This mixture of military occupation and survivor's guilt drives the introduction with social and emotional potency, but that cannot last. Someone has survived the outbreak, and she's carrying the rage virus that caused the Infected but not affected (like Typhoid Mary). In a scene of true horror that builds off the survivor's guilt and good, old-fashioned revenge, the virus returns. The military's solution: Code Red. The attempts to contain the virus include locking the entire population in an enclosed space, and the widespread spread of the virus is terrifying. Even more so, though, is the result: indiscriminately killing everyone—infected or not.

We had hints of such mayhem in the previous film, and Fresnadillo captures it here with such bloody, vicious immediacy, these scenes hold a lot of power. Alas, after that, the film moves into familiar terrain, with Andy, Tammy, Scarlet, and Doyle trying to reach Millennium Stadium where a helicopter waits. See, Andy might have a genetic predisposition as a carrier for the virus, so his life is more important than any of theirs. From here on out, the film loses its nerve, tying action sequence after action sequence together with people walking in between. It's effective stuff, mind you, but it just doesn't have the visceral and thematic impact of what has come before it. The sight of masses of Infected is still chilling, but they're set aside for faceless army men carrying out their orders to eradicate the population. Instead, we're given one Infected as the focus, and while his existence brings up a very Freudian gimmick in that he has memory and seems to be hunting down those he loves, it's underdeveloped enough to just be odd. The action works well, though. Helicopter blades are used to devastating effect, chemical weapons force the survivors into a car for shelter (it doesn't start, natch), and one scene in the Underground is seen entirely through a night-vision scope.

My expectations were higher than this after the frightening prologue and the intriguing and haunting first act, though, but the script (by Fresnadillo, Rowan Joffe, Jesús Olmo, and E.L. Lavigne) confines its premise into a fairly standard action-horror amalgamation. Fresnadillo is yet another director to watch (this is his second feature film), and he manages thrills out of the weaker sections 28 Weeks Later, which should be a completely unnecessary sequel as a whole in the first place. If only it hadn't settled.