When the thirteenth wave hit, the virus had mutated in way no one could have ever imagined.
It was a sweltering Friday afternoon in August. The streets were already crammed with commuters trying to escape the heat of the city for the long weekend. When the alert went out, most people sprinted to their cars, trucks and SUVs. They didn't pack. They didn't even lock their homes. They just tried their best to find their loved ones and flee the city.
Stuck in the endless gridlock, those who rolled down their windows were infected over hours of exposure to the urban air. Those who didn't slowly baked to death after their vehicles ran dry.
The few who did manage to escape to the desolate areas did so by motorcycle. Now they defend what little of humanity is left from the hordes.
Special thanks to James Mitchell Photography for collaborating on this project with me, Smruthi for location scouting, and the all the members of the Lower Island Riding Club who came out to play.
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