The living room felt smaller with the news still buzzing in the background, the reporter's voice cutting through the silence like a dull blade. Outside, the sky was heavy with late-afternoon heat, but the streets seemed strangely empty, as though the whole town was holding its breath.
Tom stood in the doorway, keys dangling from his hand, his face pale but determined. "Logan," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Get in the car. Go find your brother's friends. Bring them here. If this thing spreads—if it's worse than they're saying—we're not waiting to see what happens."
Logan straightened, already grabbing his pack from beside the couch. "On it." He looked to Ethan. "You're coming with me."
Ethan's chest tightened. "What? Why me?"
"Because you know where they'll be," Logan snapped. His voice softened a fraction. "And because if something happens, I want you where I can see you."
Ethan hesitated, then nodded. "Fine. Let's go."
Tom tossed the keys. Logan caught them one-handed and strode toward the door. Linda placed a hand on Ethan's arm, worry carving lines deeper into her face. "Be careful. Don't take chances. Just… bring them home."
"I will," Ethan promised, though his voice wavered.
The old pickup coughed to life, the engine loud in the uneasy silence of the neighborhood. As they pulled out of the driveway, Ethan glanced at the houses they passed. Curtains twitched. A few doors were left ajar. Somewhere, a dog barked relentlessly, the sound cutting off too suddenly.
"Where first?" Logan asked, eyes scanning the road.
"Maya's," Ethan said quickly. "She's closest."
They drove through town, past the gas station where two men argued loudly by the pumps, past the corner store where shelves looked half-empty already. People were moving fast, anxious, like they felt something no one wanted to say out loud.
When they pulled up to Maya's house, she was already on the porch, bat in hand, a backpack at her feet. Her dark eyes locked on the truck, and she hurried forward.
"About time," she said, yanking open the door and climbing in. "You guys saw the news?"
"We saw it," Logan said flatly, shifting the truck into gear again.
"Good," she muttered. "Then you know this isn't just some flu. People are freaking out. Dylan texted me—he said he saw someone collapse at the gas station. Their skin was gray, Ethan. Gray."
Ethan's stomach churned. "Where's Dylan now?"
"With Marcus, down by the basketball courts. Said Cassie was sketching there too."
"Then that's where we're going," Logan said, pressing the gas.
The truck roared down the road, the world outside seeming less and less like the town they knew. People rushed into stores, sirens wailed in the distance, and one figure—just a blur—stumbled into the street ahead of them, moving strangely, like every bone was out of place.
Logan swerved hard, heart hammering. "What the hell was that?"
The figure turned its head as they passed. Its mouth hung open, jaw slack, eyes clouded white. Ethan's breath caught in his throat.
"Logan…" he whispered. "That wasn't—"
"I saw it," Logan cut in, jaw tight. He pressed harder on the gas. "No stopping. We get the others. Then we go home. No matter what."
The truck sped toward the basketball courts, the sun sinking low in the sky, and the world they knew slipped further into shadow.