The first scream tore through the still night like shattering glass.
Alex jerked upright from the couch where he'd been sitting, sorting through flashlights and batteries. His mother's head snapped toward the window. His father, slower to rise, tightened his grip on an old baseball bat he'd dug out of the closet.
It wasn't just one scream. Others soon followed, faint but distinct, carried across the open fields from the direction of town. Men shouting. Women shrieking. A raw, animal noise—half howl, half roar.
Margaret whispered, "God help them…"
Alex motioned for silence. He crept toward the window and peered through a gap in the curtains. Darkness had swallowed most of the land beyond their porch. A few distant porch lights flickered on across the countryside, but the night was otherwise pitch black and oppressive.
Then—movement. A figure stumbled along the dirt road leading past their house. At first Alex thought it was a drunk farmer wandering home. But the closer the figure came, the clearer its unnatural gait became: jerky, lopsided, as though bones no longer obeyed.
His breath caught. "It's one of them."
The figure stopped in the middle of the road. Even from fifty yards away, Alex saw the glisten of wetness down its shirt. Blood. The figure turned its head slowly, too slowly, like a broken marionette. Its eyes caught the faint porch light—glassy, empty, yet somehow burning.
It began walking toward the house.
"Basement," Alex hissed. "Now."
His mother clutched her dish towel tighter, as if it could ward off danger. His father looked torn, gripping the bat like he was back in his youth, ready to protect his family. But Alex didn't wait—he grabbed both their arms and urged them toward the cellar door.
The three of them shuffled down the narrow stairs, the air cool and damp. Alex shut the door quietly and slid the lock into place. The basement smelled of earth and old wood. Supplies were stacked in boxes now—flour, rice, canned goods. A lantern cast a weak light.
They listened.
Thud.
Something hit the front door. A second later—another thud, harder. Then a scraping sound, nails or fingers dragging across wood. His mother gasped, covering her mouth.
Alex forced his voice low, steady. "It'll hold. The doors are solid oak. He won't get in."
But his pulse raced. He'd never felt so aware of how thin wooden doors really were.
The thuds grew louder. Then stopped. Silence pressed against their ears.
Minutes dragged. Then came a new sound: shuffling footsteps fading into the night. The figure had moved on.
Only then did Alex breathe again. His father sank onto a crate, sweat running down his temples. His mother muttered prayers under her breath.
Alex sat, mind whirling. He remembered the gas station—the man attacking that woman. The screaming videos online. Now the creature outside their home. This wasn't any random sickness. This was spreading, and it wasn't slowing down.
He whispered, "It's just the begining."
They stayed in the basement for hours. None of them slept. The shortwave radio Alex had found earlier crackled faintly as he fiddled with knobs. Static, bursts of broken voices, but nothing clear. Once though, he caught a phrase:
"…containment failed… stay indoors…"
Then static swallowed it again.
By dawn, his parents were pale and exhausted. Alex decided they needed a plan. Survival wasn't about waiting—it was about acting.
"Listen," he said. "We can't count on the government fixing this soon. If last night's screams mean anything, the town's already bad. We need to make this place self-sufficient."
His father raised an eyebrow. "Self-sufficient?"
"Food, water, security. We can't depend on running to stores every week. We'll stock up now while we can. Reinforce the house. And if things really fall apart—we'll be ready."
His mother wrung her hands. "You sound like one of those doomsday preppers."
He met her gaze steadily. "Maybe they had the right idea all along."
After breakfast—dry toast and jam—they set about preparing. Alex inventoried the pantry: four months of staples if rationed carefully. Not bad, but not enough if this crisis lasted years. He made lists in a battered notebook:
Food: canned goods, rice, beans, salt, cooking oil.
Water: more bottled supply, barrels for storage.
Medical: bandages, antibiotics, painkillers.
Tools: nails, screws, lumber, axes, knives.
Defense: anything sharp, heavy, or—if possible—firearms.
He tore the page out and folded it into his pocket.
Then he inspected the house itself. Doors were strong but windows vulnerable. He imagined boards nailed across them, furniture braced against walls. The porch railing could be ripped off and used as spikes. Every corner of his brain sparked with ideas—knowledge pieced together from books he'd read about engineering, survival, even medieval fortifications.
He realized with strange clarity: all those years of reading weren't wasted. They were training.
By midday, he told his parents he'd drive into town.
His mother protested immediately. "No. It's too dangerous."
"I'll be quick," he promised. "We need supplies. If we wait any longer, shelves will be empty. I'll take the van and be back before sundown."
His father looked at him a long time, then finally said, "Be careful, son." He pressed the baseball bat into Alex's hands. "Take this. Better than nothing."
The wood felt solid, reassuring, in Alex's grip. He nodded.
The drive toward town felt surreal. The road was eerily empty—no tractors, no kids on bikes. Houses he passed looked shuttered, curtains drawn tight. Once, he saw a smear of blood across the pavement, drying in the sun.
As he drove closer to town, signs of panic emerged. A car sat abandoned in a ditch, doors wide open. A grocery store parking lot was jammed with vehicles, horns blaring as people fought for spots. Alex parked down the street and approached cautiously.
Inside the store, chaos reigned. Shelves half-stripped. People cursing. A man shoving a cart piled with bottled water. A woman clutching canned soup like treasure. The air stank of sweat and fear.
Alex grabbed what he could: beans, rice, pasta, first-aid kits, lighters. He stuffed them into two duffel bags. At the pharmacy aisle, he snagged aspirin and antiseptic. Every second felt like a countdown.
Then he heard it.
A shriek.
Not human—at least, not fully. Shoppers froze. At the far end of the store, a figure barreled through the sliding doors, clothes torn, jaw smeared red. It leapt onto a man, tearing at his throat before anyone could react.
Screams erupted. People fled, knocking over displays, crashing into each other. The creature raised its head, eyes wild, mouth dripping. Suddenly it spotted Alex. The creature lunged at him.
Adrenaline surged. Alex swung the old bat. The wood connected with the thing's face in a sickening crunch. It staggered but didn't fall. It lunged again, arms outstretched. Alex swung even harder, slamming the bat into its temple. This time it collapsed, twitching.
Blood stained Alex's hands, hot and sticky. His stomach lurched, but survival screamed louder than nausea. He grabbed his bags and bolted for the exit.
Outside, more chaos. People fought to get into cars. Somewhere nearby, gunshots popped. Smoke curled from a building down the street. Sirens wailed, then cut off abruptly.
Alex threw the bags into his van and floored the gas. Tires squealed as he sped away, heart hammering. The chaos was left behind soon enough.
The countryside felt like another world compared to the burning town he left behind. Fields stretched quiet, as though untouched. When he reached the driveway, his parents rushed out, relief etched on their faces.
"You're back!" his mother cried, hugging him tightly despite the blood on his clothes.
"I got supplies," he said breathlessly. "Town's gone bad. Worse than I thought."
His father stared at the blood. "Did you—?"
Alex nodded once. "It was him or me."
Silence hung, heavy and grim. But beneath it was something else: resolve.
They carried the duffel bags inside. Supplies stacked higher now, but so did the reality of what they faced.
That night, as darkness fell again, Alex sat by the window with the bat across his lap. His parents slept fitfully in the basement, but he kept watch. Out there, somewhere beyond the fields, the world was collapsing.
And here, in their little house, he would make sure they survived.
No matter what it took.