The morning sun sliced through the bedroom curtains, painting golden lines across the rumpled sheets. Jimmy blinked awake, reaching automatically for Ashley's side of the bed. Empty. Warm, but empty.
He found her in the kitchen, already dressed in her pale blue scrubs, pouring coffee into a travel mug. She looked up when he walked in and managed a tired smile.
"Didn't want to wake you. You were sawing logs pretty good."
Jimmy ran a hand through his hair, still half asleep. "What time is it?"
"Almost seven. I'm late, actually." She kissed him quick, already heading for the door. "Dr. Chen is doing some big Panacea presentation this morning. Wants all hands on deck. I'll call you later."
The door clicked shut behind her. Jimmy stood in the kitchen, listening to her Honda Civic start up and pull away.
Something nagged at him. A splinter of unease he couldn't name.
He shook it off, poured himself coffee, and headed for the garage.
The Suburban sat on its jack stands, waiting. Four massive steel posts holding three tons of American iron suspended in the air like a museum piece. Jimmy ran his hand along the fender, a ritual, a reassurance. The dual fuel system was spread across his workbench in pieces. Lines, valves, fittings, the secondary tank still needed to be plumbed. Another day of work, maybe 2 and it would be done.
His phone buzzed on the workbench. He ignored it. Another buzz. Then another.
He picked it up, frowning at the screen.
Ashley (7:31 AM): Traffic's weird. Almost no one on the road. Did I get the time wrong?
Ashley (7:33 AM): Jen just texted me. She said something's happening in the ICU. Patients are acting strange. Not violent, just... vacant. Like they're waiting for something.
Ashley (7:36 AM): Jim, there's a woman in the waiting room. She's just standing there. Won't respond to anyone. Her eyes are open but she's not blinking.
Ashley (7:41 AM): They're clearing the floor. Security is here. I'm in the break room. I don't know what's happening.
Ashley (7:44 AM): One of the patients just bit an orderly. Not a nip. He tore a chunk out of his arm. He won't stop. There's blood everywhere. Why won't he stop?
Ashley (7:46 AM): They sedated him. He's on the floor. He's still awake. His eyes are open and he's looking at the ceiling and he won't blink. Jim, he won't blink.
Ashley (7:49 AM): Don't come here. Whatever you do, don't come here. I love you.
Jimmy stared at the screen. The coffee in his hand went cold.
He called her. The call failed. He called again. Failed. He called the hospital's main line. A recording: "All circuits are currently busy. Please try your call again later."
He grabbed the remote for the garage TV mounted on the wall and flicked it on. Local news. A blonde anchor with perfect hair and wide eyes.
"-reports of violence at multiple area hospitals. Authorities are urging residents to avoid medical facilities and remain indoors. We're getting unconfirmed reports of attacks, which witnesses are describing as 'biting incidents' at Westview General, Mercy hospital, and St. Luke's Medical Center. Again, authorities are urging-"
The screen split to show live footage. A reporter standing outside a hospital, police cars flashing behind her. Then the shot widened, and Jimmy saw them. People in the background, stumbling out of the emergency entrance. Their movements were wrong. Stiff. Mechanical. One of them fell, got up, kept moving. Another grabbed a police officer who was trying to hold them back. The officer screamed. The camera cut away.
Jimmy started at the fuel system spread across the workbench. Lines and valves and fittings. Hours of work left. Hours he didn't have.
He grabbed his phone and called Nick.
"Jimmy, tell me you're seeing this shit." Nick's voice was tight, controlled. professional. The voice of a guy who ran a construction company and had seen things go sideways before.
"I'm seeing it. Ashley's at Westview. She texted me. People are biting. Turning. She said don't come."
"Are you going?"
"The Suburban's not ready. Fuel system's half apart on my bench. I need help. How fast can you get here?"
"Ten minutes. Maybe less. I'm on my way."
"Nick. Bring tools. And whatever you've got in your truck. Water, food, anything. We're not just fixing a truck. We're getting ready for something worse."
A pause. Then nick's voice, quieter: "Jimmy. What if you're wrong?"
"I hope I'm wrong. I really fucking hope I'm wrong. But if I'm right, and we're not ready, Ashley dies. We die. I'm not taking that chance."
"Okay. Ten minutes."
The call ended. Jimmy grabbed the fuel system diagrams and started working.
Nick made it in eight minutes.
His company truck squealed into the driveway, and he was out before the engine finished dying. He'd changed somewhere between his place and here. Jeans and a work shirt instead of his usual sit clothes. His truck bed was loaded with camping gear, a gas can, and a toolbox big enough to build a house.
"Grabbed what I could," he said, already heading for the garage. "What do we need to do?"
Jimmy pointed at the workbench. "Secondary fuel tank needs to be plumbed into the main line. Transfer valve, fittings, lines. I've got everything laid out, but it's a two-person job to run the lines under the chassis."
Nick looked at the mess of parts, then at the Suburban on its jack stands. "How long?"
"If we push? Two hours. Maybe less."
"We don't have two hours."
"I know. Let's move."
They worked like men possessed.
Jimmy under the truck, running lines, cursing at fittings that didn't want to seat. Nick above, handing him tools, holding things in place, checking the diagrams. Sweat poured down both of them despite the October chill. The garage TV played on mute in the background, a constant stream of chaos. More hospitals, more cities, more of those blank-eyed people stumbling and reaching and biting.
At one point, Nick glanced up at the screen and froze. "Jimmy."
Jimmy slid out from under the truck, and followed his gaze.
A city skyline he didn't recognize. Smoke rising from multiple buildings. Helicopters in the air. And in the foreground, a crowd of people, hundreds of them, moving in the same slow, mechanical shuffle, their faces blank, their arms reaching.
"That's Chicago," Nick said. "That's fucking Chicago. How is this happening everywhere at once?"
Jimmy thought about the Panacea shipments. About HELIX. About Nick's description of the facility. The hum, the pressure, the feeling of being watched.
"It was planned," he said. "Whatever this is, it was planned. They rolled it out everywhere at the same time."
"Who?"
"I don't know. But we need to finish this truck."
They went back to work.
An hour and forty-seven minutes later, Jimmy tightened the last fitting and slid out from under the Suburban.
"Done. Fuel system's live. Transfer valve works. We've got sixty gallons on board."
"Nick handed him a rag. "That's enough to get us to Canada and back."
"Canada's cold. We're going south." Jimmy grabbed the hydraulic jack. "Help me with the stands."
They lowered the Suburban together, the massive truck sitting onto its tires with a thud that shook the concrete. Jimmy threw the jack stands aside and started loading.
The black duffel from the hall closet. Water. MREs. Trauma kit. Ammunition. The 9mm in its lockbox. The AR-15 case. The pump shotgun. Boxes of shells. Extra magazines. Machete. Hatchet. Crowbar. Tool kit. Spare parts. Sleeping bags. Tents. Camp stove. First aid kits. Antibiotics. Painkillers.
Nick stared at the arsenal. "Jesus, dude. You could fight a war."
"If it comes to that." Jimmy handed him the shotgun. "You know how to use this?"
"My dad took me hunting. It's been a while."
"It'll come back. Just remember... head shots. Only head shots. Body shots won't stop them.
Nick's face went pale. "You really think that's what we're dealing with?"
Jimmy looked at the TV. At the images of people falling and rising and falling again. At the crowds of blank-eyed figures moving in lockstep.
"Yeah. I really do."
Nick jogged to his truck, opened the tailgate and transferred his bag, camping gear, a box of food, and a gallon of water into the Suburban's cargo area. He slung the shotgun in beside Jimmy's arsenal and climbed into the passenger seat.
"Ready when you are."
Jimmy fired up the Duramax and backed out of the driveway.
The street was quiet. Normal. A few cars. A woman walking her dog. A kid on a bike.
It looked like any other morning.
Jimmy drove toward the hospital, Nick beside him, both of them staring at the road ahead.