THEN
The garden had been Priya's refuge. Every morning, before the heat became unbearable, she would walk among the jasmine plants and rose bushes that lined the apartment complex's courtyard. It was her ritual, her meditation, the twenty minutes of peace before the chaos of the day began.
She'd left their daughter upstairs, still sleeping, the door locked from inside. Just twenty minutes. What could happen in twenty minutes?
The screaming started at 11:47 AM.
At first, Priya thought it was a fight. Niraya was a big city; fights happened. Domestic disputes, traffic arguments, the usual urban soundtrack. But this scream was different. Primal. Terrified in a way that made her blood run cold.
She looked up from the jasmine plant she'd been pruning.
At the far end of the courtyard, near the main gate, a woman was running. Behind her, a man pursued—but his movements were wrong, jerky, like a puppet with tangled strings. The woman stumbled, fell, and the man was on her in an instant.
Priya watched in frozen horror as he bit into the woman's shoulder. Blood sprayed. The woman's screams cut off abruptly, replaced by a wet, choking sound.
Then the woman stopped moving. For three seconds. Four.
And then she stood up.
Her eyes were white. Black veins crawled across her face like lightning scars. When she opened her mouth, the sound that came out wasn't human.
More of them appeared. Stumbling out of the building, pouring in through the gate. The security guard—kind old Ramesh who always snuck candy to the children—was among them now, his uniform torn and bloodstained.
My daughter.
The thought cut through Priya's paralysis like a knife. She was upstairs. Alone. Locked in, but for how long? How long before these things figured out doors?
Priya ran.
She dodged between the infected, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might burst. One of them lunged at her. She ducked under its grasping hands, nearly falling, catching herself on the railing of the stairs. Up. She had to go up.
First floor. Second floor. Her lungs burned. Her legs screamed. Behind her, groans echoed in the stairwell, growing louder.
Third floor.
She burst through the door into the hallway and stopped dead.
An infected crouched over a body—Mrs. Desai from 3C, her face frozen in an expression of pure terror. The infected was eating. Actually eating, pulling out handfuls of meat and shoving them into its mouth with mechanical efficiency.
Priya's stomach heaved. She pressed her hand over her mouth, trying not to make a sound, trying not to look, trying not to think about Mrs. Desai's grandchildren who visited every Sunday—
The infected's head snapped up. It looked directly at her.
Priya ran again, bursting through the fire door, taking the stairs two at a time. Fourth floor. Almost there. Almost—
Something grabbed her from behind.
Cold fingers. Impossible strength. Hot breath on her neck that smelled like copper and rot. She tried to scream but couldn't find the air. Tried to fight but her arms wouldn't obey.
Teeth sank into her shoulder.
The pain was white-hot, blinding, absolute. Then it faded, replaced by something worse—a coldness spreading from the bite wound, racing through her veins like ice water.
No. No, please. My daughter. I have to—
Her thoughts scattered like frightened birds. The hallway tilted. Her vision darkened at the edges, then began to clear, but wrong, seeing everything in shades of grey except for one thing that blazed like a beacon:
Movement. Life. Warmth.
Prey.
Her last coherent thought before the virus took her completely:
I'm sorry, baby. Mama's so sorry.
NOW
"Your name?" Reyan asked, studying the man who'd saved his daughter.
The stranger lowered his knife slowly, reading Reyan's body language. "Vikram," he said. "Vikram Mehta. I lived in 7B. Two floors up."
Reyan nodded, filing away the information. A neighbour. That made sense. Sort of. "I'm Reyan. This is Samir and Taj. And... thank you. For saving my daughter. I don't know how to—"
"Don't." Vikram held up a hand. "If anyone should be thanking anyone, I should be thanking her. She saved my life."
Reyan blinked. "What?"
Vikram glanced at the girl, who was still wrapped in her blanket, watching the adults with wide, frightened eyes. "I was up in my apartment when it started. Heard the screaming, looked out the window, and saw..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "I ran. Grabbed what I could and ran. Made it down to the fifth floor before they caught up with me. I was pounding on doors, begging anyone to let me in. Your door was the only one that opened."
He looked at Reyan's daughter. "She heard me knocking. Unlocked the door. Pulled me inside and locked it again before those things could follow." A bitter smile crossed his face. "A seven-year-old saved me because I was too panicked to think straight. Some adult I am."
Reyan looked at his daughter, feeling his chest tighten. She'd been alone, terrified, and she'd still found the courage to save a stranger. "You did good, baby," he said softly. "You did so good."
"Is Mama coming home?" she asked in a small voice.
The question hung in the air like a blade. Reyan felt everyone's eyes on him. Samir and Taj looked away. Vikram suddenly found the floor very interesting.
Reyan crouched down to his daughter's level, forcing his face into something that might pass for calm. "Mama is... she's in a safer place right now, honey. She can't come home yet, but she's safe. She wanted me to tell you that she loves you very much."
"But the people outside. They're mad, right? Papa, are they mad at us?"
"They're..." Reyan swallowed hard. "They're sick, baby. Very sick. And yes, they're angry, but not at you. Never at you."
"Is Mama sick too?"
Yes. She's dead. I killed her. I drove a knife into her heart and watched her die in my arms.
"No, honey. Mama's fine. She's just... she'll come back when it's safe. I promise."
Another promise. Another lie.
His daughter seemed to accept this, nodding slowly and pulling her blanket tighter. Reyan stood, his knees creaking, and found Samir staring at him with an expression he couldn't quite read.
"We need to talk," Samir said quietly. "In the other room."
They moved to the bedroom—Reyan and Priya's bedroom, where the bed was still unmade from two days ago when the world was normal. Samir closed the door. Taj leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
"You lied to her," Samir said. Not accusing. Just stating fact.
"What was I supposed to say?" Reyan's voice was harsh, defensive. "That her mother's dead? That I had to kill her myself? She's seven years old, Samir. Seven."
"I know. But she deserves the truth."
"The truth will destroy her."
"The lie will destroy her more." Samir ran a hand through his hair, looking exhausted. "Reyan, I get it. I do. But we can't build whatever this is—" he gestured vaguely at the apartment, at the group of survivors beyond the door, "—on lies. It'll fall apart."
"Then let it fall apart later," Reyan snapped. "Right now, she needs hope. Even if it's false hope."
"And what about that guy?" Taj spoke up from the wall. "Vikram. Do we trust him?"
"He saved my daughter."
"Or he's been holed up here with her for a day and a half and we only have his word for what happened." Taj's voice was calm but pointed. "I'm not saying he's lying. I'm saying we don't know him. He could be dangerous."
"He's a survivor, just like us."
"So are the people who start eating each other when the food runs out," Samir said quietly. "We need to be careful, Reyan. About him. About everything."
Reyan wanted to argue, wanted to defend Vikram, but he couldn't. Because Samir was right. They didn't know this man. Didn't know what he'd done to survive, what lines he'd crossed.
They didn't even know each other anymore, not really. The office felt like a lifetime ago.
"Fine," Reyan said finally. "We watch him. But we don't alienate him. We need every person we can get."
"Agreed." Samir nodded. "Speaking of which—my sister. I know it's not your problem, but—"
"Stop." Reyan cut him off. "It is my problem. You came back for me. Risked your lives for me. We're finding your sister. End of discussion."
"The southside is a warzone," Taj pointed out. "We barely made it three kilometres. That's, what, eight or nine kilometres to the industrial district? Through the heart of the infection?"
"Then we plan. We prepare. We go tomorrow morning, early, while they're less active." Reyan looked between them. "You said it yourself, Taj. We're family now. And family doesn't leave people behind."
Something passed between the three of them—an understanding, a commitment. They'd survive this together or die trying.
"Tomorrow, then," Samir said. He clasped Reyan's shoulder. "Thank you, brother."
They returned to the main room. Vikram was helping Reyan's daughter drink water, patient and gentle. Maybe he was trustworthy. Maybe not. Time would tell.
"We're going out tomorrow," Reyan announced. "To find Samir's sister. Anyone who wants to come is welcome. Anyone who wants to stay and fortify this place, that's fine too."
"I'll come," Vikram said immediately. "Sitting here waiting to die isn't much of a life."
Reyan nodded. "Then we should rest. We have a long day ahead."
As the others settled in for the evening, Reyan stood by the window, looking out at the city. Smoke rose from a dozen different fires. In the distance, he could hear sirens—fewer than yesterday. Soon there would be none.
Niraya was dying. And they were just trying to survive its death throes.
ACROSS THE CITY
Ahmed sat in his stolen house, a bowl of instant noodles in his lap, watching a rerun of some comedy show on the television. The volume was turned down to barely a whisper, but he could still hear the laugh track, tinny and hollow.
He laughed along with it.
On screen, a man slipped on a banana peel. Ahmed laughed harder, tears streaming down his face.
This was it. This was all that was left. The world was ending, and he was watching slapstick comedy in a dead man's house, eating food that would run out in a week, pretending everything was fine.
The laughter died in his throat. He set down the bowl, no longer hungry.
His camera sat on the coffee table, red light blinking. Recording.
"Day three," he said to the lens, his voice flat. "The outbreak is spreading exponentially. Conservative estimates—if anyone's still making estimates—put the infection rate at eighty percent within Niraya's city limits. Ninety percent by week's end."
He picked up the bowl again, took another bite of noodles. "You're probably wondering why I'm eating. Why I'm watching TV. Why I'm not frantically working on a cure."
He smiled at the camera. It wasn't a happy smile.
"Because there is no cure. The virus was designed to be irreversible. Neural regeneration doesn't work backward. You can't un-rewrite a brain." He chewed thoughtfully. "Every scientist at Nexus knew this. We knew from day one that if anything went wrong, there would be no fixing it. We did it anyway. For the funding. For the prestige. For the chance to make history."
He laughed again, but this time it sounded broken.
"Well, we made history. Just not the way we planned." He gestured at the TV, where the comedy was still playing. "So, I'm doing what any rational person would do. I'm accepting it. They're all dead. Everyone. Your family, my family, everyone we knew. Dead or infected, which is the same thing. And we—" he pointed at the camera, "—we who are left? We're just waiting our turn."
He set down the bowl and leaned closer to the camera.
"But here's the thing. Even if I can't cure them, I can stop them. The best way to stop a virus is to eliminate the host. Kill them all. Every single infected. Burn this city to the ground if that's what it takes. Scorched earth. It's the only way to be sure."
His smile widened, and there was something manic in his eyes now.
"So that's the plan. Document. Observe. Learn their patterns. Find their weaknesses. And then..." He drew a finger across his throat. "Extinction. Theirs, not ours. Because if we're going down, we're taking them with us."
He reached forward and clicked off the camera.
Then he turned back to the TV, picked up his noodles, and laughed along with the laugh track like nothing was wrong.
Like the world wasn't ending just outside his barricaded door.
NIGHT
Reyan couldn't sleep.
He sat on the balcony—technically just a small concrete ledge with a railing—with his daughter's head resting on his lap. She'd finally dozed off an hour ago, exhausted from crying when she'd asked about her mother again. Inside, the others were sleeping too. Samir and Taj on the floor, Vikram in the chair by the door, knife still in his hand.
The city was eerily quiet. No sirens anymore. No car alarms. Just the occasional groan echoing up from the streets below, and the distant sound of glass breaking.
Then the screaming started.
A woman's voice, raw with terror, coming from somewhere in the building. The lobby, maybe, or one of the lower floors. She was begging, pleading, the words incoherent but the desperation crystal clear.
Reyan's hand moved toward the door handle. He could go down. Help her. Save her like he'd failed to save Priya.
Please, someone, please help me! Oh God, oh God, they're—
The scream cut off with a wet, gurgling sound.
Reyan's hand fell away from the door.
He couldn't help her. If he went down there, he'd die too, and then who would protect his daughter? Who would find Samir's sister? Who would keep this fragile group of survivors alive?
The woman was already dead. Going after her would just add his corpse to the pile.
He knew this. Logically, rationally, he knew this.
But the sound of her dying—the wet tearing, the crunching, the satisfied groans of the infected as they fed—would haunt him for the rest of his life. However long that might be.
He gently lifted his daughter's head, replacing his lap with a pillow. She mumbled something in her sleep but didn't wake. He stood, legs stiff, and walked to the balcony railing.
Below, in the street lit by a few surviving streetlights, he could see them. Dozens of infected, wandering aimlessly, searching for prey. Some shambled. Some ran. Some just stood perfectly still, heads tilted, as if listening to something only they could hear.
As he watched, a figure burst out of an alley—a man, living, running flat-out. Behind him, infected gave chase. But not all of them. Some of the faster ones circled around, cutting off escape routes. One darted ahead, positioning itself at the mouth of another alley.
It was coordinating. They were all coordinating.
The man didn't see the trap until it was too late. He turned into the alley—the only escape route left—and ran straight into the infected waiting there. It grabbed him, pulled him down, and the others descended like a pack of wolves.
Reyan watched the man die. Watched him get torn apart. And he felt... nothing. Just a cold, analytical observation: They're getting smarter. They're learning to hunt.
What did that make him? What kind of person watched another human being die and felt nothing?
A survivor, something dark whispered in the back of his mind. That's what you are now. Not a person. A survivor. And survivors do what they must.
He went back inside, locked the balcony door, and tried to sleep. But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was Priya's face. All he could hear was that woman screaming in the lobby.
All he could feel was the cold, creeping knowledge that he was becoming something less than human.
Ahmed turned off the TV around midnight. The comedy show had ended, replaced by static. No one was broadcasting anymore.
He walked to the bedroom—the dead doctor's bedroom—and lay down on the bed without bothering to undress. The gun was still there, the one the doctor had used. Ahmed picked it up, felt its weight, considered it.
One bullet left. One quick end to all of this.
But no. He had work to do. Data to collect. Observations to make.
And if he was being honest with himself, he wanted to see how this ended. Wanted to know if humanity would survive, or if they'd all become monsters.
He set the gun on the nightstand and closed his eyes.
Outside, the infected groaned and shuffled and learned.
Inside, Ahmed smiled in the darkness and slept like the dead.
MORNING
Reyan's eyes snapped open.
Sunlight streamed through the window. His neck ached from sleeping propped against the wall. For a moment, he didn't remember where he was, what had happened. Then it all came rushing back.
He looked around the room. Everyone was still asleep. Samir curled up on the floor near the door, one hand still gripping his pipe. Taj sprawled on the couch, mouth open, snoring softly. Vikram in the chair by the window, head tilted back. His daughter on the makeshift bed of cushions, wrapped in her blanket.
All sleeping. All safe. For now.
Reyan stood quietly, not wanting to wake them, and moved toward the balcony. His legs felt stiff, unsteady. When had he last eaten? Slept properly? He couldn't remember.
He stepped onto the balcony and looked down at the street.
Empty.
Completely, utterly empty.
No infected. No bodies. No movement at all. Just abandoned cars, scattered trash, and morning sunlight painting everything in gold. The street looked almost peaceful, like the city was just sleeping in on a lazy Sunday morning.
Reyan's heart hammered. Where had they gone? There had been dozens of them last night. He'd watched them hunt, coordinate, kill. And now—
"Papa, look!"
He turned. His daughter stood in the doorway, pointing at the empty street below.
"They're gone! The sick people are all gone!"
Relief flooded through him. "Yeah, baby. I see that."
Footsteps behind him. Samir appeared, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Reyan? Why are you—" He looked down at the street. "Holy shit. Where did they go?"
"I don't know." Reyan's voice sounded distant even to his own ears. "They were here last night. Dozens of them."
Taj joined them, squinting through his cracked glasses. "Maybe they migrated? Followed some sound?"
"All of them?" Reyan shook his head. "At once?"
"Well, they're definitely gone now." Samir leaned on the railing. "Maybe this is our window. We could get to the car while the street's clear."
"We should move fast," Taj agreed. "Before they come back."
Reyan nodded slowly. It didn't make sense, but maybe it didn't have to. Maybe this was just luck. Good luck, for once.
"I'll wake the others," Samir said, heading back inside.
Reyan stood there a moment longer, staring at the empty street. Something felt wrong. Off. But he couldn't put his finger on what.
He turned to follow Samir inside—
And froze.
Everyone was still asleep.
Samir on the floor by the door. Taj on the couch, snoring. His daughter wrapped in her blanket. Vikram in the chair.
Exactly where they'd been before.
Reyan's breath caught in his throat. He spun back to the balcony. The street was no longer empty. It was packed with infected. Dozens of them, shambling, groaning, searching. Just like last night.
His hands started shaking.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, no."
He looked back at the sleeping group. Then at the street. Then at his hands, which wouldn't stop trembling.
It hadn't been real. None of it had been real. His daughter hadn't woken up. Samir and Taj hadn't come to the balcony. The street had never been empty.
He'd been standing here alone, talking to people who weren't there, seeing things that didn't exist.
The hallucination had felt so real. Every word of the conversation, every expression on their faces, the relief in his chest when he thought the infected were gone—all of it had been his mind desperately trying to give him hope. Even if that hope was a lie.
Reyan sank down against the wall, his legs giving out. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. How long had he been standing there? How long had he been talking to himself?
When was the last time he'd slept? Really slept? Two days? Three? He'd killed his wife. Watched strangers die. Ignored a woman's screams as she was torn apart. His mind was fracturing under the weight of it all.
"Papa?"
He jerked his head up. His daughter stood in the doorway—actually stood there this time, eyes heavy with sleep, blanket dragging behind her.
"Are you okay?" she asked quietly.
Was he? No. He was breaking. Coming apart at the seams. Seeing things that weren't there, having conversations with ghosts.
"Yeah, baby," he lied, forcing himself to stand on shaking legs. "Papa's okay. Just tired."
She studied him with those too-knowing eyes. Seven years old and she'd already learned to spot lies. "You should rest."
"I will. Soon. But first—" He glanced at the others, still sleeping. Real this time. He was almost sure they were real. "First we need to make a plan."
His daughter nodded and went to the kitchen for water. Reyan stood there, gripping the wall for support, and tried to remember what was real and what wasn't.
The infected below were real. His dead wife was real. The plan to reach the car was real.
But his mind? His mind was becoming the most dangerous thing in this apartment.
And there was no way to barricade against that.
They gathered around the kitchen table—what was left of it, anyway. Someone had pushed it against the door during the initial panic. They moved it back, sat down, and spread out a map of Niraya that Vikram had found in a drawer.
"Here." Samir pointed to a spot in the southside. "My sister's apartment. It's near the old shipyard, about nine kilometres from here."
"Nine kilometres through hell," Taj muttered. "Fantastic."
"We don't walk it," Reyan said, tapping the map. "This building has basement parking. My car's down there. If we can reach it, we drive to your sister."
"If your car still works," Vikram pointed out. "If the basement isn't flooded with infected. If—"
"If, if, if," Reyan cut him off. "We deal with problems as they come. Right now, the plan is simple: Get to the basement. Get the car. Drive to Samir's sister. Then we get out of the city before the military quarantine closes in."
"Assuming there even is a military," Taj said quietly.
No one had an answer for that.
"The basement's only two floors down," Reyan continued, studying the building's layout in his mind. "We take the stairs, not the elevator. Clear each floor as we go. Once we're in the parking garage, we move fast. Get to the car, start it up, and drive out through the main exit."
"And if the main exit's blocked?" Samir asked.
"Then we ram through it," Reyan said flatly. "Or we find another way. But standing around here debating won't save your sister."
"We leave in an hour," Reyan decided. "Gather supplies. Weapons. Everything we can carry. Vikram, you're with us?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
"And my daughter stays here. With the door locked. We barricade it from the outside and—"
"No." His daughter's voice was small but firm. "I'm coming with you."
"Baby, it's too dangerous—"
"If you leave me here and you don't come back, I'll be alone. I don't want to be alone anymore, Papa. Please."
Reyan looked at the others. Samir shrugged. Taj nodded slowly. Vikram said nothing.
"Okay," Reyan said finally. "Okay. But you stay close to me. Always. And if I tell you to run, you run. Understand?"
She nodded solemnly.
"Alright then." Reyan stood, feeling the weight of too many promises settling on his shoulders. "Let's get ready. We have a long day ahead."
As they prepared—gathering knives, improvised weapons, bottles of water, what little food remained—Reyan caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
He barely recognized himself. Gaunt face. Hollow eyes. Blood still crusted in his hair from yesterday's fight.
This is what you are now, his reflection seemed to say. This is what survival looks like.
He splashed water on his face, grabbed his knife, and went to join the others.
They were going to find Samir's sister.
They were going to get that car.
They were going to survive.
Even if it meant becoming monsters themselves.
END OF CHAPTER THREE