I arrived on the rooftop, the heavy metal door clanging shut behind me. No one was here.
Perfect. I needed the silence.
I leaned my weight against the rusted railing and looked down at the sprawling landscape of the city. It never stopped; it was a machine that was always moving, always humming. It was alive, but in a cold, artificial way that made my skin crawl.
I let out a long, jagged sigh. I was just another gear in that machine, wasn't I?
Right after graduation, I had stepped into this cycle. It had been three years of the same grey rhythm. I woke up, forced down breakfast, and ran. I'd grab something for lunch on the way, arrive at this glass-and-steel cage, and work until my eyes burned. I spent my afternoons listening to the verbal sewage spewed by a mannerless beast I was forced to call a "boss." Then, I'd return to my small apartment, eat something unmemorable, and sleep. My colorless life continued, day after day, in this artificial city.
I reached into the crinkled paper bag and pulled out a burger. "Sorry, buddy," I muttered to the sandwich. "You're my lunch today. I know you were constructed in a careful, artistic way, but I need to consume you now. Your sacrifice will give me enough energy to survive until dinner. Rest in peace....in my stomach."
As I opened my mouth to take a bite, a thought knocked on the back of my mind.
Is this a sacrifice?
Mr. Burger never agreed to be my lunch. He was forced into this destiny. He had no choice. This wasn't a noble sacrifice at all. It was murder, cold-blooded, empty-stomach murder. Mr. Burger was a victim, created solely to be eaten alive. Poor guy.
My extraordinarily important philosophical debate was shattered by a sudden, violent roar of noise from the street below. High-pitched screams began to puncture the hum of the city.
Another accident? I leaned further over the railing to see.
A man was lying in the middle of the street, but he wasn't alone. Another man, one filled with a terrifying, animalistic rage, was pinned on top of him, his teeth buried in the first man's shoulder. A crowd had gathered, people shouting and trying to pull the aggressor away. The commotion had already caused a massive traffic jam; cars honked and people leaned out of windows, oblivious to the horror unfolding.
The rage-filled man suddenly lunged, snapping at a woman who was trying to help. The original victim on the ground was suffering, his body twisting in a series of grotesque, unnatural spasms. Then, with a suddenness that made my stomach drop, the victim stopped twitching. He flipped over and instantly attacked the person closest to him.
Chaos exploded like a bomb. People started running in every direction. Every person who was bitten seemed to turn within seconds, their bodies contorting as they dropped to the ground. They weren't running like humans anymore; they were moving on four limbs, scuttling like predatory insects. Two of those rage-filled things....those Crawlers burst through the glass lobby doors of my office building.
My senses finally returned.
The door!
I sprinted across the rooftop, my heart hammering against my ribs, and slammed the heavy door shut, throwing the bolt just as a muffled scream echoed from the stairwell below.
A zombie apocalypse? Now?
I hadn't even had the chance to buy a car yet. I was going to die in my work clothes because of a biological glitch.
The screaming inside the building started loud, a chorus of terror and tearing flesh. But I didn't move a muscle. I sat with my back against the rooftop door, hearing screaming and the noises of footsteps in down floor.
The human screams faded into a sickening silence, replaced only by the dry, clicking noises of the monsters. I stood up and looked back down at the street. The horror was total. The city was no longer moving; it was being hunted. Those things were everywhere, scuttling on all four limbs, their heads twitching as they searched for anything left alive. Blood was painted across the pavement in dark, jagged streaks. Everything I knew was destroyed.
I pulled out my phone, turning the volume to the absolute lowest setting. I was terrified the Crawlers might be sensitive to sound. The news reporters were frantic, talking about an unknown virus. They said it was highly infectious, traveling through blood and saliva. They could admit you to their "fan club" with just one bite.
I sat back down and ate half of my burger. It tasted like ash, but I needed the fuel.
Suddenly, my phone started ringing in my hand. I startled so violently I almost dropped it over the edge. I held my breath, hearing the sound of claws scuttling on the floor beneath the door. They had no idea I was up here yet, but the ringtone sounded like a siren in the silence.
It was a video call from my parents. They were in another country, thousands of miles away from this madness.
I answered, keeping my voice a trembling whisper. They were safe there, the news hadn't reached them yet, or the virus hadn't crossed the ocean. They were worried about me, sensing something was wrong. I forced a smile, assuring them I was okay, that I was just working late.
"I have to go, I love you," I whispered, cutting the call quickly. I had to save my battery. It was my only lifeline left.
As night fell over the burning city, I ate the other half of the burger in the dark.
In the morning, the air was cold and smelled of smoke and that sweet, chemical rot of starvation. I gathered my courage. I couldn't stay on this roof forever.
Using the parkour skills I'd practiced during my college years, back when I had dreams beyond a cubicle, I began my descent. I didn't use the stairs. Instead, I moved along the ledge, dropping to balconies and gripping onto concrete overhangs. I moved like a shadow, avoiding the Crawlers that were huddled in the shaded corners of the alleyways.
I navigated the ruins of the neighborhood, my heart stopping every time a piece of glass crunched under my boot. Finally, I reached my apartment building. I slipped through the window of my own unit, sliding onto the floor and letting out a breath I felt like I'd been holding for eighteen hours.
But I wasn't alone.
A woman was standing in the center of my living room. She was wearing a vibrant yellow top that seemed to glow in the dim light, and her auburn hair was a messy, fiery crown around her pale face. She didn't look relieved to see me.
She pointed a kitchen knife directly at my throat, her hand steady despite the fear in her eyes.
"Hey," she rasped, her voice sharp. "Are you bitten?"