From the Pen of Thomas Miller

By morning, the smell of burnt plastic and chlorine hung over what was left of Universal Studios. The water in the lagoon shimmered a dull gray, rippling with ash. A few survivors wandered its edge, staring into the reflection of a sky that no longer belonged to Florida.

Base Camp U had risen overnight like a fever dream — plywood barricades, stacked crates, sandbags, and movie set walls pretending to be real fortifications. Inside, every sound felt amplified: the clank of metal gates, the hum of generators, the static hiss of radios that picked up more silence than news.

Donny sat on a bench near the old Men in Black ride, rubbing dried blood from his forearm.
Across from him, Kevin McCorm was trying to patch a wound on a teenager’s shoulder — one of the lucky few pulled from the I-4 evacuation convoy before it burned.

“How’s it look?” Donny asked.
“Like hell’s taking numbers,” Kevin muttered.

The boy wouldn’t stop shaking. His Disney wristband was still on. He kept whispering something about his mom — that she’d “just wanted one more day at the parks.”

The government had gone silent overnight. No orders, no rescue drops, no updates. The only broadcast came from an emergency frequency on a battered radio:

“Stay indoors. Stage Three transmission is airborne. Do not approach the infected.”

Donny looked around. Nobody was indoors. Everyone was either building walls or breaking down.

That afternoon, a group of new survivors stumbled in — half from I-Drive hotels, half from the theme-park bus lots. One of them carried a hazmat case stamped with a faded government seal. Inside were six glass vials and a note labeled PHASE 2 TRIAL.

Kevin read it twice, jaw tightening.

“They were still experimenting,” he said quietly. “Even after it started.”
“They knew,” Donny said.
“Yeah. They always know.”

He set the case down beside a pile of theme-park maps. Someone had circled the area around the old Soundstage 23, scribbling “quarantine” across the top.

That night, Donny couldn’t sleep. He sat outside the barricade, watching the Universal globe turn slowly in the smoky wind. The letters had started to melt, drooping like candle wax. Somewhere beyond the lake, a distant voice was singing — a child’s lullaby twisted thin and broken.

Kevin joined him, tossing a can of cold beans his way.

“You think they’ll send help?” Kevin asked.
“Help doesn’t come to places like this.”
“You always were the optimist.”

They both laughed — the kind of laugh that isn’t joy, just the body remembering what it used to do before the world ended.

Then came the horn.
Three short blasts. One long.

Every survivor froze. That was the signal for breach.

Gunfire snapped through the night. The barricades on the Simpson’s side collapsed in a shower of sparks and screams. From the dark alley near Hollywood Rip Ride Rockit, the infected poured through — hundreds of them, faces twisted in a parody of joy, mouths frozen in open laughter.

Donny grabbed the crowbar, Kevin his sidearm. They ran toward the chaos, through smoke and flickering lights.
The loudspeaker above the main gate crackled once more:

“Attention Base Camp U… containment has failed.”

The voice stopped mid-sentence.

Donny swung his crowbar into the first infected, bones crunching under the blow. Kevin fired until his clip ran dry, the muzzle flashes painting ghosts across the park walls.

When the dust settled, only silence remained — and the slow creak of the Universal globe, still turning as if the world hadn’t just ended twice.

Donny dropped to his knees, sweat and soot dripping into his eyes.
Kevin crouched beside him.

“You think this is it?” he asked.
“No,” Donny said, breathing hard. “This is just the next ride.”

Above them, a billboard flickered one last time —
“Welcome to the Adventure.”

Then the power died.