Carl-Johan Westregård

The image pans slowly around a coastal moor, a neighborhood of silent villas and empty streets, a forest path in fading summer light. There are no witnesses to tell the stories of how it all ended. All manifestations of human activity have ceased, giving way to the crackling and bustling of nature. In this world, which at first seems only to reflect a recent emptying, black things move about, as if dying echoes of a cataclysm too terrifying to narrate.

The image pans slowly around a coastal moor, a neighborhood of silent villas and empty streets, a forest path in fading summer light. There are no witnesses to tell the stories of how it all ended. All manifestations of human activity have ceased, giving way to the crackling and bustling of nature. In this world, which at first seems only to reflect a recent emptying, black things move about, as if dying echoes of a cataclysm too terrifying to narrate.

The image pans slowly around a coastal moor, a neighborhood of silent villas and empty streets, a forest path in fading summer light. There are no witnesses to tell the stories of how it all ended. All manifestations of human activity have ceased, giving way to the crackling and bustling of nature. In this world, which at first seems only to reflect a recent emptying, black things move about, as if dying echoes of a cataclysm too terrifying to narrate.

The image pans slowly around a coastal moor, a neighborhood of silent villas and empty streets, a forest path in fading summer light. There are no witnesses to tell the stories of how it all ended. All manifestations of human activity have ceased, giving way to the crackling and bustling of nature. In this world, which at first seems only to reflect a recent emptying, black things move about, as if dying echoes of a cataclysm too terrifying to narrate.

The image pans slowly around a coastal moor, a neighborhood of silent villas and empty streets, a forest path in fading summer light. There are no witnesses to tell the stories of how it all ended. All manifestations of human activity have ceased, giving way to the crackling and bustling of nature. In this world, which at first seems only to reflect a recent emptying, black things move about, as if dying echoes of a cataclysm too terrifying to narrate.

The image pans slowly around a coastal moor, a neighborhood of silent villas and empty streets, a forest path in fading summer light. There are no witnesses to tell the stories of how it all ended. All manifestations of human activity have ceased, giving way to the crackling and bustling of nature. In this world, which at first seems only to reflect a recent emptying, black things move about, as if dying echoes of a cataclysm too terrifying to narrate.

Two men on a fishing trip realize that things are a bit out of the ordinary. A mystery is forming.

Two men on a fishing trip realize that things are a bit out of the ordinary. A mystery is forming.

It has been over one year since the start of the outbreak. Our society has collapsed and the world has descended into chaos. Elvis and Tweeter are two of the last people left alive, and band together to flee the United States for a remote island somewhere in the Caribbean. On the island, they find a new community struggling to hold out against an army of corpses. They can join this band of survivors-- but only if they can do what must be done for the good of the group.

A girl wanders the streets of her hometown, recalling the people, places and dreams that make a life.

A girl wanders the streets of her hometown, recalling the people, places and dreams that make a life.

A girl wanders the streets of her hometown, recalling the people, places and dreams that make a life.

A girl wanders the streets of her hometown, recalling the people, places and dreams that make a life.

A girl wanders the streets of her hometown, recalling the people, places and dreams that make a life.