Miles away from the nearest village, Mila’s car sputtered and died on the desolate country road. Her phone had no signal, the sky threatened rain, and the only shelter in sight was a crumbling house swallowed by creeping vines. A wooden sign by the gate warned her that the area is a quarantine zone, but she had no other choice.
Inside, the air was damp, heavy with an earthy musk. Fungal growths clung to the walls, their fleshy surfaces pulsing, as if breathing. The wooden floor sagged beneath her step, oozing something thick and green. She gagged but pressed forward, hoping to find an old landline.
