Across every radio, smartphone, and smart-speaker in Oakhaven, the sound erupted: The default iPhone alarm tone.

Ben felt his knees buckle. The urge to lie down on the asphalt felt like a physical weight. “Sam... the bat...”

As they reached the town square, they hit a "Huddle"—a mass of fifty people leaning against each other in a giant, snoring pile. The sound was like a low-frequency hum, a siren song of sleep.

And together, the heroes of the Yawn of the Dead finally went to sleep.

The "outbreak" began at the local Starbucks. It wasn’t a virus of rage or a hunger for brains. It was a contagion of pure, unadulterated exhaustion.

The effect was instantaneous. Thousands of people sat bolt upright, eyes wide with the panicked realization that they were "late for work." The fog lifted as the collective energy of a thousand frantic morning routines surged through the air.