Chapter 1 – The Afternoon That Changed Everything
The September sun was still high when Alex Carter pulled his battered delivery van into the cracked gravel driveway of his small home on the edge of town. It was exactly 2:00 PM—he always remembered the time because his last drop-off of the shift was near the hardware store, and the clerk there had a habit of checking his wristwatch as if confirming Alex's punctuality.
The engine gave a protesting whine as he turned it off. For a moment, Alex sat there in the driver's seat, listening to the tick of cooling metal. He rubbed his tired eyes with the heels of his hands. At twenty-five, he was already used to long, dull days of driving around town, hauling boxes, and exchanging polite but forgettable greetings with customers. Not a glamorous life, but it was steady. Steady meant bills paid. Steady meant food on the table for his aging parents.
His gaze drifted toward the little house that had always been home. The white paint was peeling in places, and the front porch sagged ever so slightly with age, but the garden was still neat—his mother's pride. Beyond the garden, the surrounding fields stretched out, dotted with barns and tree lines. Their place was out of the way, a little detached from town, just far enough that nights were quiet and the stars shone brighter.
He then carried his satchel of receipts and stepped out of the car. Today, the afternoon air felt a bit heavy, thicker than usual, with a faint scent of something metallic carried by the breeze. Alex frowned and mused. "Maybe a farm nearby was burning scrap metal again?"
"Alex?"
His father's voice drifted from the porch and interrupted his line of thoughts. Robert Carter was in his late sixties, his frame once brawny and strong but now weathered by the passage of time. He was leaning against the railing, squinting. "You're home early my boy."
"Last delivery was close by," Alex said with a shrug. "Figured I'd save some gas and come back sooner."
Just then his mother, Margaret, stepped onto the porch behind his father. She was holding a white dish towel, drying her hands, as though she'd just finished another round of cooking. "Good. Maybe you can help with the pantry. I bought too much flour again."
Alex chuckled. She always stocked more than they needed. Sometimes he even teased her for preparing like there was some storm coming. Today, though, he didn't mind. Anyway stockpiling wasn't a bad habit.
He opened the front door, but before stepping inside, his phone buzzed. A news notification flashed across the cracked screen.
[BREAKING: Unidentified Outbreak Spreads in Several States – Officials Urge Calm.]
His thumb hovered over the headline. Huh. Another scare? The past week, he'd noticed whispers online about some kind of strange illness. People collapsing suddenly, violent fevers, confused behavior. But the posts had been inconsistent—some claiming it was drugs, others calling it rabies, and a few shouting "government cover-up!". The net was flooded with these kind of posts. He had always scrolled past them.
Still, today something about the tone of the headline tugged at his chest. He tapped it open.
The article was short, as if hastily written. Reports of erratic, aggressive individuals attacking civilians. Police struggling to contain "isolated disturbances." The CDC refusing to comment until investigations were complete. No details, no numbers. Just vague words.
"Another headline?" his father asked from behind.
"Yeah. Looks like some kind of outbreak." Alex quickly pocketed the phone and forced a smile to reassure his parents. "Probably nothing."
But inside, his stomach tightened.
The Carters sat down for a late lunch. Mashed potatoes, carrots, and roast chicken—the kind of meal Alex's mother made when she wanted to spoil him after work. The best chicken-according to Alex. Alex listened as his parents talked about small-town things: a neighbor's new tractor, church renovations, the way raccoons had gotten into someone's cornfield and more.
But he kept glancing at his phone under the table, thumbing rapidly through the updates. More headlines. More shaky videos posted online. One even showed a man staggering through traffic in some city, his shirt soaked in blood. Another showed police officers wrestling someone who refused to stop biting at them. Each clip was grainy, muffled, chaotic.
It wasn't just "isolated disturbances" anymore. It was everywhere—New York, Chicago, Dallas, even small towns out west.
Suddenly his fork scraped against his plate. The table conversations ceased. "I think we should fill up the gas tanks," he blurted. The atmosphere became tense.
His parents looked at him.
"Why?" his mother asked.
"Just… in case." He hesitated. "If this outbreak thing spreads, stations will run out quick. Better to be ready."
His father's brows knitted. "Son, don't let those articles get in your head. News loves panic."
"Maybe," Alex admitted. "But it won't hurt to be prepared."
Silence stretched a little too long, then his mother nodded slowly. "We still have those red Jerry gas cans in the shed. I'll clean them out after lunch."
Relief coursed through him. At least his parents took him seriously.
By three o'clock, the sun was dipping lower, casting the fields in amber light. Alex drove his van into town with the gas cans rattling in the back. The roads seemed normal enough—farm trucks, a couple of sedans, kids riding bikes near the elementary school. Ordinary.
But this ordinary cracked at the edges. At the gas station, the line was longer than usual. People stood by their cars, scrolling through their phones with anxious faces. The cashier inside looked pale and sweaty, and the overhead TV showed a muted news anchor gesturing urgently while a red ticker scrolled words like LOCKDOWN and NATIONAL GUARD DEPLOYED.
Alex filled the cans quickly, then topped off his van as well. Suddenly he noticed a man at the next pump, muttering to himself. His hands trembled violently, and his skin was grayish, almost bruised-looking. Sweat streamed down his forehead onto his shirt. Alex opened his mouth to ask if he was okay—but the man suddenly jerked, clutching his head, and let out a guttural noise that made everyone pause and turn.
People froze. The man staggered, then abruptly lunged at the woman behind him. She screamed as he clawed at her arm. Two nearby bystanders tried to pull him off, but he thrashed at them with inhuman strength, teeth snapping.
Total Chaos erupted.
"Get back!" someone shouted. A car peeled out, tires screeching. The cashier locked the glass doors, shaking his head in horror.
Alex's heart pounded. Instinct screamed at him to intervene, to help the woman, but another instinct—sharper, colder—told him to get out, now.
The gas nozzle clicked. He yanked it free, capped the cans, and jumped into his van. As he pulled out of the lot, he glanced once in the mirror. The man was on the ground, biting into something red, while the woman lay motionless. Others were backing away in shock.
Alex's knuckles whitened on the wheel.
The drive home was a blur. His thoughts racing. He remembered the science books lining his shelves—mechanics, chemistry for dummies, biology, epidemiology, survival manuals he'd collected out of curiosity. Words and diagrams flashed in his head: incubation periods, mutation rates, collapse of public health infrastructure. He never thought any of it would matter. But now, maybe it would.
He reached the house and quickly carried the gas cans to the shed. His parents came out, sensing the tension radiating from him.
"What happened son?" his mother asked.
"There was… a man at the station. Sick. Violent. It wasn't normal. People are panicking." Alex swallowed hard. "We need to stay put. Lock the doors. Gather food, water, whatever we can."
His father looked like he wanted to argue, but then he saw Alex's face. Instead, he gave a grim nod. "Alright. We'll start with the pantry."
The three of them moved quickly, an unspoken understanding guiding their steps. Flour, rice, canned beef, canned beans, bottled water—everything went into boxes. Alex then checked the basement for tools, flashlights, batteries. He found the old shortwave radio his late grandfather had kept, and though it was a bit dusty, it might still work.
By evening, the house felt different. The curtains were drawn, the doors bolted, and supplies stacked in corners. The quiet country home had become something else: a fortress in the making.
Alex stood at the window, peeking through a gap in the curtain. The fields stretched endlessly, bathed in the golden glow of sunset. Beautiful, yet ominous. Out there, the world was unraveling.
He whispered to himself, almost like a vow: "We'll survive. No matter what comes, we'll survive."
Just then, the first screams reached their ears just after nightfall.