Chapter 2: No One Is Coming
The footsteps didn't sound human.
That was the first thing Brian understood.
They weren't steady. They didn't hesitate. They scraped and slapped against the stairs in a way that made his skin crawl, like something dragging parts of itself it didn't care about.
"Okay," Brian whispered. "Okay, okay, okay."
He pushed himself up from the stairs, legs screaming in protest, and staggered toward the nearest door. Apartment 3B. The paint was peeling. The lock looked old.
"Please," he muttered, twisting the handle.
Locked.
The footsteps were closer now. Too close.
Brian lunged for the next door. 3C. He slammed his shoulder into it once, twice—
"Open!" he hissed. "Open, open—"
The lock gave with a crack. The door flew inward, and Brian fell into darkness, rolling hard across the floor. He scrambled up, slammed the door shut, and shoved his full weight against it just as something hit the other side.
The impact rattled the hinges.
Brian clamped a hand over his mouth.
For a moment, there was only heavy, wet breathing on the other side of the door. A low, gurgling sound, like someone choking slowly.
"Go away," Brian whispered. "Please just—go away."
The doorknob twisted.
Once.
Twice.
Then the sound stopped.
Brian waited. Counted his breaths. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.
Nothing.
He slid down until his back hit the door, knees pulled to his chest. His whole body shook, adrenaline burning out and leaving him hollow.
The apartment smelled like dust and old fabric. He squinted, letting his eyes adjust. Moonlight leaked in through a narrow window, revealing a cramped living room. Couch. Coffee table. A stack of books knocked over like someone had left in a hurry.
"Hello?" Brian said softly.
No answer.
He stood, moving carefully, every step deliberate. He checked the kitchen first—empty. No blood. No bodies. He peeked into the bedroom.
Still empty.
The bathroom mirror caught his reflection. He looked… wrong. Pale. Eyes too wide. His hoodie was smeared with grime he didn't remember earning.
He laughed once, quietly. "You look great, man."
The laugh died quickly.
Brian locked the apartment door, then dragged the couch across it, muscles straining. The scrape felt too loud, but nothing answered from the hallway.
He sank onto the floor, back against the couch, phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline.
No signal.
"Of course," he muttered. "Why would that work?"
He tried anyway. Mom. Nothing. Mark. Nothing.
He opened social media. Posts loaded halfway, frozen like broken windows into other people's panic.
WHAT IS HAPPENING??
People are attacking each other downtown
Is this a prank??
A video thumbnail flickered—someone screaming, camera shaking violently—then disappeared as the app crashed.
Brian exhaled slowly through his nose. "Okay. New rule," he said to the empty room. "We don't scroll anymore."
His stomach growled, loud and traitorous.
"Really?" he whispered. "Now?"
He checked the kitchen cabinets. Half a loaf of bread. A jar of peanut butter. Two bottles of water.
"Dinner of champions," Brian said, holding up the jar.
He ate slowly, forcing himself not to inhale everything at once. His hands shook so badly he dropped crumbs all over the counter.
A distant gunshot echoed through the city.
Then another.
Then screaming.
Brian froze, chewing forgotten. He turned toward the window. The street below was chaos—people running, cars abandoned at odd angles, someone slamming on a horn over and over like it might summon order back into existence.
A man tripped. Fell.
Someone jumped on him.
Brian stepped back from the window.
"Nope," he said quietly. "Nope."
He paced the apartment, restless energy buzzing under his skin. Sitting still felt dangerous, like the world might notice him if he did.
"Think," he told himself. "Just think."
He needed supplies. Food. Water. A weapon—no, not a weapon. Protection. Something.
A memory surfaced uninvited. His dad, years ago, rummaging through a closet.
Always keep something heavy near the door, his dad had said. Just in case.
Brian scanned the apartment again. He grabbed a metal lamp from beside the couch, testing its weight. Not great, but better than nothing.
He jumped at a sudden knock.
"Hello?" a voice called from the hallway. Female. Shaky. "Is someone in there?"
Brian's heart slammed against his ribs.
"Don't answer," he whispered to himself.
The knock came again. Louder.
"Please," the woman said. "I'm hurt."
Brian squeezed his eyes shut.
Don't help anyone who looks hurt.
Mark's voice echoed in his head.
"I—I can call for help," Brian said, hating how weak it sounded.
"There's no signal," the woman replied immediately.
Too immediately.
Brian's grip tightened on the lamp.
"Go downstairs," he said. "There are other apartments."
Silence.
Then a soft laugh.
The sound was wrong. Too empty.
Brian backed away from the door as something slammed against it with bone-rattling force. Once. Twice. A third time that cracked the frame.
He ran.
He burst out the fire exit onto the roof, lungs burning as cold night air slammed into him. The city sprawled out below, a sea of flickering lights and smoke plumes rising like dark fingers.
Sirens wailed endlessly, overlapping until they blurred into a single, endless scream.
Brian staggered to the edge, hands braced on the ledge. His whole body felt too small for what he was seeing.
"This can't be everywhere," he whispered. "It can't."
A helicopter roared overhead, spotlight sweeping across rooftops. For one hopeful second, Brian raised his arm.
The light passed over him without slowing.
The helicopter disappeared into the smoke.
Brian laughed again, this time harsher. "Right. Of course."
He stayed on the roof until the cold sank into his bones, until the sounds below shifted from panic to something darker—growls, crashes, the wet thud of bodies hitting concrete.
He climbed down through the fire escape on the opposite side, dropping into an alley that reeked of rot and spilled garbage. He moved fast, sticking to shadows, flinching at every sound.
A radio crackled somewhere nearby.
"…containment failure… repeat, containment failure…"
Brian followed the sound, heart pounding. The radio lay in the gutter beside a police cruiser, its door hanging open. Blood smeared the pavement.
He crouched, listening.
"…avoid all contact… infected show extreme aggression…"
"Infected," Brian murmured. "So that's what we're calling them."
The radio hissed, then went dead.
Brian straightened slowly.
A shape lurched out from behind the cruiser.
Its head lolled at an unnatural angle. Its uniform was torn, badge hanging by a thread. Its eyes locked onto Brian with single-minded hunger.
"Oh no," Brian whispered.
The infected lunged.
Brian turned and ran, feet pounding pavement as he bolted down the alley, the sound of pursuit close behind him—too close.
He burst onto the main street, dodging abandoned cars, heart in his throat. His foot caught on something, and he stumbled, nearly falling.
The infected was on him in an instant.
Brian swung the lamp with everything he had.
Metal met skull with a sickening crack.
The infected collapsed at his feet, twitching.
Brian stood over it, gasping, lamp slipping from numb fingers. He stared at the body, waiting for it to move again.
It didn't.
Brian backed away slowly, bile rising in his throat.
"I'm sorry," he said to no one. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
A chorus of growls answered him from the darkness ahead.
Shapes emerged between the cars. Three. Five. More.
Brian turned and ran again, the city stretching endlessly before him, nowhere safe, nowhere quiet—
And no one coming to help.
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End of Chapter 2