ACROSS THE CITY
Ahmed knelt on the hardwood floor of the dead doctor's house, surrounded by an array of scavenged materials: fishing line, tin cans, nails, broken glass, duct tape, and a collection of kitchen knives that gleamed in the morning light filtering through the boarded windows.
"Okay, okay," he muttered to himself, threading fishing line through a series of cans arranged near the back door. "Tension here... anchor point there... yes, this will work. This will definitely work."
He pulled the line taut, testing the resistance. Too loose and it wouldn't trigger. Too tight and a gust of wind might set it off. He adjusted it carefully, his hands steady despite three days of living on instant noodles and fear.
"Anyone tries to come through this door—" He pulled the line experimentally. The cans clattered together, the sound sharp and immediate. "—and I'll hear them coming. Simple. Effective. Beautiful."
He moved to the front entrance, where he'd already set up his masterpiece: a pressure plate made from a floorboard balanced on two paint cans, connected to a rope that would release a shelf full of heavy encyclopedias. Step on the board, get buried in knowledge. Literally.
"The classics never die," he said with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
But the infected weren't his only concern. Other survivors might come. Desperate, dangerous, willing to kill for supplies. He needed a way to differentiate between the living and the dead.
From his bag, he pulled out a brass bell—the kind you'd find at a hotel reception desk. He'd found it in the doctor's study, probably used to summon a housekeeper who no longer existed. He mounted it carefully on a post outside the front door, just out of reach of the booby traps, with a sign he'd written in large, clear letters:
IF YOU ARE ALIVE, RING THE BELL.I WILL COME OUT.
Below that, in equally large letters:
BEWARE: BOOBY TRAPS INSIDE.DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT RINGING FIRST.
He stood back, admiring his work. The bell was positioned high enough that the infected—mindless, driven by base instinct—wouldn't think to ring it. But a human? A human would see the sign, process the words, and make the choice to ring.
"Assuming they can still read," Ahmed muttered. "Assuming they're not so far gone that words still mean something."
He tested the bell mechanism one more time, pulling the string that ran from outside, through a small hole in the door, to his makeshift alarm system inside. The bell rang clear and bright, and Ahmed nodded in satisfaction.
"Yes. Yes, this works. This absolutely works." He laughed—a sound that was becoming more common and less sane with each passing day. "Welcome to Fort Ahmed, where the infected die and the living... well, the living better follow instructions."
He returned inside, checking his traps one by one:
Trip wire at ankle height across the hallway, connected to a mason jar full of nails suspended from the ceiling. Another pressure plate in front of the kitchen, this one releasing a swinging cabinet door lined with broken glass. Fishing line stretched across the stairwell at neck height—nearly invisible, potentially lethal. And his personal favorite: a bucket of bleach and ammonia rigged to mix and release toxic fumes in the upstairs bathroom if the door was opened wrong.
"Chemistry saves lives," he said, patting the bucket like a proud parent. "Or ends them, depending on which side of the door you're on."
He settled into his observation post by the window, camera in hand, and began today's recording.
"Day four. The traps are set. The bell is ready. I've created a system to separate the thinking from the thoughtless, the human from the hungry." He paused, considering. "Or maybe I've just created an elaborate way to kill people who are only trying to survive. Hard to say. Ethics are... fluid these days."
He clicked off the camera and stared out at the street, where the infected shuffled and groaned and learned, hour by hour, to be better at what they did.
And Ahmed waited for the bell to ring.
THE APARTMENT
"This is everything?" Samir asked, hefting the backpack that contained three bottles of water, two cans of beans, a box of crackers, and a first aid kit that was mostly empty.
"Everything we could carry," Reyan confirmed. He'd packed his own bag with similar supplies, adding the knife he'd taken from the kitchen and a hammer he'd found in a utility drawer. His daughter had her own small backpack—lighter, filled with a stuffed animal, a bottle of water, and some granola bars.
Vikram was the most methodical. He'd gone through every drawer in the apartment, taking inventory with the precision of someone who'd done this before. He emerged from the bedroom with a marker in his hand.
"What's that for?" Taj asked.
"Marking safe zones. Clear buildings. Warnings." Vikram tested the marker on his palm, leaving a black streak. "If we make it back, we'll know which places we've already cleared. If we don't make it back, maybe someone else will find the marks useful."
"Optimistic and pessimistic at the same time," Taj observed. "I like it. Very balanced."
"I prefer 'realistic,'" Vikram said, pocketing the marker.
Samir was checking his pipe—his weapon of choice, the one that had saved Reyan's life more than once. "So we're really doing this. Walking out there. With a seven-year-old."
"I'm almost eight," Reyan's daughter corrected quietly.
"My apologies. With an almost-eight-year-old." Samir looked at Reyan. "You sure about this?"
"No," Reyan admitted. "But staying here isn't any safer. Eventually, supplies run out. Eventually, the door breaks. This way, at least we're moving toward something."
"Your sister," Taj said to Samir. "We're moving toward your sister. So she better be worth it."
"She is," Samir said, and there was something raw in his voice that killed any follow-up joke Taj might have made.
They gathered at the door, weapons ready, fear and determination warring on every face.
"Formation," Reyan said. "I'm up front with my daughter. Vikram, you're with me. Samir, middle. Taj, you take the rear. Watch our backs."
"Why do I always get the rear?" Taj complained. "Is it because I'm the best-looking? You're all jealous of my posterior placement?"
"It's because you won't shut up," Samir said. "So if something sneaks up on us, at least we'll hear you screaming."
"That's fair."
Reyan's hand rested on the door handle. On the other side, he could hear them—the groans, the shuffling feet, the wet sounds of mouths working mindlessly. Two of them, at least. Maybe more.
"On three," he said. "One... two..."
He didn't get to three.
Vikram kicked the door open, and the infected stumbled through. Reyan's hammer came down on the first one's skull with a crunch that made his stomach turn. Vikram's knife found the second one's eye socket, and it dropped without a sound.
They dragged the bodies inside—no point leaving them in the hallway where others might trip over them—and Vikram pulled out his marker. On the door, in large block letters, he wrote: SAFE.
Then, below it: NO SUPPLIES. MOVE ON.
"In case anyone else comes looking," he explained.
They moved into the hallway. Fifth floor. Stairs leading down. And between them and the basement parking garage, four floors of potential death.
They formed up. Reyan and his daughter at the front, her small hand gripping his larger one with desperate strength. Vikram beside them, knife ready. Samir in the middle, pipe raised. And Taj at the rear, his own knife held in a white-knuckled grip.
"Remember," Reyan whispered. "Quiet and fast. Don't stop unless you have to. The car is two floors down. We get there, we get in, we get out."
They started down the stairs.
Fourth floor landing: Clear.
Third floor landing: Two infected. Samir's pipe made quick work of them.
Second floor landing: One infected, but it was fast—moving with shocking speed—and it came at them like a sprinter. Vikram barely got his knife up in time, catching it in the throat. It kept coming, gurgling, until Reyan's hammer finished what Vikram started.
First floor landing: Clear.
Ground floor lobby: Not clear.
At least a dozen infected filled the space, shambling through the ruins of what used to be a pleasant entryway. The security desk was overturned. The decorative plants were knocked over. Blood painted the walls in abstract patterns that would haunt Reyan's dreams.
"Back," Reyan breathed. "Back, we go around—"
They burst through the emergency exit, into the side hallway that led to the basement access. Behind them, the infected poured through, a wave of gray skin and white eyes and endless hunger.
Reyan scooped his daughter into his arms—she weighed nothing, terror made her lighter somehow—and ran faster than he'd ever run in his life. Vikram was beside him. Samir and Taj behind, protecting their rear.
They hit the basement stairs, taking them three at a time, nearly falling but catching each other, always moving down, down, toward the parking garage and the car and escape.
The basement door loomed ahead. Reyan kicked it open, and they tumbled through into the dim, concrete expanse of the underground parking garage.
His car—an old sedan, ten years past its prime but still running the last time he'd used it—sat in its designated spot. Section B, spot 47. He'd parked it there three days ago, in a world that no longer existed.
The parking garage was darker than Reyan remembered. Emergency lights had failed, leaving only the dim glow from his phone's flashlight to guide them. Their footsteps echoed off concrete, and every shadow looked like a threat.
"Stay close," Reyan whispered.
They moved through the rows of parked cars—most abandoned, some with doors hanging open, one with what looked like claw marks on the windshield. His car sat in its spot, untouched, almost mocking in its normalcy.
Reyan fumbled for his keys, nearly dropped them, caught them, jammed them toward the lock—
"Wait." He turned, counting heads. Vikram. Samir. His daughter. "Where's Taj?"
Everyone froze. Looked around.
"He was right behind me on the stairs," Samir said, voice tight with sudden panic. "He was—"
"TAJ!" Reyan shouted, his voice echoing through the garage. "TAJ!"
No answer. Just the distant groans of infected somewhere above.
"Oh my God," Samir whispered. "Where is he? We have to—"
"There are dozens of them up there!" Vikram protested. "We can't—"
"We don't leave people behind!" Reyan's voice cracked. He handed his daughter to Vikram. "Stay with her. Keep her safe. Samir, with me."
"I'm coming too," Vikram said.
"Someone needs to stay with her!"
"Then we ALL go," his daughter said quietly, her small voice cutting through the argument. "We don't split up. That's how people die."
She was seven years old. Almost eight. And she was right.
They ran back up the stairs, weapons ready. Back through the emergency exit, into the main building. The infected that had chased them were still there, but scattered now, some wandering aimlessly, others hunched over... something. Reyan didn't look too closely.
"TAJ!" Samir's voice boomed through the hallway. "TAJ, WHERE ARE YOU?"
"We split up," Reyan decided. "Cover more ground. Samir, you take the east wing. Vikram, west. I'll check the courtyard. We meet back here in five minutes. If you find him, you SCREAM. Understood?"
They nodded and scattered.
Reyan and his daughter moved toward the side exit that led to the building's small playground area. Old swings, a rusted slide, a sandbox that had become a litter box for stray cats. His heart hammered in his chest. Where would Taj go? What would make him leave the group?
"TAJ!" he called again. "TAJ!"
They burst through the door into morning sunlight, and Reyan's eyes scanned the courtyard desperately. Empty. Nothing. Just—
Wait.
There. Beyond the chain-link fence. On the footpath.
Taj was on his knees, surrounded by infected. Three of them, closing in. His knife was gone—knocked away or dropped. His glasses hung from one ear, cracked lens catching the light. He looked up at the approaching creatures with an expression of blank acceptance.
He was going to die.
"TAJ!" Reyan screamed.
Then the gunshot cracked through the morning air.
The infected nearest to Taj jerked, a hole appearing in its temple, and collapsed. A second shot. Another infected down. A third shot missed, but the remaining creature turned toward the sound, distracted long enough for Taj to scramble backward.
"REYAN!" Samir's voice came from behind—he'd heard the shots. "REYAN, WHERE—"
"HERE! FOOTPATH!" Reyan was already climbing the fence, his daughter clinging to his back.
Samir and Vikram burst through the door seconds later, weapons raised, and all of them converged on the scene as another gunshot finished the last infected near Taj.
Four figures emerged from behind an overturned delivery truck, weapons raised. Three men and one woman, all armed, all moving with the practiced coordination of people who'd survived together.
They had their guns trained on Taj, who was slowly, carefully raising his hands.
"Don't move," one of them—a man in his thirties, military-short haircut, tactical vest—barked. "Don't you dare to move."
"Wait, wait!" Reyan shouted, climbing the fence with one arm, his daughter clinging to his back. "Wait, don't shoot! He's with us! We're not infected!"
All four guns swung toward them.
"Hands up!" the woman commanded. She was younger, maybe mid-twenties, with her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and a rifle that looked like she knew how to use it. "All of you, hands where we can see them!"
"We're not infected," Reyan repeated, slowly raising his free hand while his daughter wrapped her arms around his neck. "Look, we can talk. We're human. See? We're speaking. Forming sentences. The infected can't do that."
"Prove it," another man said—older, maybe fifty, with a graying beard and suspicious eyes.
"How the hell do we prove—"
"Dev," the woman said. "Check them."
The fourth member of their group—a young man, barely twenty, thin and nervous-looking—approached cautiously. He moved to Taj first, checking his eyes, his arms, looking for bite marks. Then to Samir. Then Vikram. Finally to Reyan, who held perfectly still while Dev examined him and his daughter.
"Clear," Dev said, stepping back. "All clear."
The guns lowered, but didn't disappear entirely.
"Sorry," the military-looking man said, not sounding particularly sorry. "Can't be too careful. You'd be amazed how many infected can mimic speech. Not well, but enough to fool you if you're not paying attention."
"They can mimic speech?" Vikram asked.
"Sort of. Sounds like a parrot, all wrong, but close enough." He studied them with an assessing gaze. "You're heading somewhere. Supplies, weapons, purposeful movement. Where?"
"Nine kilometers south," Reyan said. "Looking for someone. His sister." He gestured at Samir.
"Which one's Samir?"
Samir raised his hand like a kid in class. "Hi. That's me. Samir. The one with the dead-inside eyes and the desperate need to find his possibly-also-dead sister."
"Dark," the woman observed. "I like him."
The older man spoke up, his voice gravelly from years of smoking. "You got transport?"
"A car. In the basement parking garage." Reyan pointed back at the building. "We were heading there when..." He turned to Taj. "What the hell happened? Where did you go?"
Taj's face was pale, his hands shaking. "I... I saw them. My parents. They live in Kolkata. They shouldn't be here. They can't be here. But I saw them, I swear I saw them, and I just... I followed. I know it's illogical. I know it doesn't make sense. But I saw them, and I followed."
Reyan's blood ran cold. Another hallucination. First him, now Taj. That wasn't coincidence. That was something else. Something worse.
But he couldn't think about that now. Not with strangers holding guns, not with infected everywhere, not with his daughter's arms tight around his neck.
"Thank you for saving him," Reyan said to the four strangers. "Really. Thank you. I'm Reyan, this is my daughter, that's Samir, Vikram, and Taj—who apparently has terrible survival instincts."
"I'm processing trauma through impulsive decisions," Taj muttered. "It's a valid coping mechanism."
The military man cracked a smile. "I'm Karan. That's Meera—" he gestured at the woman, "—Ravi—" the older man, "—and Dev." The young one. "We've been surviving together since day one. Had a camp set up in the old shopping complex, but it got overrun yesterday. We're heading south too, actually. Looking for one of those rumored safe zones."
"Safe zones?" Samir perked up. "There are safe zones?"
"Rumors," Meera corrected. "Radio chatter. Could be military, could be survivors banding together, could be anything. But it's better than staying here."
Reyan looked at his group, then at Karan's. "You want to come with us? Safety in numbers."
Karan and his people exchanged glances, some silent communication passing between them. Finally, Karan nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, we'll come. You got room in that car?"
"It's a sedan. Four, maybe five people if we squeeze." Reyan did the math. Nine people total. "What about you? You have transport?"
"We've got a truck. Flatbed. Parked two blocks over." Karan gestured vaguely north. "Four of us fit fine. You take your car, we take the truck, we convoy south together. Two vehicles means if one breaks down, we're not all fucked."
It made sense. More sense than Reyan wanted to admit. These were armed strangers, yes, but they'd saved Taj's life. And in this new world, allies were more valuable than gold.
"Okay," Reyan agreed. "We'll meet you at the north exit. Give us ten minutes to get to the car and bring it around."
"Make it five," Karan said. "The gunshots will have drawn more infected. This area won't be safe for long."
They split up. Karan's group headed north toward their truck. Reyan's group headed back into the building, down to the basement, weapons ready.
This time, the descent felt different. Heavier. They moved as a unit now—Reyan and his daughter, Samir supporting Taj who was still shaky on his feet, Vikram watching their backs. The stairwell smelled like copper and decay, and their footsteps echoed too loudly in the silence.
"You okay?" Reyan asked Taj as they reached the basement door.
"Define okay," Taj muttered, his voice hoarse. "I'm alive. That's... something."
Reyan pushed through the door into the parking garage, and immediately something felt wrong.
"Wait," Vikram said, holding up a hand. "Listen."
They stopped. Listened.
Nothing. No groans. No shuffling feet. No wet sounds of feeding.
Just silence.
"There were at least a dozen of them down here before," Samir said quietly, his pipe raised and ready. "We barely made it through."
Now the garage was nearly empty. A few infected shambled in the far corners—slow ones, the basic kind, barely aware of their presence. But the rest? Gone.
Reyan's flashlight swept across the concrete, illuminating scattered debris, abandoned cars, dark puddles of things he didn't want to identify. But no horde. No swarm.
"Where did they go?" his daughter whispered.
"I don't know, baby."
They moved quickly through the rows of parked cars, eyes darting to every shadow, every dark corner. Reyan half-expected an ambush, a trap—those things were getting smarter, coordinating, planning—but nothing came.
His car sat exactly where they'd left it, untouched. He unlocked it—the chirp of the alarm sounding obscenely loud—and winced, waiting for the infected to come running.
Still nothing.
"This is wrong," Vikram said, voicing what they were all thinking. "They don't just leave. Not like this."
"Maybe they heard the gunshots outside," Samir suggested, helping Taj into the backseat. "Followed the sound?"
"All of them?" Reyan shook his head. "At once? They don't work like that. They swarm. They stay."
"Well, they're not here now," Taj said, collapsing into the seat with a groan. "So maybe we just got lucky for once."
But Reyan didn't believe in luck anymore. Not in this world.
They piled in—Reyan driving, his daughter beside him, Vikram, Samir, and Taj crammed in the back. The engine turned over on the first try this time, and Reyan let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
He pulled out of the spot, navigated through the garage, and headed for the exit ramp. The garage gate was already up—someone had pried it open days ago—and they drove up into morning sunlight.
Karan's group was waiting in their truck, a beat-up flatbed with rust spots and a cargo bed full of supplies. Karan sat in the driver's seat, Meera beside him. Ravi and Dev in the back, weapons ready.
Reyan pulled up alongside them, rolled down his window. "Second exit. North side of the building. This way."
Karan nodded, gunned the engine, and followed as Reyan led the way around the building's perimeter.
The street was a warzone. Abandoned cars. Bodies. Infected wandering aimlessly, their groans a constant background noise. But nothing they couldn't handle. Nothing that would stop them.
"Nine kilometers," Samir said from the backseat. "Nine kilometers to my sister. We can do this. Right?"
"We can do this," Reyan confirmed, gripping the steering wheel harder than necessary.
His daughter was silent beside him, staring out the window at the dying city. He wanted to tell her everything would be okay. That they'd find Samir's sister, get out of Niraya, reach safety.
But he was done with promises he couldn't keep.
So he just drove, leading their small convoy south, toward the industrial district, toward answers, toward whatever came next.
Behind them, the building they'd escaped from stood silent and still.
And in the basement parking garage they'd just left, the infected began to return. Slowly. Methodically. Like they'd been waiting for something.
Like they'd learned to be patient.
END OF CHAPTER FOUR