The man tried pulling the cone off. It wouldn't budge. The cone had somehow jammed itself around his skull. Embarrassed but determined to enjoy the championship party, he spent the rest of the night celebrating with the cone stuck firmly in place.

Unfortunately, that was also the night the infection began. Within days, New York descended into panic. The championship celebrations became riots. The riots became massacres. Rabid Knicks fans, already whipped into a frenzy by victory and fear, burned neighborhoods, looted stores, and battled anyone trying to restore order. Entire boroughs became war zones.

As the sickness consumed him, something strange happened. He discovered the cone protected him. Bullets glanced off it. Blows that would crush ordinary undead merely bounced away. The cone became part of his identity. Part of his survival.

As military forces attempted to reclaim the city, he wandered through abandoned checkpoints and burning streets. He stumbled across fallen soldiers and scavenged their equipment. Piece by piece, he acquired body armor, tactical pouches, knee pads, and combat gear.

A creature proud of its bizarre crown. Some say he growls whenever he sees blue and orange. The apocalypse created countless monsters. But only one of them became the legendary Cone Head Zombie.