A gnarled, grey hand punched through the gravel at your feet.
And they remembered.
You sprinted. Behind you, a dozen more hands punched through the rain-soaked earth—the forgotten dead of the interstate pile-up, each one with a memory, each one with a score to settle.
The dead were coming. And now, they all knew your name.
The rain came down in greasy, black ropes, soaking into the cracked asphalt of the interstate. You adjusted the strap of your worn hiking pack, the weight of three cans of beans and a half-empty canteen feeling like lead. In the distance, the city skyline was a broken jaw of shattered glass and rusted rebar.
You were standing on the exact overpass where you'd crashed your sedan. You could feel them waking up below.
That was the horror of Night of the Dead Early Access . The dead didn't just hunger. They held grudges. A police officer would target the handcuffs on a survivor’s belt. A construction foreman would relentlessly swing a hammer at a hard hat. And worst of all, they remembered where they died.