The lecture hall at the University of Bedfordshire was too warm, too full, and too noisy. Barry Quell sat somewhere near the back, slouched in his chair with his chin resting on one hand. The lights buzzed overhead. Rows of students filled the large, wide room, tapping at phones, whispering, or staring blankly toward the front. Most didn't care about the lecture, and Barry wasn't much better.
He had planned to listen. He really had. The professor was saying something about human societies and change over time, but Barry hadn't caught more than a few words. His head felt foggy, and his bladder had been begging for release since the middle of the last slide. He shifted again in his seat and sighed.
The room smelled like floor polish and body spray. Someone nearby had brought in food, and the greasy smell of chips and curry clung to the air. A few people at the front actually seemed interested in the lecture, scribbling notes. Barry couldn't understand how they managed.
He looked to the side and saw Jamie, a classmate he barely knew, get up and leave. Jamie always wore the same navy hoodie, even when it was warm, and had a slow way of walking that made him easy to notice. Barry didn't think much of it. People were always leaving lectures early.
He raised his hand halfway, hesitated, then dropped it and stood up. No one paid attention. He gave a few quiet "sorry"s as he passed people's knees, stepping carefully over bags and the stretched-out legs of someone who had fallen asleep. His trainers squeaked faintly on the floor.
Outside the lecture hall, the corridor felt cooler. The air smelled of disinfectant and something else faint and stale. Bright lights buzzed quietly above, and the floor had that over-waxed shine that made him walk slower. A cleaner was wheeling a yellow bucket past him. She gave him a small nod but didn't speak. Barry gave a weak smile back.
He followed the familiar path, past two vending machines and a notice board, then turned the corner. The door to the men's toilet creaked a little as he pushed it open. The room was empty, or at least it seemed to be at first.
As he stepped inside, he saw Jamie's familiar hoodie and trainers beneath one of the stalls. Barry remembered now—he had left just before him. Barry picked a stall at the end, shut the door, and sighed in relief.
'Finally,' he thought.
The quiet was nice. The only sounds were the low hum of the overhead light and Jamie's soft humming from the other stall. Barry stared at the graffiti scratched into the metal door. Most of it was dumb stuff, bad jokes or numbers with "call me" beside them. One scribble said "I dropped out here," with a small drawing of a sad face next to it.
Barry chuckled softly and shook his head.
When he was nearly done, he froze. A sound cut through the silence—a heavy thud, followed by a soft grunt. Not like someone speaking. More like something struggling. He paused and listened.
Another groan followed, louder and rougher. Then came silence.
"Jamie?" Barry said.
He pulled up his trousers quickly, flushed, and stepped out of the stall. He looked around. Everything looked normal at first. Jamie's stall door was wide open now.
Then he saw him.
Jamie stood by the sinks, hunched over. His face looked pale, not sick pale, but deathly pale—like he'd been drained of blood. His mouth was slightly open, and his eyes were wide and glassy. He stared at nothing.
Barry took a slow step forward.
"Are you alright?"
Jamie didn't answer.
"Mate?"
Suddenly, Jamie rushed at him.
Barry didn't even have time to raise his arms before Jamie's teeth sank into his forearm. Sharp and deep, the pain should have been unbearable, but it felt… dull. Barry let out a yell and shoved him away. Jamie didn't budge at first. The boy had surprising strength. They slammed into a sink, and the force of it sent Barry's back jolting.
He flailed, trying to get loose, punching Jamie's shoulder, twisting his body, doing anything he could to break the grip.
Then, with a crash, the bathroom window exploded.
Glass flew. Something small, fast, and unseen rushed in. Barry gasped. It flew straight into his mouth. He didn't see it. He didn't taste it. But it was cold and sharp and went straight down his throat. He choked and stumbled back.
He barely had time to understand what happened.
Jamie tried to bite him again. Barry kicked him hard in the stomach and managed to push him away. He dove into the stall he'd used earlier, slammed the door, and locked it.
His heart pounded. His breaths came in sharp bursts. He looked down at his arm. The bite was deep, blood dripping down in fat, slow drops.
But it didn't hurt.
'That… should really hurt,' he thought.
He stared at it. His head felt light. His legs trembled.
'It's not just shock. That bite should be burning. Why isn't it burning?'
He leaned against the wall. Jamie's shadow passed just outside the gap beneath the door. The boy didn't say anything. He didn't groan again. He just stood.
Barry closed his eyes.
He didn't want to think. He didn't want to understand.
And then, everything went dark.
---
Outside the toilet, the cleaner had moved on. The corridor was still quiet, but the quiet felt heavier now.
In the lecture hall, a few students started whispering. One of them was checking the news on her phone.
"Something's going on in town," she said.
Another person looked over. "What do you mean?"
"People are screaming… and… there's something about the police not answering."
Someone laughed, not taking it seriously.
But the girl didn't laugh back.
Back in the stall, Barry lay still on the cold tile. His arm bled less than it should have. His heart slowed, then picked up again.
He didn't wake. Not yet.
And outside, the world kept turning. But not like it had before.