When the impenetrable fog pulled back from Kingsmouth and Solomon Island - becoming instead a wall around the island - there were few survivors left. Everyone else had vanished; pulled, by some pale-skinned Pied Piper, into the ocean, leaving behind tables set for dinner, idling cars, TVs showing only static, and a thousand unanswered questions. At first, there was only the distant crying of white gulls, the quiet push and pull of the ocean, and that impossible wall on the horizon: churning, impenetrable, deadly. The few who remained behind banded together, most of them, building safe nests in the eye of the storm. Waiting for some sign, some resolution. For life, or for death. Then the others came back, all of them. In the beginning, they were all human, or at least recognisably so. Some had been worn down by years underwater or in the ground, others were only hours dead; faster, angrier...hungrier. But as the survivors retreated behind their barricades, fighting their friends and family, some of the undead mutated. Infected by the black disease, imbued with dark magic, or simply given strength by the cannibalistic gorging on rotten flesh or by their Draug masters - regardless of the cause, these undead creatures had grown into lumbering monstrosities that now threaten the survival of those few survivors still left on Solomon Island.