After seeing the city that was once lively and beautiful now overtaken by chaos and madness, Ivan felt an urgent need to connect with his uncle, Robert, who owned the large apartment and often helped Ivan and his grandfather financially.
He dialed Robert's number with trembling fingers. The line rang several times, each second stretching his anxiety further. Finally, Robert answered.
"Hello? Uncle Rob, where are you?" Ivan's voice was a mixture of relief and desperation.
"Ivan? Thank God you're safe! I'm at a mall right now; they've closed all the gates," Robert said, his voice tinged with both relief and tension. The background noise on the call revealed a cacophony of muffled announcements and distant shouting, painting a picture of the chaotic scene at the mall.
Ivan let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "What's happening? Could you go to the hospital and see how Gramps is doing?" His voice quickened, laced with concern as he recalled his grandfather's last, cryptic message.
Robert hesitated before replying, "I'm trying, but they won't open the mall's gates. They're saying something about infected people, biting, and savagery. It's insane here, Ivan."
Ivan's heart sank, but he tried to stay calm. "Don't worry about him for now. Didn't I tell you about that time in high school when he beat up five guys who were bigger than him? He's tough. Just be careful and stay inside. Let me handle it."
Robert chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. "Yeah, I remember. Your Gramps is one tough old man. Okay, I'll stay put. You be careful too."
Ivan managed a weak smile, feeling a bit reassured. "O-okay then, be safe too..."
They both hung up, each trying to brace themselves for what lay ahead. Ivan put his phone down and took a deep breath, trying to process the conversation.
The news continued to play in the background, the anchor's voice providing a grim soundtrack to the unfolding nightmare. Ivan knew he needed to make a plan. He glanced around his apartment, taking stock of his supplies. He had some food, water, and basic medical supplies, but he wasn't sure how long they would last.
Suddenly, a knocking sound broke the uneasy silence, followed by a desperate voice.
"Ivan! Help me, please!"
Bang, bang, bang.
"Ivan!!"
Ivan's heart raced as he recognized the voice. It was his neighbor, Ms. Henderson. He rushed to the door and peeked through the peephole. Ms. Henderson stood there, clutching her left arm, which was covered in blood. Her face was pale, eyes wide with fear.
Ivan hesitated, his mind racing. The sight of blood triggered his OCD. His first thought was of the unsanitary nature of the situation. The fear of contamination gripped him, making it hard to think clearly.
This had always been his problem, stopping him from socializing and helping people when they needed it most. His compulsive need for cleanliness and order now seemed like an insurmountable barrier.
"Ivan, please!" Ms. Henderson's voice was weak, her pounding on the door becoming more frantic.
He clenched his fists, trying to summon the courage to open the door. He couldn't just leave her out there. He knew she needed help, and fast. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to push past his fears.
"Hold on, Ms. Henderson. I'm going to help you," he called out, his voice trembling.
He grabbed a pair of latex gloves from his kitchen drawer and put them on, hoping they would provide enough of a barrier to ease his anxiety. Then he unlocked the door and opened it slightly, just enough to let her in.
Ms. Henderson stumbled inside, clutching her arm tightly. Ivan quickly shut and locked the door behind her. "What happened?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
"I... I was attacked," she gasped. "Someone bit me. I tried to fight them off, but..."
Ivan's stomach churned. A bite. That was one of the symptoms mentioned in the news. He tried to push the thought away, focusing instead on helping her. "Okay, let's get you cleaned up," he said, guiding her to the bathroom.
His hands shook as he gathered first aid supplies. The sight of the blood and the thought of the infection gnawed at him, but he forced himself to stay focused. He carefully cleaned her wound, trying to be as gentle as possible. The wound looked deep, and he knew she needed more help than he could provide.
When he finished bandaging her wound, Ms. Henderson's face contorted in discomfort. She gagged, her hand instinctively going to her mouth.
"I don't feel so good…" she said, her voice weak and strained.
Ivan's mind immediately raced. Not on my floor! he thought, panic rising. This day was already one of his worst, and the thought of someone vomiting in his apartment was almost more than he could handle. Memories of a similar incident flashed in his mind: when he was 15, a boy playing in the mud accidentally touched his clothes. He had refused to leave his room for days after that, too disgusted and overwhelmed to face the outside world.
Ms. Henderson's voice pulled him back to the present. "Could you guide me to your bathroom?" she asked, her pallor worsening.
Ivan swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure. "Of course," he replied, forcing a calm tone into his voice. He stood and helped her up, guiding her slowly towards the bathroom. Each step felt like a monumental effort as he battled his overwhelming urge to recoil from the potential mess.
As they reached the bathroom door, Ms. Henderson leaned heavily on Ivan, her legs trembling. He turned on the light and led her inside, making sure she was stable before releasing his hold.
"Thank you," she whispered, sinking to her knees in front of the toilet.
Ivan stepped back, hovering near the doorway. His stomach churned, and he clenched his fists to keep himself grounded. He watched as she retched, her body heaving with the effort. The sound and sight of it made him want to flee, but he forced himself to stay.
After a few minutes, Ms. Henderson slumped back, her forehead resting against the cool porcelain. "I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice barely audible.
Ivan took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. "It's okay," he said, though every fiber of his being screamed otherwise. "Do you need anything? Water, maybe?"
''Yes please"
He quickly closed the bathroom door to avoid seeing Ms. Henderson's retching, fearing that the sight might trigger his own nausea from disgust. His hands were still shaking as he hurried to the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and took a moment to steady his nerves. The TV was still on, the news anchor's grave voice providing a grim backdrop.
"The symptoms to watch for include high fever, intense disorientation, aggressive behavior, and vomiting," the anchor said gravely. "Authorities urge anyone exhibiting these symptoms to seek immediate medical attention and avoid contact with others."
Ivan's heart sank as he made the connection. Ms. Henderson had a wound that was bleeding, and now she was vomiting and looking increasingly disoriented. The sight of her condition, combined with the horrifying news, filled him with dread. He hurried back to the bathroom, holding the glass of water in his trembling hands.
As he approached the bathroom door, a low, guttural growl emanated from within, sending a chill down his spine. It was a sound unlike anything he'd heard before—animalistic and raw. Ivan's breath quickened as he knocked on the door, trying to keep his voice steady. "Ms. Henderson, are you alright?"
The only response was a louder growl, more menacing and feral than before. Ivan could hear the sound of something scraping against the door from the inside, accompanied by the thud of Ms. Henderson's body slamming against it with unnatural force.
The door rattled violently, and Ivan stumbled backward, dropping the glass of water. It shattered on the floor, the sound sharp and discordant against the background noise of growls and desperate pounding. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing his rising panic.
"What the hell!?" Ivan shouted, but the door continued to shake, the sounds from within growing more frenzied and aggressive. The growls were now punctuated by a series of erratic thumps, as if something—or someone—inside was struggling with an inner turmoil or trying to escape.
Ivan could feel the sweat on his forehead and the cold clamminess of his palms as he backed away from the door, his mind racing. The symptoms described on the news were all too evident in Ms. Henderson's condition. His thoughts were a jumble of fear and helplessness. The reality of the situation was closing in on him, pressing down with a weight he could barely comprehend.
Fear gripped Ivan as he stumbled into the living room, his eyes fixed on the bathroom door. The cacophony from within grew more frantic with each passing second. The relentless thudding and guttural growls heightened his anxiety, making it clear that Ms. Henderson's condition was deteriorating rapidly. He couldn't afford to let her out—her behavior was too dangerous, and he had to protect himself.
The TV continued its grim broadcast in the background, the news anchor's voice cutting through the chaos with a chilling reminder. "If necessary, use force to defend yourself," the anchor said, her tone cold and authoritative. The message was a stark reminder of the severity of the situation.
Ivan's heart raced as he went to the kitchen, his hands trembling uncontrollably. He grabbed the largest knife from the knife block, its cold metal a small comfort against his jittery grip. The blade, sharp and menacing, now felt like his only means of protection in this nightmarish scenario.
Returning to the living room, he positioned himself near the bathroom door, knife ready. The sounds from within grew louder and more desperate. Each new noise—a thud, a growl—was a reminder of how fragile his safety was. He backed away slightly, keeping his eyes locked on the door. The fear was palpable, settling deep in his chest as he tried to steady his breathing.
The growls from the bathroom grew more erratic. The rattling of the door was now accompanied by the sound of scratching, as if something was desperately trying to claw its way out. Ivan's mind raced as he considered his next move. The thought of having to use the knife was terrifying, but he knew he had to be prepared to defend himself if necessary.
He tightened his grip on the knife, steeling himself for a confrontation he hoped would never come. The reality of his situation hit him hard—it was not just a normal emergency; it was a life-threatening crisis that could escalate at any moment. Every creak and scrape from the bathroom made him flinch. His nerves were frayed, and his thoughts were a jumbled mess of fear, confusion, and desperation.
Ivan's mind was a whirlwind of panic and memories. The thought of having to use the knife against Ms. Henderson, someone who had been his neighbor for years, was unbearable. The weight of the decision he had to make felt crushing. A childhood memory flashed before his eyes: he was twelve years old, and a roach had invaded the bathroom. The sight of it had filled him with such dread that he refused to use the bathroom until his grandfather dealt with the insect. His fear of that tiny creature had been so paralyzing that he couldn't bring himself to act.
Comparing that to his current situation was jarring. How could he, someone who had struggled to deal with a mere roach, possibly face down a person infected with a deadly pathogen? His hands shook violently, and the knife felt like an alien object in his grip. "What am I even supposed to do?" he muttered to himself, his voice trembling with fear and indecision.
Ivan listened intently to the sounds coming from the bathroom. The relentless bangs and scratches were mixed with occasional guttural noises, each one a sign of Ms. Henderson's escalating distress. It was clear the situation was deteriorating rapidly. The fact that she couldn't open the door, despite it not being locked, only added to the mounting pressure and fear.
He peered through the peephole, trying to gauge the situation without getting too close. The dim light of the bathroom cast eerie shadows, making it difficult to see clearly. The sounds from within were relentless, and Ivan's heart pounded in his chest. The knife in his hand felt more like a burden than a weapon.
Suddenly, a new sound pierced the air—a distant, frantic commotion from outside his apartment. Ivan's heart leaped as he heard the sounds of running and screaming, quickly moving to lock the door. His hands shook uncontrollably as he secured it, the growls and screams of pain growing louder and more disorienting.
He approached the peephole, cautiously peering through it to make sense of the chaos unfolding outside. What he saw was a horrifying tableau of desperation and fear:
Several people were running down the hallway, their faces etched with terror. They were fleeing from something—or someone—chasing them. Their movements were frantic and erratic, their clothes torn and stained. One person brandished a makeshift weapon, swinging it wildly as they ran.
In the distance, Ivan saw figures moving with a jerky, unnatural gait. They seemed disoriented and aggressive, their bodies covered in blood and wounds. These figures emitted guttural growls and roars, their appearance sending a chill down Ivan's spine. The corridor outside was a nightmarish battleground, filled with the shrill screams of people in agony, the guttural growls of the pursuing figures, and the sounds of furniture being overturned or smashed.
Ivan's grip on the knife tightened as he tried to calm his racing thoughts. The danger was unmistakable, and the reality of his situation hit him hard. Trapped in his apartment with an infected neighbor in the bathroom and a terrifying scene unfolding just outside his door, he had to stay hidden and quiet.