[Instrumental] In the final hours of the outbreak, the ocean runs red beneath a burning sky. From the shallows, they come, silent at first, then screaming. Fuel’s low. The blades are hot. You’ve got one shot to clear the shore before the dead drag you under. Whirlybird is the sound of that last desperate climb, steel drum shadows, pounding rotors, and the hum of survival over the roar of the undead.
