I used to think cities never slept. Sirens, traffic, late-night diners with their neon lights buzzing above half-empty booths—always something alive, always something moving.
Now the only sounds are screams.
The ambulance doors slammed behind me as I stumbled into the street, my gloves slick with blood I hadn't been able to stop. My patient—a young woman, maybe twenty—had bled out on the gurney before I even pulled the stretcher out. Bite wounds. Deep, jagged, like an animal had torn into her. But it wasn't an animal. It was one of them.
The air reeked of smoke and gasoline. Buildings burned in the distance. People surged past me in blind panic, some bleeding, some carrying children, some dragging suitcases they would never need. Above it all came that sound—the guttural moan that didn't belong in a human throat.
I pressed my hand to the radio on my vest, but the channel was nothing but static. No dispatch. No backup. Just me, alone, with the echo of the city dying around me.
"Amy…" My voice cracked as I whispered my sister's name. She was supposed to be at her apartment three blocks over. Safe. If I could just get to her, everything would make sense again.
But sense was already gone.
The first one staggered into view near the corner store, its head twitching side to side like it had forgotten how necks were supposed to work. Its skin was gray, its eyes clouded with a milky film. Its mouth dripped red. The girl's blood. The one I'd failed to save.
It saw me. And then it screamed.
I ran.
Not because I was a coward, but because every instinct screamed there was no saving anyone tonight. Not the girl. Not the city. Maybe not even Amy.
But I had to try.
---
Her apartment building loomed ahead, an ugly slab of concrete with too many dark windows. Only one light flickered in the stairwell, weak and sputtering. The front door was propped open by a broken chair, the glass shattered, safety wire curling out like veins.
I stopped at the threshold, my chest heaving, and listened. Nothing but the buzz of that dying light. No footsteps. No voices. No Amy.
The stairwell reeked of rot and iron. I drew the paramedic's trauma shears from my belt—pathetic weapon, but better than nothing—and climbed, each step groaning beneath my weight.
Second floor. Third. Fourth.
Amy's door was half open.
A smear of blood trailed out across the threshold, like someone had been dragged inside. My throat tightened as I pushed it with my foot, the hinges squealing like they hadn't been touched in years instead of hours.
The apartment was dark, curtains drawn. I edged forward, my shears clenched tight, the silence thick enough to choke me. My heart hammered so hard I thought it would give me away.
And then—
A shape moved in the corner of the living room.
I froze, breath caught in my chest.
It turned slowly, and for a moment all I could see were pale eyes glinting in the dark. My grip tightened, every muscle screaming to run.
Then the voice came, hoarse but human:
"Ethan?"
It was Amy.
Alive.
But not… right.
Her face was pale, streaked with sweat, and her arm was wrapped in bloodied towels, soaking through. The smell hit me like a punch in the gut. Infection.
Still, when she saw me, her lips trembled into the tiniest smile.
"You came."
I staggered toward her, my mouth dry. "Amy… no… tell me it's not a bite."
Her silence was answer enough.
Before I could speak again, a crash erupted downstairs. Shattering glass. The thud of something heavy slamming against the building. Then another. And another.
The moans rose—a chorus this time, dozens of them, echoing through the stairwell.
Amy's trembling hand clutched mine, sticky with her blood.
"They followed you," she whispered.
The door at the bottom of the stairs splintered.
The dead were coming.
And we were coming
And we were trapped.