Lunara: Rise of the Deadlands

Prologue: Dr. Curtis Bee

Prologue
Research Log of Dr. Curtis Bee, East Virginia Research Facility

February 12, 2025

It started as a murmur, the way these things always do. Another strain of flu, they said. "Mildly airborne, like COVID." The symptoms were the same: fever, cough, fatigue. In the early days, I told myself we'd handled worse. We'd been through pandemics. We knew the protocols. We could control this.

But there was something... different. People were getting sick faster than any virus I'd seen. Patients would come in with mild symptoms—then, within hours, they were in respiratory failure. Entire ICUs were overwhelmed, and we couldn't keep up. I could see the fear in my team's eyes. We were America's best shot, maybe the world's, and we were already drowning.

The infection rate was off the charts, and the strangest part? Only a small percentage of those infected turned into... something else. For most, it was a deadly virus. But a select few—maybe 5%—didn't just die. They changed. And when they came back, they weren't people anymore.

We started calling them Biters. Armand came up with the name, and I hated it, but it fit. They moved like predators, like they'd lost all traces of humanity. They didn't just attack people—they hunted them. The others thought I was exaggerating, but I could see it in their eyes. These were no longer people. They were something else.

Jessa kept calling, asking if I was safe, if I was coming home. I told her to stay put for now, that the kids needed her. But I think she heard the hesitation in my voice. It was hard not to feel it when I barely understood what we were dealing with myself.

February 19, 2025

It's spreading too fast. I spent the day on back-to-back calls with the CDC, the military, and even the White House. They're scrambling, trying everything—lockdowns, quarantines, checkpoints on every major interstate. The National Guard has been deployed in every major city, but it's still not enough.

The infection rate is unlike anything anyone has ever seen. Patients are going from mild symptoms to violent, animalistic behavior within hours. They aren't just dying—they're changing, and no one knows why.

There's a sense of desperation in the air. The internet is slowing down, news sites are barely loading, and half of them are going offline. Renji told me he thinks the grid is overloading with people locking themselves inside, streaming updates, refreshing their feeds for news. People are desperate for answers, but there are none. Only silence.

Then there are the rumors—the whispers about high-ranking officials, billionaires, celebrities. People have spotted convoys with private security heading for remote compounds in the Rockies, New Zealand, the Arctic. Somehow, the wealthy knew, and they were prepared. But for the rest of us? We're left to rot.

The military has given me everything I could need—samples, data, resources—and now they've given it a name: Project Salvation. They're relying on me, Curtis Bee, as the country's best chance. Maybe the world's.

I called Jessa and told her to bring the kids here, to the facility. She didn't understand why at first, but I told her I didn't know how much longer I'd be able to keep them safe if they stayed home. I just hope she makes it here before it's too late.

February 28, 2025

The second wave has hit.

I don't even have the words for it. The Biters are out, and they're everywhere. The cities are falling one by one—D.C., Boston, Atlanta, Los Angeles. Entire neighborhoods are disappearing overnight. We're getting reports of police officers barricading themselves inside their stations, sacrificing themselves to keep inmates from escaping, even setting entire prisons on fire to contain the infected.