He tied the sock around a brick. Lit it with a Bic lighter.

“Regra três,” Wellington whispered, turning to look directly into the lens. His eyes were yellow. Not from sickness. From fear. “Se você ver um zumbi usando um boné do Galo… corra na direção oposta. Eles mantêm a memória do ódio.”

Slowly, he picked up a green-handled machete he’d found in the hallway.

“Aqui dentro. O desespero. Ele morde primeiro.”

The recording ended.

“My name is Wellington,” he said, voice hoarse. “This is not a film. This is a manual.”

The real zombie isn’t outside.

2026