The end came on a Friday night.

In its final hour, humanity had no chance to raise an angry fist to the sky and rage against its fate. The human species perished with all of the fanfare and hurrah of unwitting cattle led to slaughter. Yet few died quickly and painlessly. Tortured, anguished looks were affixed to the faces of the dead which littered the streets like autumn leaves--features stained with coagulated blood and claw marks drawn in bleeding lacerations across their throats. Their vacant eyes searched the heavens for help, for answers, for salvation, only to find they were alone.

Those who survived were the chosen, the damned: saved by their genetics. It was a random mutation that would have killed them had life been permitted to continue unimpeded, and it was that same malady that enabled seven strangers to survive THEM.

The survivors thought they had been saved. They thought it was over.

And then THEY reanimated the dead...