Night Of The Dead Early Access ›

The dead were coming. And now, they all knew your name.

It had been your father-in-law. The man who never forgave you for the divorce.

"Run," a voice hissed from behind a toppled semi-truck. A woman in a blood-stained nurse's scrubs waved you over. "Don't fight it. It'll just summon more. They talk to each other through the dirt." Night of the Dead Early Access

You were standing on the exact overpass where you'd crashed your sedan. You could feel them waking up below.

The rain came down in greasy, black ropes, soaking into the cracked asphalt of the interstate. You adjusted the strap of your worn hiking pack, the weight of three cans of beans and a half-empty canteen feeling like lead. In the distance, the city skyline was a broken jaw of shattered glass and rusted rebar. The dead were coming

It had been six months since the "Stitching," as the survivors called it. Not a virus. Not a bite. One night, every corpse on Earth—from the embalmed patriarch in his mahogany casket to the unmarked pauper in a shallow grave—simply stood up .

You nodded, your leg throbbing where the father-in-law's hand had scraped it. But the scrape wasn't bleeding red. It was weeping a thin, black oil. The man who never forgave you for the divorce

And they remembered.