It had been a week since the accident. A week since Matthew Wicker had fallen into the shadowy silence of a coma, his body tethered to life by wires and humming machines. David hadn't left Atlanta Medical Center since the night his brother was brought in. He came off-duty today, an unusual break from his usual routine, and rode the morning cab beneath a sky smudged with gray. The air was heavy with the weight of uncertainty. Even the driver, silent for most of the ride, couldn't help but turn up the radio.
"—The CDC has issued another warning urging citizens to remain indoors. The outbreak has spread across state lines. Lockdowns are in effect. Any signs of aggression, unusual illness, or violent behavior should be reported immediately—"
David tuned it out. The words didn't mean much anymore. Every channel repeated the same thing, just with different voices and varying degrees of panic. The streets, though not empty, looked hollow—like a town halfway through dying.
Inside the hospital, nothing felt like healing. The ER was swarming. People moaned from gurneys in the hallways, and the scent of antiseptic was barely enough to mask the blood. A TV in the waiting area buzzed with chaotic footage—somewhere north, maybe Chicago or Philly—streets in flames, bodies on the ground, civilians screaming, soldiers shouting. David watched for a moment, numbly, before turning away.
"Far from here," he muttered.
Matthew's room was quiet, the calm eye in the storm. The flowers on the side table were fresh. Sarah must've changed them earlier in the day. Just as the thought crossed his mind, his phone rang.
Sarah.
"Hey," David said, stepping beside the window.
"Are you there with him?"
"Yeah. Just got in. He's the same… stable, but still no change."
There was a pause on the other end. "Hope wanted to come, but I thought it was better she stayed home. She's with my sister."
"She's safe," David replied softly. "That's what matters."
"She keeps asking when he'll wake up."
David's voice faltered for a second before he forced a breath. "Tell her… soon. Daddy's strong. You know how he is."
"Yeah," she said, voice cracking just slightly. "Call me if anything—"
Gunshots.
Not far. Sharp cracks echoed down the corridors like splitting wood.
"What was that?" Sarah asked sharply.
David had already cut the call. He moved to the hallway and peered through the narrow glass. Chaos unfurled like a snapped wire. Nurses screamed. A man in a white coat ran past, nearly tripping. Behind him, soldiers in riot gear marched methodically down the corridor.
At first, David thought they were responding to a threat. But then he saw them pause beside a man seated in a wheelchair—an elderly patient with a bandaged leg. One soldier lifted the gauze. Another raised his rifle. The shot cracked. The body crumpled. People screamed louder.
It wasn't containment. It was execution.
David's heart slammed in his chest. He turned back to the room and ripped the cords from Matthew's body, ignoring the beeping protest of the machines. With all the strength he could muster, he pushed the hospital bed into the hallway and toward the opposite wing. The wheels clattered against the tile.
A corner turned. A new corridor. And more soldiers.
One of them raised his weapon. "Stop!"
David raised his hands. "He's not infected! He's just hurt—he's been in a coma since last week—"
They didn't care.
One of them motioned toward Matthew. Another stepped forward to aim.
"Don't!" David shouted, stepping between them. "I'm warning you!"
The soldier didn't flinch.
Desperate, David lunged, wrestling the rifle from the man closest to him. His instincts screamed from years ago—old muscle memory from the Corps—but before he could level the weapon, another burst of gunfire tore through his side. Then another. Then three more.
He fell.
Silence.
Then—darkness.
He gasped.
Not a breath. A gasp—wet, cold, and crawling out of the grave.
David opened his eyes.
The ceiling lights flickered overhead, hazy and out of focus. His shirt was soaked in blood. He blinked, coughed. Memory hit like a sledgehammer—Matthew. The soldiers. The hallway.
He stumbled to his knees. The hospital bed was gone.
No. Not gone. Moved.
He found it down the corridor, upturned.
And Matthew...
David's breath caught. His brother lay sprawled beside the wrecked bed, a red hole where his forehead used to be.
The machines were still beeping weakly, as if mocking the stillness of his corpse.
"No…"
David staggered forward, knees threatening to buckle. He touched Matthew's hand. Still warm.
The grief hit him like a collapsing building. Not loud. Not theatrical. It tore into his bones, burned through his ribs.
"No…" he whispered again, but it wasn't denial anymore. It was the kind of sorrow that breaks into something else.
Rage.
Something inside cracked. Not metaphorically—literally. A sound. Like wet leather tearing. Something slipped out of him.
Dark tendrils, smoke-like but solid, erupted from David's spine. They curled and twisted, pooling on the floor before rising. Forming. Building.
A humanoid figure—tall, lean, monstrous in silhouette. It towered over him. Glossy black. A face without eyes.
The entity—his IBM—tilted its head, watching David. Awaiting command. But David wasn't watching it. He was on the floor, fingers curled into fists, eyes locked on his brother's ruined face.
The IBM turned.
It ran.
Like a creature freshly born, it sprinted down the hall in a blur of movement that didn't obey human limits. The first soldier didn't even react. A black arm slammed into his chest and launched him into the wall. His helmet cracked like an egg.
The second screamed. The IBM grabbed him by the throat and crushed his windpipe like cardboard before tossing him into the ceiling, where he fell with a sound no human body should make.
Three more soldiers turned to fire, but their bullets found nothing. They couldn't see the entity. To them, their comrades were being shredded by invisible claws.
One man screamed into his radio. Another fled.
The IBM didn't chase. It cleansed.
It snapped bones, caved skulls, and crushed ribs with machine-like precision. Screams turned to gurgles. Then nothing.
But just as it reached the final soldier, its form began to flicker. The black mass shuddered, then crumbled into smoke. Gone.
The last man, a young private no older than twenty, collapsed to his knees, waiting for the strike that never came. Then he ran, slipping in blood.
Back in the hallway, David collapsed beside Matthew's body.
Eyes closed. Chest heaving.
Not from wounds.
From whatever the hell had just come out of him.
The scent of iron filled the air.
And silence returned to the hospital, broken only by the beep… beep… beep… of a machine with no patient left to save.