In a dimly lit apartment, the soft hum of a television provided the only sound, its flickering images casting shadows on the walls.
Luke sat slumped on his couch, a bottle of whiskey on the table in front of him, and his phone in hand. His eyes were red and weary, the weight of his sorrows pressing heavily on his shoulders. He barely noticed the news playing in the background, his mind a blur of despair and detachment.
On the TV screen, Angela Reyes, a reporter from the Philippine Daily Tribune, was giving a live report from the deck of a supply ship in the South China Sea. Her voice, filled with urgency and fear, filled the room, but Luke paid it little attention.
"We're currently approaching Second Thomas Shoal," Angela reported, the camera focusing on the silhouette of the Sierra Madre. "Tensions are high as Chinese coast guard vessels shadow our every move. The Philippine Navy remains resolute in their mission to resupply the outpost, a symbol of our sovereignty in the contested waters."
Luke's thumb scrolled aimlessly through his phone, his mind numb to the world around him. He took another swig from the bottle, the burn of the whiskey a brief distraction from his thoughts. The news continued to play, a backdrop to his silent suffering.
Suddenly, Angela's voice grew more frantic. "We're under attack! The Chinese are using high-powered water cannons, and our soldiers are being drenched. But this isn't just water—something is wrong!"
Luke glanced up briefly, the intensity of her words piercing through his foggy mind. The camera showed soldiers drenched and writhing in pain, their skin blistering and swelling at an alarming rate.
The image cut to a close-up of a soldier, his uniform soaked and clinging to his body. His face twisted in agony as angry red patches spread rapidly across his skin. The camera zoomed in further, capturing the detail of his flesh blistering and swelling grotesquely, the welts merging into larger, more horrifying lesions.
"What's happening to us?" one soldier cried out, his voice breaking with panic. He clawed at his skin, trying in vain to alleviate the burning sensation that was spreading across his body.
Angela's voice quivered as she continued to report. "This is Angela Reyes, reporting live from the deck of the supply ship. Our soldiers are being attacked by what appears to be a biological agent. They're showing signs of severe irritation and swelling—this is a deliberate act of warfare!"
Luke's eyes widened slightly, the scene on the TV drawing him in despite himself. He watched in horror as the soldiers began to convulse, their movements becoming erratic and violent. Their eyes took on a vacant, predatory stare, and they turned on their comrades with a ferocity that was both terrifying and unnatural.
"We're seeing... oh my God, they're turning into... they're attacking each other!" Angela's voice was frantic, the terror palpable. "This isn't just an act of aggression; it's biological warfare! They're turning into... zombies!"
The camera captured the chaos on the deck as the uninfected soldiers opened fire on their zombified comrades. The sharp cracks of gunfire echoed through the room, the tension on the screen mirrored by Luke's own rising anxiety.
"Hold the line!" shouted Sergeant Ramos, his voice barely audible over the chaos. "We can't let them overrun us!"
Angela's voice cut through the noise, providing a grim commentary. "This is Angela Reyes, reporting from what has become a nightmare scenario. Our soldiers are fighting not just the Chinese aggression but an insidious bioweapon turning them into mindless attackers. We need immediate help..."
Luke's grip tightened on his phone, the reality of the horror unfolding on the screen sinking in. The images of the infected soldiers, their bodies grotesquely transformed, played out in stark contrast to his own personal struggles. The world was unraveling, both on the screen and in his own mind.
Angela's voice was strained but steady. "The Chinese forces are retreating, but the damage is done. The bioweapon has turned this deck into a war zone. This is Angela Reyes, signing off. We need help... we need..."
Her voice cut off abruptly as a stray bullet shattered the camera lens. The last image broadcasted was of the carnage and chaos, the feed going dark as the world watched in stunned silence.
Luke stared at the now black screen, the silence in the room suddenly deafening. "Is this drink supposed to be this strong?" He glanced at the whiskey at his hand, before taking another swig of it, the burn of a poor substitute for the numbness he sought. He glanced around the room, his vision slightly blurry, and tried to make sense of what he had just seen.
"Was that real?" he muttered to himself, shaking his head. "No, it can't be... I must be losing it."
Convinced that his unstable mind had conjured up the nightmare, Luke turned off the TV and tossed the remote aside. He slumped further into the couch, exhaustion washing over him. His phone slipped from his grasp and landed on the floor with a soft thud.
As he reached down to pick it up, the screen lit up, displaying a picture of a smiling woman. Her bright eyes and radiant smile momentarily pierced through Luke's haze of sorrow. It was a photo of his late wife, Maria, taken during happier times. Her memory brought a bittersweet mix of comfort and pain, an ever-present reminder of what he had lost.
His thumb gently brushed over her face on the screen, a pang of grief tightening in his chest. "I miss you," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
He placed the phone back on the table, unable to bear looking at the photo any longer. As he lay back down, he felt a sudden, sharp ache in his heart, the kind that comes from missing someone so deeply that it feels like a physical wound.
His thoughts drifted back to the TV screen, the images of the soldiers' blistered faces and the chaos on the ship haunting him. He wondered if he was truly losing his mind or if the world was indeed descending into madness.
He placed the phone back on the table, unable to bear looking at the photo any longer. As he drifted off to sleep, the haunting images of the soldiers and the chaos on the ship lingered in his mind, blurring the line between reality and his own tormented thoughts. The apartment fell into a heavy silence, with only the distant sounds of the city outside to remind him that the world, for now, continued to turn.
...
Half a dozen hours later.
While Luke drifted into a troubled sleep, a different scene of horror unfolded across the country on the dockside of a small coastal town. The night was eerily still, the water lapping gently against the wooden pylons. A lone dock worker, Ramon, was finishing his late shift, grumbling to himself about the long hours and low pay.
As he moved to secure the last of the boats, he noticed a figure crawling towards him from the shadows. Ramon squinted, irritation flaring as he saw the broken, contorted form of a man dragging itself along the ground, legs twisted grotesquely from gunfire.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Ramon shouted, annoyance giving way to unease as the figure drew closer. "Get out of here, you drunk bastard!"
The figure's movements were slow but relentless. Ramon's irritation turned to alarm as he saw the blood smeared across the creature's face and the vacant, predatory look in its eyes.
"Get back! I'm warning you!" Ramon yelled, his voice shaky. He picked up a nearby wrench, brandishing it defensively. "I'll bash your head in!"
Ignoring his threats, the undead continued its crawl, a guttural moan escaping its lips. Panic set in as Ramon realized this was no ordinary person. He swung the wrench down, but the undead caught his leg, its grip unnaturally strong. The wrench connected with the infected's head, but it barely flinched, its dead eyes fixed on Ramon.
"Shit!" Ramon cursed, trying to pull his leg free. "What the hell are you?"
The undead's jaws snapped open, revealing bloodstained teeth. With a sickening crunch, it sank its teeth into Ramon's calf. Ramon screamed, pain and terror flooding his senses. He tried to beat the undead away, but another one appeared from the shadows, this one moving with an unnervingly brisk pace.
"No! Get away from me!" Ramon pleaded, his voice rising in desperation. The second infected lunged, sinking its teeth into his shoulder. Ramon's screams echoed across the empty docks, mingling with the sounds of tearing flesh and gnashing teeth.
The two 'zombies' feasted on Ramon, their growls and his screams creating a horrific symphony. Blood pooled around him, his struggles growing weaker as the life drained from his body. The dock, once a place of mundane labor, had become a scene of unspeakable carnage.
Meanwhile, a third 'zombie', dressed in tattered clothing and with a camera slung uselessly around its neck, staggered aimlessly along the waterfront. Its eyes, once sharp and focused, now held only the emptiness of undeath. It wandered, driven by a primal hunger, searching for its next victim among the quiet streets of the sleeping town.
The dockside's usual tranquility was shattered as more dock workers emerged from their stations, drawn by the commotion. As they approached, horror etched across their faces as they witnessed the gruesome scene. Before they could react, the infected horde turned their attention to the newcomers.
"Help! Someone help us!" cried one of the workers, his voice filled with desperation as he tried to fend off the approaching undeads.
But their cries for help went unanswered. The undead moved with a terrifying purpose, their once human faces now twisted into grotesque masks of hunger. They lunged at the workers with relentless ferocity, biting and tearing into flesh.
Another worker, brandishing a large crowbar, managed to knock one of the infected to the ground. "Get back! Stay away from us!" he shouted, but his bravado was short-lived. Another undead grabbed him from behind, its teeth sinking into his neck.
The worker screamed, the sound gurgling as blood filled his throat.
The remaining workers tried to flee, but the undead were faster. One by one, they were dragged down, their screams echoing through the night. Blood splattered across the dock, mixing with the saltwater and staining the wooden planks.
Within minutes, the dock was littered with the bodies of the fallen, the once busy and noisy area now eerily silent. The 'zombies', their hunger momentarily sated, turned their dead eyes towards the lights of a nearby town.
In the dead of night, with no more sounds of struggle and no visible workers left alive, the horde began its slow, methodical march towards the town. The 'infecteds' moved with a singular, disturbing purpose, their shambling gait echoing ominously in the still night air.
The streets of the small town were quiet, most of its residents tucked safely in their homes, unaware of the horde creeping towards them. Streetlights cast long shadows across the empty roads, the occasional flicker adding to the eerie atmosphere.
The 'zombie' dressed as a cameraman led the way, its vacant eyes scanning the deserted streets for signs of life. Behind it, the rest of the infected followed, a grotesque parade of death and decay.
As they moved deeper into the town, the scent of human flesh grew stronger, driving the undead's hunger to new heights. They passed by darkened windows and locked doors, their groans growing louder as they sensed their next meal was near.
A lone figure, a night shift worker returning home, turned a corner and froze at the sight of the approaching horde. "What the...?" he muttered, backing away in terror. Before he could react, the undead descended upon him, their teeth and claws tearing into his flesh with savage fury. His screams pierced the night, a harbinger of the terror that was about to unfold in the unsuspecting town.
The undead continued their march, leaving the mangled body of their latest victim behind. Their eyes fixed on the silhouette of humans near the windows, where more unsuspecting souls stood, unaware of the nightmare about to descend upon them.
Thus, a plague of undead, slowly walks the Earth.
...
Word count: 2064