The man had been hiding in the ruins of a collapsed storefront.
He'd lost track of time—lost track of everything except the basic arithmetic of survival: breathe quietly, move slowly, don't make a sound. The infected wandered past his hiding spot in ones and twos, their groans a constant background hum that had stopped sounding like language and started sounding like the wind. Just another feature of the landscape. Just another thing that wanted him dead.
His name was Arjun Bakshi, and four days ago he'd been kneading dough for the morning rush. Now he was pressed against a wall with blood on his apron and his hands shaking so badly he could barely hold the kitchen knife he'd grabbed on his way out of the shop.
Then he heard it: the rumble of engines.
Cars. Multiple cars. Living people with working vehicles and the fuel to run them.
Arjun didn't think. Thinking was for people who had time, and he had run out of time days ago. He burst from his hiding spot and ran toward the sound, legs pumping, lungs burning, the knife falling from his nerveless fingers as he waved his arms overhead.
"STOP!" he screamed. "PLEASE, STOP!"
The infected nearby turned at the sound. One of the fast ones—the runners, the sprinters, whatever they were called—locked onto him immediately and gave chase.
But Arjun didn't look back. Couldn't look back. His eyes were fixed on the two vehicles coming down the street: a beat-up sedan and a flatbed truck, both moving at a careful crawl to avoid the debris.
"PLEASE!" he screamed again, still waving.
The sprinter was gaining. He could hear it—the rapid thud of feet, the wet rasping of breath, the sound that meant death was three steps behind and closing fast.
Then the gunshot cracked across the afternoon air.
The sprinter's head snapped back, a spray of black blood painting the pavement, and it collapsed mid-stride. Arjun stumbled, nearly fell, caught himself on an abandoned car and looked back to see the creature twitching on the ground.
The vehicles screeched to a halt. Doors opened. A man jumped out of the sedan—thin, exhausted-looking, with wild eyes and blood-stained clothes—and ran toward Arjun with shocking speed.
"Are you okay?" the man gasped. "Have you been bitten? Show me your arms, your neck—"
Arjun recognized him. It took a moment—his brain was still catching up with the fact that he wasn't dead—but then it clicked.
"Reyan?" he croaked. "Reyan Sharma?"
Reyan's eyes widened. "Arjun? The baker? Holy shit, Arjun—"
"NOT THE TIME FOR REUNIONS!" A voice boomed from the truck—military-sounding, commanding. "Get him in the car and MOVE! More of them are coming!"
Reyan grabbed Arjun's arm and half-dragged, half-carried him back to the sedan. The back door was already open. Hands pulled Arjun inside—strong hands, steady hands—and someone shoved a bottle of water into his grip.
"Drive!" Reyan shouted, jumping into the front passenger seat and pulling a little girl onto his lap. "Samir, drive!"
The car lurched forward. The truck followed. And behind them, more infected were appearing—drawn by the gunshot, by the screaming, by the promise of prey.
Arjun collapsed against the seat, gasping, his heart trying to hammer its way out of his chest. Slowly, the world came back into focus: three men in the car with him, all armed, all watching him with varying degrees of suspicion and concern.
"Water," one of them said—stocky, with kind eyes. "Drink. You're dehydrated."
Arjun obeyed, his hands shaking so badly that half the water spilled down his chin. The man didn't comment, just steadied the bottle for him.
"Who is he?" the driver asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.
"He's the baker," Reyan said from the front seat, still breathing hard. "From my neighbourhood. Arjun, this is Samir—he's driving. That's Vikram and Taj in the back with you."
"Hi," Taj said weakly, adjusting his cracked glasses. "Welcome to the apocalypse. It's terrible here."
Despite everything, Arjun felt a laugh bubble up in his throat. It came out more like a sob.
"Thank you," he managed. "Thank you for stopping. I thought—I didn't think anyone would—"
"We don't leave people behind," Reyan said quietly. Then, to the group: "Arjun runs—ran—the bakery near my apartment. Best cinnamon rolls in Niraya."
"Had," Arjun corrected hoarsely. "Had the best cinnamon rolls. The shop's gone. Everything's gone. I've been hiding for three days. Maybe four. I lost count."
"You're safe now," Vikram said, though his eyes said he didn't entirely believe it himself. "Or as safe as anyone is these days."
Arjun nodded, still trying to process that he was in a moving vehicle, surrounded by living people, not being eaten. The simple reality of survival felt surreal.
"Your wife?" Reyan asked gently. "Meena, right?"
Arjun's face crumbled. He shook his head once, sharp and final. Reyan didn't ask again.
The silence that followed was heavy with shared loss. Taj put a hand on Arjun's shoulder—a simple gesture, but it meant everything.
"I'm sorry," Taj said.
"Me too," Arjun whispered.
After a moment, he looked up at Reyan. "Your family? Your wife and daughter—they're...?"
Reyan's jaw tightened. His hand instinctively moved to the little girl on his lap, holding her closer. The girl—she couldn't have been more than seven or eight—looked at Arjun with solemn eyes that had seen too much.
"My daughter's here," Reyan said carefully. "Safe."
The emphasis on "daughter" and the conspicuous absence of mention about his wife told Arjun everything he needed to know. He met Reyan's eyes and gave a small nod of understanding.
"I'm glad," Arjun said quietly. "That she's safe. That's... that's something."
The little girl—Reyan's daughter—studied Arjun for a long moment, then said in a voice barely above a whisper: "Uncle Arjun makes the cinnamon rolls Papa brings home."
"Made," Arjun corrected gently. "But yes. I did."
"They were very good."
"Thank you, beta."
The car fell into silence again, but it was a different silence now. Less awkward, more resigned. They were all survivors. They all had ghosts.
"How far?" Reyan asked after a few minutes.
"Two kilometres," Samir said from the driver's seat. "Maybe less. We're close."
"Your sister?" Arjun asked. It was easier to focus on someone else's hope than his own loss.
"Nisha," Samir said, and just the act of saying her name seemed to give him strength. "Her name's Nisha. She lives—lived—near the old shipyard. If she's alive, if she got to safety somehow, we'll find her."
"She's alive," Taj said firmly. "She has to be."
"Hope is good," Vikram murmured. "We need hope."
The convoy kept moving through Niraya's devastated streets. Smoke rose from dozens of fires. Bodies—human and infected—littered the pavement. Some of the infected still moved, shambling aimlessly, but most had moved on, following sounds or smells to other parts of the city.
Then Samir's foot hit the brake.
The car jerked to a stop. Behind them, the truck did the same.
"No," Samir whispered. "No, no, no—"
Arjun leaned forward to see what had made him stop, and his breath caught in his throat.
The street ahead was packed with infected. Not dozens. Not even hundreds. Thousands. A solid wall of bodies stretching as far as the eye could see, filling the road from building to building. Some shambled. Some stood perfectly still. Some swayed in place like they were listening to music only they could hear.
Between the living and Nisha's apartment building: two kilometres of death.
"We can't get through that," Vikram said unnecessarily. "There's too many."
"There has to be another way," Samir said, his voice tight with desperation. "A side street, an alley—"
"Look at them," Taj interrupted. "They're everywhere. Every street, every alley. It's not just a horde. It's a... a carpet. A blanket. They're covering everything."
"We could go on foot," Samir said, already reaching for the door handle. "Leave the cars, go building by building, rooftop to rooftop—"
"With a seven-year-old?" Reyan cut him off. "Through that? We wouldn't make it fifty meters."
"Then I go alone." Samir's voice cracked. "She's, my sister. I have to—"
"No." The word came from multiple mouths at once. Reyan. Vikram. Taj. Even Arjun, who barely knew these people.
"Samir, I know—" Reyan started.
"You don't know!" Samir spun in his seat, and there were tears on his face now. "She's two kilometres away. Two. I'm so close. I can't just leave her. I can't—"
"What if she's not there?" Taj's voice was gentle but firm. "What if she got out? What if she's at one of those safe zones everyone keeps talking about? If you die trying to reach her, you'll never know."
"And if she's there and I don't come, she'll die alone," Samir shot back.
"She might already be—" Vikram started, then stopped himself. "We need a plan. A real plan. Not a suicide mission."
"My sister is not—"
"I didn't say that. I said we need to be smart. We need..."
Reyan threw his car door open and slammed his fist on the roof. "STOP TO ALL OF THEM!" he screamed, pointing at the truck. "I'M GOING DOWN AND TALKING WITH THEM!"
He strode toward the truck. Karan, the military-sounding man, had already stepped out.
"We need to talk," Reyan said, his voice shaking but firm.
Karan's eyes were locked on the mass of infected far down the road. He didn't even look at Reyan. "That's nothing, we are going with the horde and die."
"I know, but still..." Reyan started to argue, his urgency battling with the cold reality of the situation.
A scream cut through the argument. Not a human scream—something worse. High-pitched, piercing, primal. One of the screamers, somewhere to their right, had spotted them.
Meera, the woman from Karan's group, didn't hesitate. Her rifle was up and a single shot cracked. The screamer's head exploded, but the damage was done. The horde was turning.
Karan's eyes snapped to the distant wave of infected. He pointed a rigid finger at Reyan. "GO FAST NOW TO THE CAR! WE GOT TO GO; WE WILL TALK LATER! FIRST SAVE OUR LIVES! GO NOW, SIT IN THE CAR!"
Karan spun and shouted at his own driver, "Dev, reverse! Reverse NOW!"
Reyan sprinted back to the sedan, his daughter still clutching her seatbelt. He dove into the front seat. "Samir, reverse! Drive!"
Samir didn't say anything. His eyes were wide, fixed on the approaching wave of death, and his foot was already slamming the car into reverse.
The car shot backward, tires squealing. The truck followed.
Samir spun the wheel, executed a perfect bootlegger's turn, and gunned the engine. They drove away from the horde, away from Nisha's building.
In the driver's seat, Samir's face was carved from stone. His hands were white-knuckled on the wheel. And when a sound escaped his throat—half-sob, half-scream—no one commented.
They drove.
ACROSS THE CITY
Ahmed sat in his fortified house with his notebook open and the camera recording. His handwriting had become neater over the past days—a product of having nothing but time to document, observe, classify.
"Day five," he said into the camera. "Comprehensive taxonomy of observed infected. For the record."
He consulted his notes.
"Type One: Standard Infected. Slow-moving, minimal coordination, driven by base hunger. Weaknesses: easily avoided, poor problem-solving, respond only to immediate stimuli. Strengths: persistence, numbers, can overwhelm through attrition."
He flipped a page.
"Type Two: Runners. Also called 'Sprinters' or 'Fast Infected Characteristics: enhanced speed, aggressive pursuit behavior, capable of basic pack coordination. Weaknesses: tire quickly, still respond primarily to instinct. Strengths: speed makes them extremely dangerous in close quarters, can catch fleeing prey."
Another page.
"Type Three: Coordinators. Also called 'Trap setters.' Characteristics: strategic behavior, can plan ambushes, demonstrate problem-solving capabilities. They watch. They wait. They learn. Weaknesses: still unknown—insufficient data. Strengths: intelligence, patience, ability to direct other infected."
He paused, tapping his pen against the notebook.
"Type Four: Screamers. Characteristics: produce high-frequency vocalization that serves as both communication and coordination signal. Can call other infected from significant distances. They appear to function as... alarm systems. Sentries. Weaknesses: vulnerable while vocalizing, distinctive sound makes them easy to locate. Strengths: force multiplication—one Screamer can mobilize hundreds of Type Ones and Twos."
Ahmed looked directly into the camera.
"Projected developments: If the progression continues at its current rate, we can expect Type Five within two weeks. Characteristics unknown, but based on current trajectory, they may demonstrate advanced cognitive function. Tool use. Language. Organization beyond pack behavior."
He closed the notebook.
"In summary: they're not getting weaker. They're not dying off. They're getting smarter, faster, more coordinated. And we—" He smiled, and it was not a happy smile. "—we are running out of time."
He clicked off the camera and sat in the darkness, listening to the infected groan and shuffle outside his fortified walls.
And in his mind, he was already planning. Not a cure. Not salvation.
Extinction.
Theirs or ours.
THE CONVOY
They drove until the buildings thinned out and the city gave way to industrial sprawl. The sun was sinking toward the horizon, painting everything in shades of orange and red that looked too much like blood.
"We need to stop," Taj said quietly. "It's getting dark."
No one wanted to say it, but darkness in this new world was a death sentence. The infected didn't need light to hunt. But humans did.
"Fuel," Samir said, his voice hollow. "We're running on fumes."
As if summoned by the words, the car's dashboard warning light flickered on. Red. Insistent.
"There," Vikram pointed. "Gas station. Two blocks ahead."
It was a small roadside station, the kind that probably hadn't been updated since the '90s. The pumps stood like sentinels. The convenience store windows were shattered. But it was shelter, and more importantly, it might have fuel.
The convoy pulled in slowly, cautiously. Karan's truck stopped near the pumps. Reyan's sedan pulled up beside it.
"Clear the building first," Karan said, already out with his rifle up. "Meera, Dev, with me. Ravi, watch the perimeter."
They moved like a well-oiled machine—professional, efficient, deadly. Within five minutes, the all-clear came.
The group gathered in the dimming light, weapons drawn, nerves frayed.
"What in God's name was that?" Arjun asked, his voice still shaky. "It literally screamed so loudly!"
Reyan, still breathing hard, looked over at the truck group. "A shriek-ghoul? A siren-thing? We've never heard anything that could call them like that."
Meera, the woman who'd shot the infected, frowned. "It sounded like an air raid siren had a baby with a horror movie."
"Yeah, but louder," Vikram muttered.
Taj adjusted his cracked glasses, a faint, manic grin touching his lips. "How about Banshees?" he announced. "Or maybe the Wailers? We could call them the 'Shut-the-hell-up-I'm-trying-to-think-ers.'"
Vikram managed a weak laugh. "I like Banshees. Or maybe Yellers."
"My vote is for Wailers," Arjun put in. "Because they sound like pure grief."
Samir shook his head, his face grim. "No. Not grief. That sound means death. It calls death to you."
Karan, the leader, listened to them all, his gaze hard. "It's a threat multiplier. Whatever you call it, it amplifies the horde. We need a name we can use quickly, clearly, on the radio." He paused, considering the options. "The sound is the weapon. We call them the Heralds."
"Heralds?" Taj asked.
"Yeah. The Heralds of the horde," Karan confirmed. "They announce the end."
Reyan nodded, finding the cold logic appealing. "Heralds it is. We need to focus on taking out the Heralds first. Always."
"The pumps might still work," Dev said. He was the youngest of Karan's group, maybe twenty, with nervous energy that reminded Arjun of a rabbit. "If the power's still on, if someone didn't drain them already—"
"We try," Karan said. "While there's still light. After that, we fortify. The convenience store has a back room. We can barricade it, sleep in shifts."
"Sleep," Taj muttered. "Right. That thing we used to do."
Reyan set his daughter down carefully, keeping one hand on her shoulder. "We need to talk," he said to Karan. "All of us. About tomorrow."
Karan nodded slowly. "The sister."
"Her name's Nisha," Samir said, and there was an edge to his voice. "And yes. Her."
"We saw that horde," Karan said carefully. "There's no getting through that. Not with what we have."
"I know." Samir's hands were shaking. "I know. But I can't just... I need to know. Even if it's bad. Even if she's..." He couldn't finish the sentence.
"We'll help," Reyan said, and every head turned toward him. "Tomorrow. We regroup, we plan, we find another route. Maybe there's a way through the underground. Maybe the horde moves. But we don't abandon her. Not yet."
"Even if it's dangerous?" Vikram asked.
"Especially if it's dangerous," Taj added. "Because that's what family does."
Arjun, who'd been silent through all of this, spoke up: "I don't know any of you. But you stopped for me. You saved my life. So, whatever you need—whatever we're doing tomorrow—I'm in."
Meera, the woman from Karan's group who'd shot the screamer, studied them all with sharp eyes. "You all realize this is insane, right? Risking nine people to maybe save one?"
"Ten people," Reyan's daughter said quietly. "If we find Aunt Nisha, there will be ten of us."
The use of "Aunt" wasn't lost on anyone. Samir looked at the little girl, and something in his expression softened.
"Ten people," he repeated. "A family."
"Insane," Meera said again. But she was smiling slightly. "Fine. We'll help. But we do this smart. We need better weapons. Better intel. A real plan."
"And fuel," Dev added, gesturing at the pumps. "Let's see if these things still work."
They scattered to their tasks—some checking the pumps, others fortifying the convenience store, all of them moving with the efficiency of people who'd learned that standing still meant death.
Reyan found himself alone with Samir for a moment, near the edge of the lot where the light was failing.
"Thank you," Samir said quietly. "For not giving up on her."
"We're not giving up on her," Reyan corrected. "But Samir... you need to be prepared. That horde. The location. The time that's passed. She might not—"
"I know," Samir interrupted. "I know the odds. But I have to see for myself. Does that make sense?"
Reyan thought about Priya. About the moment he'd known she was infected. About the knife in his hand and the choice he'd had to make.
"Yeah," he said softly. "It makes sense."
Vikram's voice called from the pumps: "We've got fuel! Power's still on!"
A cheer went up from the group—small, weary, but genuine. It was something. A win, however minor.
As they refuelled and prepared for night, Arjun found himself standing beside Taj, both of them looking out at the darkening city.
"I keep thinking I'll wake up," Arjun said. "That this is just a nightmare."
"Me too," Taj admitted. "But then I remember—I saw my parents. They live in Kolkata. They shouldn't be here. But I saw them, and I followed them, and I almost died because of it."
"Hallucinations?"
"Something like that." Taj adjusted his cracked glasses. "Reyan had them too. Saw things that weren't there. It's the stress, probably. The trauma. Or maybe..." He trailed off.
"Maybe what?"
"Maybe it's something else. Something worse." Taj's voice dropped to a whisper. "What if the infection affects us even if we're not bitten? What if it's in the air, in the water, in our heads, and we're all just slowly going insane?"
Arjun didn't have an answer for that. Neither of them did.
Inside the convenience store, Karan was setting up watches. "Two-hour shifts. Two people awake at all times. Ravi and Dev take first watch. Meera and I take second. Reyan and Samir, you're third. Taj and Vikram, fourth. Arjun—" He looked at the baker. "You rest. You've been through enough."
"I can take a watch," Arjun protested.
"You will," Karan said. "Tomorrow. Tonight, you rest. That's an order."
Arjun was too tired to argue.
They settled in as darkness fell. The back room of the convenience store was cramped, smelling of stale cigarettes and spilled soda. But it was defensible. One door, easily barricaded. No windows. Supplies.
Reyan's daughter fell asleep almost immediately, curled up with her head on her father's lap. Reyan stroked her hair absently, staring at nothing.
"We're going to make it," Samir said softly from across the room. "We're going to find Nisha, get out of this city, find one of those safe zones. We're going to survive this."
"Yeah," Reyan said, but he didn't sound convinced.
Outside, the infected groaned and shambled and evolved.
And somewhere in the darkness, two kilometres away, Nisha Koli either waited or didn't wait or couldn't wait anymore.
Tomorrow would tell them which.