Black Skies Over Davao
The rain began on a Wednesday.
No warning. No thunder. Just the soft, sticky patter of dark droplets hitting the rooftops of Davao City — warm, quiet, and completely unnatural.
Elian "Eli" Seyvier Navarro stood by the side entrance of Southern Mindanao Medical Center, half-covered by the dormitory awning. His shift had just ended — a draining 36 hours filled with multiple dengue patients, one stab case with profuse bleeding, and a child who almost didn't make it through the night. He should've gone straight to sleep. But something in the air made him pause.
The sky wasn't right.
The clouds above weren't the usual steel-gray of an incoming monsoon. They were darker — thicker, like smoke and ink had mixed. They didn't roll across the horizon. They hung over the city like a curtain pulled tight.
Then came the rain.
Not clear. Not even dirty.Black. Just pure black rain.
It hit the concrete with an oily splatter, pooling into dark streaks that shimmered faintly in the light. Elian instinctively raised a gloved hand and caught a drop.
Thicker than water. It acted almost like syrup. And it smelled faintly metallic, like rust mixed with burning rubber.
That's not rain.
He didn't have time to dwell on it.
"Mr. Elian!"The voice came from the ER entrance. Dr. Rosales, a third-year surgery resident."We've got seizures and aggressive patients in the ER! One of them bit a nurse—he's not stopping!"
A chill ran down Eli's spine.
He quickly disposed of the glove into the biohazard bin, wiped his hands on his scrub pants, and ran inside. The white hallways of the hospital, once sterile and busy, now echoed with screams and the distant sound of glass breaking.
He froze at the ER entrance.
It was pure chaos.
Multiple patients were convulsing on the floor, limbs jerking violently, eyes rolling. A man with pitch-black eyes lunged at an intern and sank his teeth into the poor guy's shoulder. Someone knocked over a medicine cart while trying to escape.
Two nurses were trying to restrain a woman who had torn out her IV and was trying to crawl up the wall — her veins bulging, her skin an unnatural shade of grey. Blood smeared all across the floor.
This isn't an outbreak. This is something else.
His legs refused to move. He was rooted to the floor, heart pounding, brain short-circuiting.
Then a voice in his head — firm, low, familiar.
You trained for this. Move. Panic is the enemy. Act.
His father's voice.
Eli blinked, forced air into his lungs, and moved. He couldn't save everyone. Not now. But he could get out and maybe bring help later.
A scream snapped his attention to the triage desk. A patient, or whatever that thing used to be, had tackled a security guard. The guard's baton rolled toward Elian, stopping short of his foot.
He grabbed it without thinking.
It was heavy and familiar, a cold comfort in the madness.
Another hallway ahead was partially barricaded with overturned gurneys and stretchers. He sprinted through it, adrenaline pumping, weaving through shadows and overturned trays. Someone grabbed his leg from under a curtain — he struck out with the baton, not stopping to look back.
The stairwell was clear. He slammed the door behind him and started climbing, two steps at a time.
By the time he reached the rooftop of the dorms, night was falling.
Davao City was burning.
He leaned against the rusted railing, chest heaving, knuckles white on the baton. Below, he could hear screams, sirens, and distant gunfire. Columns of black smoke rose from the city's heart. The power was already going out block by block across the city.
He was alone.
Some of the others — the interns, the nurses, the guard — maybe they had escaped too. Maybe not. He hadn't seen them again since the hallway.
He wondered if that intern — the one who got bit, had he made it out?The kid's name was Louie. Or was it Lance? Damn it, he couldn't remember.But he remembered the scream.
He paced around the rooftop, trying to steady his breathing. He needed to regroup — needed to be smarter, sharper. He clutched the baton in his right hand, but it wasn't enough. Not for whatever this was.
His eyes scanned the area. A broken mop handle lay near the rooftop's maintenance closet, half-splintered but solid.
He grabbed it and gave it a few test swings.
Too light! The balance was off. But it would do for now.
One baton was good. But two? That was balance. Flow. The kind of rhythm was drilled into him with every weekend sparring match his father made him endure.
He always fought better with two weapons. It was muscle memory by now — a rhythm his body knew better than his brain. Kali, Arnis — things his father had drilled into him every weekend growing up.
He adjusted his grip, feeling the weight of the stick and baton together. One in each hand. It felt… right.
Not safe.But familiar.
He set the weapons beside him and sat back against the wall, staring out over the burning city.
The world had changed. And tomorrow, he would need more than just instinct to survive.
He closed his eyes, just for a moment, listening to the rain taper off.
This is just the beginning.
.