacoma starts without a stutter, he keeps everything he owns as nice as he can for as long as he can. He keeps his nicotine gum in the center console, which he inserts into his mouth. He hates the spearmint flavor, but his repetitive nicotine use since he was a teen has made it near impossible to quit. Sitting at half a tank, he has enough fuel to make it to and from work, but he makes a note to himself that he has to fill up on the way back.

He arrives at the job site at 8:52 with 8 minutes to spare.

What does Danny do now? Reply with your choice, most voted wins.

June 23rd, 2026, 2:50 PM.

411 30th St NW, Wenatchee, WA

Relief washes over me as both of my parents, Alive and well, open the door. Signs of distress are present among them, but that is to be expected during times of crisis.

“Hello, son.” My father says, voice low and rumbling.

“My boy.” My mother forces, her eyes beginning to tear.

“Hi Mom and Dad, I am glad you all are okay. I was worried when the phone line disconnected.”

I embrace them like never before. The last time I felt genuinely relieved to see my parents was in your childhood when I was not sure when they were coming home from work.

“Hi, my name is Glen, I am Wyatt’s neighbor. It is nice to meet you all.”

Glen exchanges a handshake with my dad, and my mom gives him a quick hug, because she has heard stories about him before, so that means that they are comfortable in each others presence.
My dad's presence standing with his shotgun is unmistakably intimidating, so he sets is aside and invites Glen and I inside.

“We have been waiting here, unsure whether to leave or find you. I am glad that we stayed.”
Dad says.

“Only took us a few hours, but we got here in one piece.” You say.

What do I do now? Comment below. All words are my own and only use of AI is to structure the story.

June 23rd, 2026, 2:50 PM.

411 30th St NW, Wenatchee, WA

Relief washes over me as both of my parents, Alive and well, open the door. Signs of distress are present among them, but that is to be expected during times of crisis.

“Hello, son.” My father says, voice low and rumbling.

“My boy.” My mother forces, her eyes beginning to tear.

“Hi Mom and Dad, I am glad you all are okay. I was worried when the phone line disconnected.”

I embrace them like never before. The last time I felt genuinely relieved to see my parents was in your childhood when I was not sure when they were coming home from work.

“Hi, my name is Glen, I am Wyatt’s neighbor. It is nice to meet you all.”

Glen exchanges a handshake with my dad, and my mom gives him a quick hug, because she has heard stories about him before, so that means that they are comfortable in each others presence.
My dad's presence standing with his shotgun is unmistakably intimidating, so he sets is aside and invites Glen and I inside.

“We have been waiting here, unsure whether to leave or find you. I am glad that we stayed.”
Dad says.

“Only took us a few hours, but we got here in one piece.” You say.

What do I do now? Comment below. All words are my own and only use of AI is to structure the story.

June 23rd, 2026, 3:10 PM

411 30th St NW, Wenatchee, WA

I realized that people never really change, even after long periods of time. Yes, I still spend time with my mother and father, but, yes, they still share the same risk adverse mindset that they once held when I was little. Not to blame them, these are times of uncertainty, and the plan to go to Spokane to rescue Glens wife and daughter is a bit of an adventure.

“I understand you’ve given your word Wyatt, but this seems like it’s not your problem.” My dad states

“It is though. I can’t stand by and do nothing while Glens whole family is in danger.” I say.

“I agree with your father, but in the end you are responsible for yourself.” Your mother, pointing out the truth since you moved out on your own.

“Me and your mother won’t be going, but you’re welcome back here any time.” Your dad says, making the final decision.

“We will be waiting for you to return. We want to stay relatively safe in this house, even though we know that nowhere is one hundred percent safe right now.”

“Okay I understand.”

My parents and I came up with this while Glen is unloading the truck, so now we must tell him the plan. Your dad offers you some water for the road and I gladly accept it.

What do I do now? Comment below. All words are mine. No use of AI.

June 23rd, 2026, 2:50 PM.

411 30th St NW, Wenatchee, WA

Relief washes over me as both of my parents, Alive and well, open the door. Signs of distress are present among them, but that is to be expected during times of crisis.

“Hello, son.” My father says, voice low and rumbling.

“My boy.” My mother forces, her eyes beginning to tear.

“Hi Mom and Dad, I am glad you all are okay. I was worried when the phone line disconnected.”

I embrace them like never before. The last time I felt genuinely relieved to see my parents was in your childhood when I was not sure when they were coming home from work.

“Hi, my name is Glen, I am Wyatt’s neighbor. It is nice to meet you all.”

Glen exchanges a handshake with my dad, and my mom gives him a quick hug, because she has heard stories about him before, so that means that they are comfortable in each others presence.
My dad's presence standing with his shotgun is unmistakably intimidating, so he sets is aside and invites Glen and I inside.

“We have been waiting here, unsure whether to leave or find you. I am glad that we stayed.”
Dad says.

“Only took us a few hours, but we got here in one piece.” You say.

What do I do now? Comment below. All words are my own and only use of AI is to structure the story.

June 23rd, 2026, 2:45 PM

411 30th St NW, Wenatchee, WA

The slow, steady, and persistent pace of the Columbia River overshadowed by the bridge matches exactly the type of qualities that Glen and I are going to have to resemble if we want to make it across. Even as wreckage thins, the bridge crossing must be taken as slowly and methodically as possible. The room for error is close to none, as being caught disabled on this stretch of hazardous road would most certainly be lethal, considering the quantity of walkers, maybe seven to ten, that roam the street portion. Though these pose no threat as individuals, if they were to gather and form a herd, that could spell trouble.

In reality, the bridge crossing went smoothly. Me and Glen had ample space to maneuver my wide -bodied truck. While the sun shines on the Columbia, casting orange rays onto the water, we try to weave our way past the awe-inspiring scene, rather than become a meal for the walkers more enthused to enjoy the sunset with a full stomach.

Thick smoke from the city rises from the forever changed buildings of Wenatchee, blocking out the sun temporarily. Walkers roam the deserted streets, introducing the idea of what a modern day ghost town would feel like. A daring walker unexpectedly steps off the curb to pursue the truck, but my driving skill from years of committing speeding violations has instilled in me a quick reflex, and I am able to avoid the walker at the last second, only damaging the mirror.

The familiar streets surrounding my parent’s house are silent, almost eerily so. The contrast between the highway and the city streets is night and day, but I know that no part of this new world is safe. Turning right onto the final stretch until my parent’s house, I can see the beginnings of the Apple tree that used to have a seat swing. Nostalgia is the first word I would put to this experience. Parking my truck in the driveway feels the same way it did when I would come home drunk after a high school party.

What do I do now? Comment below. All words are mine, only use of AI is to structure the story.

June 23^(rd), 2026, 2:15 PM. 

US-2/US-97 at the SR-28 Junction 

East Wenatchee, WA 

The most freeing part of this experience thus far was driving on the highway going in the opposite direction. Something about there being no laws, no person to report to, and no place to be at a certain time is the only benefit I can see in this new world. I loved my old job, yes, but I hated the feeling of being trapped in a cycle of eating, sleeping, coming home, and repeating. I always wished for more, and in a sense, I got it. This new life has one meaning; survival, and that's enough for me.  

The backroads to get back onto the freeway were still littered with cars, just less so. The only downside was the increase in walkers. Though posing no threat because of the safety of the car, I still find them repulsing and gross. Skin that looks normal but off, flaky and discolored slightly in patches. Clothes that are not yet torn due to weathering, but bloody and dirty. Everything about the walkers I hate, but I have empathy for them. Just unlucky. Unfortunately, this detour cost us fuel, about a third tank remaining. We will have to find some somewhere on the way, 

We pass a collection of orchard buildings, walkers walking amongst the trees that bear apples this time of year. The leaves and apples turning slightly brown from the lack of water, alluding to the world surrounding the sanctuary. All seven walkers turn towards the roar of the engine as I step on the pedal, but their pace simply is outmatched by the truck at a steady but rising speed.  

Arriving at our destination, back on US-2 I can practically smell our destination. The pancakes that Mom used to make for me in the mornings, which hopefully she’ll have ready by the time I'm there. I'm not expecting it, just silently wishing. There was also the first time I have ever touched marijuana, outside on the tree stump just outside of the view of the house. I came home stinking of it, but it was a good time with my best friend at the time, Johnathan. 

What do I do now? Comment below. All words are mine, AI use only to structure events in the story. 

June 23^(rd), 2026, 1:35 PM. 

US-2 at the foot of the Pine Canyon grade, at the US-2 / US-97 junction 

Orondo, WA 

Reaching the destination of my childhood house is going to be a task likely to contain some complications. Me and Glen’s plan is this; stay on the road as long as possible, and if a road blockage stops us from advancing any further, pass using back roads until the highway is usable again.  

Rolling down N Fourth St, I come to a realization. I'm drawn back, not physically, but mentally, to my house. Almost like some sort of unseen connection. I'm leaving something behind that I'll never see again. A phase of my life, where I spent the last three years. This house experienced the beginning of love, love itself, and the separation of two people who used to love each other. This concept is called “divorce”, but what does that really mean? I’d be better off without that person? Am I going to be better off leaving this place rather than staying here. This house may be just an average looking residence to somebody else, but this represents a place in my heart.  

Does the walker still feel these emotions? Does it feel as if it's not at home? As it follows my truck, does it think, does it feel at all?   

Again, as I drive through town, I see more of these aimless creatures. Some are in groups; some are lonesome. Do they communicate, and if they do, how? Ive never thought this deeply about another living creature before, what makes it any different than a farm animal? What makes it any different than a human. Why are they inherently scary? Other animals are known to kill humans, and we don't find them nearly as terrifying. 

I get my answer to all the questions when we accelerate onto the highway entrance. They seem to be mindless, wandering creatures. Why would they choose a place to lurk that is so unfamiliar to them if they were conscious? This ultimately leads me to believe that these creatures are unconscious. Still, it feels wrong, even the idea of harming them feels wrong. 

The highways vast expanse contains creatures, and cars. The heat waves radiating from the pavement do make it hard to see very far, but their shuffling gait is unmistakable from a distance. Sometimes they hide behind cars and scare you when you drive past. They don’t mean to, but they do.  

Eventually we come to a point where we cannot pass. Almost like a barrier keeping me and Glen safe from the dangers that the other side might contain. 

“Time for Plan B.” says Glen, stating the obvious 

"Time for Plan B" I say, Agreeing in a matter of fact, exhausted, tone of voice.

What do I do now? Comment Below. All words are mine; only use of AI is to structure the events of the story and roll for outcomes.  

June 23^(rd), 2026, 12:42 PM. 

Coulee City, WA 

N Fourth St 

Curiosity is a killer. Not for me at least, but why did I have to risk my safety for information I didn't necessarily need? This is the first documented sighting of somebody who appears to have the “respiratory illness”, but everybody who has seen a person affected by this “illness” knows that it's far worse than just a typical flu. As I peeked through the one-inch gap in my blinds to observe the actions of this affected individual, a thought came to my head. Glen is in the dark about this. If he isn't aware of the threat, or even if he is, would he have enough courage to deal with it himself? I'm not even sure if I would. Are these things conscious still? How do I make myself safe from this threat? Do I have to kill it? I don't want to hurt it, though. But if it tries to attack me, God knows I will.  

Getting out of my house will be a challenging part of this endeavor. Ive never had to conceal myself from something that I don't want to see me. Much less something with the potential to harm me permanently, in any way. The walk over to Glens shouldn't be hard, but I'm going to try and stay as low as possible to keep myself as hidden as I can from this infection. 

The grass outside brushes my skin, calming in a way that it shouldn't be because of my current situation. I maintain a low profile, but I forget about the creak that Glens steel fence protrudes when it is opened. The problems of the old world have not prepared me in the slightest for the problems of this new world. This problem has now drawn unwanted attention from the infected that I saw earlier. It starts its slow shuffle towards the house, dragging its bare foot on the pavement, and leaving streaking, red marks. So, these things obviously can't feel pain or choose not to respond to it at least. I close the steel gate and again, it makes another sound. The damage was already done so this time, but the gate should hold off the infected, at least for a while. 

Upon entering Glen’s house, you are greeted, and then met with the statement of: 

“We don't have 10 more minutes; we have to leave now.” 

“I agree, do you want to bring your stuff into my truck? We'll have more space in the bed, and we don't need that many seats.” 

“Sure, but let's sneak out the back since we have visitors in the front.” 

“Awesome.” 

The distance between the walker and you and Glen becomes measurable, subconsciously making you feel better. You realize that in moments like these of high stress, your body will feel emotions the way it deems necessary, not what your conscious mind deems appropriate.  

The front seat of the truck burns your skin, but in a satisfying and calming way. You get used to it after Glen throws his stuff into the back seats, and you start the Truck. The exhaust purring, you shift into reverse and back out of your driveway, the infected pulling away from the gate. What's eerie about this is that the infected seems to be tracking you and Glen specifically, peering through the tinted windows. 

What do I do now? Comment below. All words are my own; all events are generated by the AI. AI rolls for outcomes based on probabilities it assigns each possibility.

June 23^(rd), 2026, 12:35 PM. 

Coulee City, WA 

404 N Fourth Street 

As soon as my body hits the couch, I feel instant relief to the massive amounts of energy I spent getting ready to leave for the road trip to Wenatchee. In a little under twenty-five minutes, I'll be on my way to my childhood home to hopefully reconnect with my parents. My body feels slick with sweat, not because of the heat, but because of the anxiety of what could have happened to them. Are they safe? All of the answers to the endless amounts of questions I have in my head ultimately don’t matter; their situation is how it is no matter what and there's nothing I can do to control it.  

After five minutes of worrying, I have twenty minutes left. The news frightens me. Shots of a sea of cars on an unknown highway, none moving. The only mobile objects appear to be humans? Not walking in a traditional way, almost like something that hurts. A shuffle, hands at the side, and heads either looking as high as they can into the blue summer skies or slumped like they are high on drugs. It's an unsettling sight, invoking a feeling in my stomach slightly different than the anxiousness, akin to the instinct of fear, but rooted further into who I am as a person. Instinctual is the word I would use to describe it, almost primal. Before the scene develops any further, the camera hits the floor with lens-shattering force, and the broadcast cuts static. Not black, static, insinuating that whatever happened after the broadcast was not meant to be seen by anyone. 

On N Fourth Street, a coarse but uninterrupted moan carries down the stretch of road, and is muffled by my front door, just enough sound seeping through to hear it, but not enough to be satisfied with my guess of what you would see if I opened my curtains.

What do I do now? Comment Below. All words are my own. AI is only used to structure events and roll probability-based outcomes. 

June 26th, 12:30 PM. 

Coulee City, WA

Corner Lot of N 4th Street

As the sun reaches its peak in the sky, I reach my destination back home. I feel immediate relief from the scolding temperatures outside. Compared to outside, inside seems like an oasis of cool air. My mission is clear; Pack the bags to get ready to go to Wenatchee with Mr. Hollister. Feeling confident in my plan, I pack both of my rifles into the white, however, a dingy, duffel bag I used to use to take my guns and ammunition up to the mountain to go hunting. However, the purpose I packed them for this time is to defend myself now from a threat that I haven’t even experienced first-hand yet. In the midst of accomplishing the completion of my task, a sedan I have never seen before sweeps to the curb beside my house. It rolls gently like a breeze in the wind and then drives off, deciding that communication between three fellow survivors, four including Glen, wasn’t worth the rewards of even the attempt of communication. I kept at the task of filling my duffel bag with as much food and extra water bottles I could, about six, and then added my food. About 5 days' worth is what the amount would last for me, maybe less if I ate to satiate my hunger rather than just eating to achieve the bare minimum required to function normally. I packed the first aid kit, just in case into a small travel sized backpack that I found in my closet, followed by the necessities of a toothbrush and toothpaste. I packed about 5 days of clothes, along with soap to clean them with. I packed the rest of the joints that had gotten me into the habit of smoking, even though I knew it was bad for me. Along with those, they need an ignition source which is exactly why after that, I packed a lighter. These were my two most debated items in my head, but the world ended anyways, so why not. Out of habit, I put my wallet into the small front pocket for safe keeping, thinking down the road to a time where what it contains might become sentimental to what used to be of society. Completing this task, you load every bag, carrying as much as you can, into your black 2004 Ford F-150. All in all, this doesn't take very long, bringing into light what is important in times of crises, and how little of it you own. Your actions cost you thirty-five minutes, leaving you with twenty-five minutes left until the rendezvous with Glen. 

What do I do now? Comment Below. 

All words are my own, no use of AI except to structure the events of the story.

I found another survivor. I thought that everybody had left, turns out, most people might be hiding in their homes. After crossing into the Hollister’s yard, I noticed that the door was shut and locked. I thought this was odd, because if you had left in a hurry, why would you care if the door was locked or not? Keeping this logic in mind, I knocked three times, and after about 15 seconds of waiting and listening to a chaotic ruffling on the other side of the door, it opened. On the other side stood a man of a small stature. About sixty years old, grayish-brown hair, blue eyes, and weathered skin from years of working as a truck driver. His voice is hoarse from decades of smoking, and I am surprised that he’s made it to this old age. This man's name is Glen Hollister. He’s holding a duffel bag full of essential survival materials, and the first thing he says to you is: 

“Where have you been boy, Ive been looking for somebody to help me pack. Come in.” 

“Sorry Mr. Hollister, I’ve been busy with my own preparing” 

“All good. My Wife left for Spokane 2 days ago to visit our daughter, but she hasn't come back.” 

“Is that why you're packing? To find them?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you going alone?” 

“I didn't plan on it. The neighbors across the street who I've known for 20 years said they would go. I haven't heard from them since about six in the morning.” 

“Should we check on them?” 

“No. At about 7:30. I saw somebody leave through the back door. They’re okay.” 

“Sorry about that. I have family too; I tried to call and the call disconnected about 30 seconds in. The cell towers are all down.” 

“Where do they live?” 

“Wenatchee.” 

“How about this son, I know you don't live with anybody over there, and you don't really have a lot of commitments in this town. If you come with me, we could stop by your parents in Wenatchee, and then we’ll drive to my daughter's house in Spokane.” 

“That would be great, I would appreciate that. I'll go pack. I'll get all the gas out of my car as well, were going to need it.” 

“Meet back here in an hour?” 

“I'll be here.” 

What do I do? Comment Below.

All words are mine, only use of AI is to structure events of the story.

The decision to step outside was not inherently a bad decision, if anything I gained a lot of useful information. Outside, the scene was much worse than I had originally thought. Upon stepping outside, I was immediately met with an uncomfortable amount of heat that I knew was there, just not to this extreme. A car, a blue-silver sedan with its door wide open sits idly, with no sign of the driver. Looking South toward Walnut, the street I take to go to work every day, there's an abandoned town truck, looking to be a firetruck, but it is unclear because of its position. A massive dug trench that was part of a project never finished, and cones scattered, remnants of the order the old world used to have. The water main shutoff happened today. I thought it would stay longer, but it appears that this seemed to have escalated while I was sleeping. Looking North onto the deserted highway 2, at first glance it looks normal. At a second observation, it isn't. Multiple cars, like the one in the high school lot, sit there abandoned at angles that would be unsafe if the car was in motion. Surprisingly, there is no movement of any car, nor of people. The Hollister's black steel gate is now swinging wide open in the wind, and the barking dog is gone. There’s no sign of any life, living or dead, and I am all alone. 

What do I do? Comment the Answer

All words are mine, only use of AI is to structure the events that happen in the story.

I decided that the most important thing to do at the moment is to call my family. My Mom and Dad live about an hour and a half away, in Wenatchee, back in the same house that I grew up in. The 3-story house is a trove of memories that make your house pale in comparison, like that one time that you fell off the balcony from the second story. It was winter, and there was a thick pile of snow outside, so you were lucky that the only injury was a broken arm. That’s a thought that has never slipped your memory. What if there wasn't any snow? What if I had fallen headfirst?  Your mom answers the fourth ring but sounds concerned and has obviously heard about the overflowing hospitals in Seattle, and the “civil unrest” accompanied by the “respiratory illness”. Your mom is usually skeptic when it comes to things that sound extraordinary, but she knows something that you do not that makes her sound like she's on the edge, about to fall off and never come back. Before you get to ask her what she knows, she speaks first.  

“Wyatt, your father thinks we should-”. 

Cut off. The phone call ends, and you throw your phone at the wall in anger. Not the best decision in the moment, but your subconscious got the best of you, and before you could think about the potential consequences to your actions. You pick your phone up, fearful that it's broken, and it's not. There is, however, a new deep crack past the screen protecter that wasn't there before. You look in the upper right-hand corner and see that your service has gone from two bars to SOS. You called your parents twice and both times it doesn't connect your call. The barking outside goes quiet, and that for an unknown reason makes you more uncomfortable than the actual barking. 

What do you do next?

No AI is used in the creation of this story, only for the events and outcomes of the events.

The single story sitting on the corner lot of N Fourth St is silent except for the radio. All morning, while I've been baking in the sweltering heat of Coulee City, WA, the radio claims of "civil unrest" and an unknown "respiratory illness" that has been overwhelming Seattle hospitals. While I'm sitting on my couch wondering what this could mean, it cuts to static. My phone has two bars of Verizon service, and a text from my boss telling me not to come in to work today. The street is emptier than it should be for 11:30 AM on Tuesday, June 26th, especially since the last day of school was last Wednesday. Normally, the neighborhood kids are riding bikes, making a ruckus, but today that's gone. I'm usually annoyed by this noise, but there's an uneasy feeling now that it's not there. I wish it was there. Something is wrong. Banks Lake in the North looks inviting, but I decide that it's not worth the risk. The Hollisters' dog who lives next door won't stop barking, and that adds to the level of uneasiness. I heard that dogs have a 6th sense for danger, but I never believed it until now. I take quick inventory of what I have just in case, and it's not a lot. My quick scan, not covering all items, just the most important ones, includes this:

• .22 Rifle with 1 box of ammunition
• .30-06 Deer Rifle with a meager 11 rounds of ammunition
• About 5 days of food + tap water
• Basic first-aid supplies, not enough for major injuries
• A full tool chest
• Half a tank of gas in a 2004 F-250

These supplies are enough to make me slightly confident, but unprepared for anything that will last longer than my food will last, and the tap water if this "respiratory illness" isn't what they're making it out to be.

What do I do?

All Prompts are hand-written, only using AI to structure events that will occur in the story. All words are mine.

Who would be interested in a subreddit where you can contribute to the story through a Patreon, such as getting your own character in the story, or your own faction, etc. AI controls the events and outcomes of the story, but I write it so it has a human sense to it, no ai slop.

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