Zombie apocalypse

In this world the apocalypse did not bring just one kind of undead but a storm of variations that adapted to every environment, turning the planet into a living nightmare. The first wave were the roamers, slow but endless in number, drawn by scent and sound, spreading infection with each bite. Then came the snow zombies, frozen into jagged shapes, their skin pale and cracked like ice. They thrive in blizzards, using the cold to mask their approach, their bodies so chilled that a touch burns with frostbite. Water zombies crawl out of rivers, lakes, and oceans, bloated and dripping, their movements sluggish but relentless. They drag prey under the surface where lungs fill with black water and screams vanish in bubbles. Sky zombies evolved from corpses caught in storms. Torn apart by wind and lightning, they hover on ragged wings or drift on currents of air, shrieking as they dive onto survivors, talons of bone tearing from above. Swamp zombies ooze with mud and moss, camouflaging themselves in marshes until they erupt upward in ambush. Flame zombies burn endlessly, their bodies ignited yet never consumed, spreading fire wherever they shamble, their touch scorching the earth. Others crawl as limbless swarms, torsos dragging across ruins, clamping jaws onto ankles before pulling victims down. The most feared are hive zombies, connected by a pulsating network of veins glowing faintly in the dark, moving with a shared intelligence as if one mind controls many bodies. In the cities, metallic zombies roam, corpses fused with rusted steel and broken machinery, sparks flying as they grind forward. The air stinks of rot, ash, and ozone, a world where every environment breeds its own predator. Survivors must learn the traits of each type, for one wrong step in snow, water, sky, or flame could end in screams and silence. This apocalypse is not just the dead rising—it is the world itself weaponizing its corpses.