University of Washington, Seattle.
October 17, 9:12 a.m.
Rain slanted across the gray campus courtyard like needles. Students hurried between buildings, clutching coffee cups and umbrellas that bent in the wind. The world still looked normal, but the air felt heavier than it should.
Inside Lecture Hall B, Christoph Hale sat near the middle row, notebook half-filled, mind half-present. He wasn't thinking about virology or medical ethics. He was thinking about dropping out.
The professor's voice echoed from the front.
"Remember, everyone, the midterm will focus on neurological decay and viral pathogenesis."
He clicked through slides showing brain scans, lesions, and a headline that read:
"Unknown flu strain spreads through Pacific Northwest CDC monitoring."
Christoph's pen stopped.
A chill ran down his spine.
He'd seen the same article last night on social media, but this time, it wasn't just numbers. Someone had posted a video of a hospital hallway, screams, and a doctor saying "they won't die."
A cough broke the silence.
Someone in the front row, a tall athlete, doubled over, hacking wetly into his sleeve. The professor frowned.
"Mr. Lang, are you all right?"
No answer.
Blood splattered on the desk.
The class froze.
"Someone call campus security!" the professor barked, rushing forward, but the moment he reached out, Lang's head snapped up.
His eyes were milky. His jaw slackened.
Then he lunged.
Desks toppled. Screams cut through the air like glass. Christoph stumbled backward as the infected student tackled the professor, tearing into his throat with a guttural snarl.
Blood sprayed across the projector screen, staining the word Pathogenesis in red.
Panic. Shoving. People running in every direction.
Christoph grabbed his backpack, heart slamming in his chest. He pushed through the doors as alarms blared through the hallways.
"This is not a drill. Campus lockdown in effect. Shelter in place."
He ran.
Corridors blurred past him, bodies, blood, chaos.
A girl tripped beside him; he pulled her up without thinking.
"Are you okay?"
"I think so. What's happening?"
"I don't know."
They turned a corner and froze.
Through the glass doors, dozens of students were pounding, screaming to be let in before one of them was pulled down, swallowed by a tide of others tearing flesh apart.
The world was ending.
Christoph's breath fogged against the door. "Jesus Christ…"
The girl beside him sobbed.
"Stay close," he whispered. "We need to find a way out."
10:03 a.m.
The campus courtyard was unrecognizable. Smoke, overturned cars, shattered windows. Helicopters thundered overhead, their megaphones blaring orders no one followed.
Christoph and the girl, whose name he still didn't know, darted behind a statue as gunfire echoed near the library.
He fumbled for his phone. No signal.
But one notification glowed on the screen: Emergency Broadcast System Alert.
STAY INDOORS. DO NOT APPROACH THE INFECTED. AVOID CONTACT WITH BLOOD.
Then another line appeared.
OUTBREAK CONFIRMED. NATIONAL EMERGENCY DECLARED.
His stomach turned.
"What the hell…" he whispered.
A sound behind them made him turn, and that's when he saw her for the first time.
Elara Quinn, camera in hand, eyes wide, blood on her cheek.
"Are you recording this?" Christoph hissed.
She nodded shakily. "I'm documenting. I'm with the journalism department."
"Turn it off. You'll get yourself killed."
"People need to see what's happening."
"People need to survive what's happening."
A scream cut through their argument.
The girl from earlier had run into the open.
Christoph moved before he could think.
"Stay here!" he shouted to Elara.
He sprinted across the courtyard as infected bodies closed in, vaulting over a bench, grabbing the girl's arm and dragging her back toward cover.
Then a soldier shouted from the roof of a building,
"Everyone down! Quarantine in effect! Don't move!"
The infected didn't listen.
Bullets tore through them, bodies collapsing in twitching heaps.
Blood misted the air.
Christoph ducked behind a car, shaking, ears ringing.
He looked at Elara. She was still filming, even as the world burned behind her.
"Why are you doing this?" he demanded.
She lowered the camera slowly. Her eyes, steady and heartbreakingly calm, met his.
"Because if no one remembers what happens here," she said softly, "then none of this will mean anything."
A helicopter screamed overhead. The ground shook. A gas explosion turned the engineering building into fire and glass.
Christoph shielded her as the shockwave hit.
Sirens wailed. Smoke blotted out the sun.
And in that moment, as the city of Seattle burned around him, Christoph realized something.
He wasn't a student anymore.
He was a survivor.
And this was only the first day.