Jack woke up to a muffled thumping noise. For a second, he thought it was his door, but it wasn't. The sound was coming from somewhere else—maybe down the hall, maybe the apartment above him. He sat up slowly, running a hand over his face. Outside, the rain had thinned to a steady drizzle, and the light peeking through the curtains was weak and gray.
His TV was still on. A news anchor sat rigid behind the desk, the makeup caked on her pale face doing little to hide the tension in her expression. The words scrolling across the bottom of the screen were the same ones he'd seen last night:
Reports of violent altercations have increased overnight. Residents advised to remain vigilant.
Jack rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, catching snippets of the anchor's voice.
"…local hospitals are overwhelmed. Authorities are working to manage the situation. Stay tuned for updates…"
The feed cut to a shaky cell phone video of a crowd outside a hospital entrance. People were shouting, pushing against a thin line of police officers trying to hold them back. In the foreground, a woman screamed into the camera, something about her son needing help.
Jack groaned and turned the volume down. He hated starting the day like this. The world was always on fire somewhere, and the news made damn sure you knew about it. Whatever was going on this time, it didn't matter. It wasn't his problem.
He got up, the floor cold under his feet as he shuffled to the kitchen. His coffee maker wheezed as it dripped the last dregs of a pot he'd made late last night. He poured himself a mug, black and bitter, just the way he liked it. Lighting a cigarette, he moved to the window and stared out at the city below.
Even through the drizzle, something about the streets seemed… wrong. It wasn't empty, not completely, but the usual rhythms were off. A woman was walking briskly along the sidewalk, holding her umbrella so tightly that her knuckles were white. A car sped through an intersection, splashing water across the crosswalk. Another followed close behind, its horn blaring.
Jack frowned, his cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. Maybe he was just reading too much into things. The rain had a way of making everything look bleaker than it really was.
His phone buzzed on the counter, snapping him out of his thoughts. He picked it up to find a text from Shelly.
"Don't forget to pick up supplies today. Also, maybe avoid downtown—it's nuts out there."
He smirked. Shelly had always been dramatic, but she was usually right about the important stuff. Supplies. That was a good excuse to get out of the apartment for a bit, stretch his legs, maybe clear his head. He stubbed out his cigarette, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door.
The hardware store parking lot was fuller than Jack expected. As he stepped out of his truck, he noticed the tension immediately. People moved with purpose, grabbing carts and hurrying inside, their heads low. The air felt heavy, the kind of quiet that warned something wasn't right.
Inside, the usual order of the aisles had devolved into chaos. Jack had been here a dozen times, but he'd never seen it like this. Shelves were half-empty, boxes and loose items scattered across the floor. People crowded around the flashlights and battery displays, snatching items as soon as they were stocked.
Jack moved through the aisles, trying to ignore the low hum of nervous chatter.
"…my neighbor said they found a guy bleeding in his backyard, just standing there…"
"…can't even get through to the police. It's all automated messages now…"
"…it's spreading faster than they're saying. My cousin works at the hospital—they're locking it down…"
He grabbed what he needed—some welding supplies, a box of screws—and got in line. A loud argument broke out near the registers, an older man yelling at the store clerk.
"You can't charge me double for this! This is illegal!"
"Sir, I don't set the prices," the clerk replied, his voice thin with exhaustion.
Jack stared at his boots, wishing the line would move faster. This place was suffocating. Everyone here was just barely holding it together, and he wanted no part of it.
The rain picked up again as Jack got back into his truck. He tossed his supplies onto the passenger seat and started the engine, the rumble steady and reassuring. As he pulled out of the parking lot, he flipped on the radio, letting the soft strains of classic rock fill the cab.
The roads were quieter now, but the tension hadn't eased. He kept his eyes on the drizzle-streaked windshield, trying to shake the unease. Then he saw it.
A man stumbled out into the street ahead of him, soaked from head to toe. Jack slowed down, squinting through the rain. The guy was moving oddly, his steps jerky and uneven, his head lolling from side to side. His clothes were soaked through, but the dark stains on his shirt didn't look like rainwater.
Jack rolled to a stop, gripping the wheel. The man turned slightly, just enough for Jack to see his face—or what was left of it. His skin was pale, his eyes wide and unblinking. Blood streaked his mouth and chin, and his teeth were bared in a grimace that sent a chill down Jack's spine.
Without warning, the man lurched forward, slamming into the hood of a parked car. The impact didn't slow him down. He clawed at the metal, leaving streaks of blood with every swipe.
"Jesus Christ," Jack muttered.
Movement in the rearview mirror caught his eye. Another figure was sprinting down the street, arms flailing. Jack's heart raced as the runner collided with the first man, tackling him to the ground.
For a moment, Jack thought it was some kind of rescue. But then the runner lunged forward, biting into the other man's neck.
Jack slammed the gas, his truck lurching forward as he left the scene behind.
When he finally pulled into the garage beneath his building, Jack's hands were trembling. He sat there for a moment, the engine idling as he tried to make sense of what he'd just seen.
The elevator ride up felt longer than usual. Jack's phone buzzed again as he stepped out into the hallway. Another text from Shelly.
"Turn on the news when you get home. Shit's getting crazy."
He unlocked his door, tossed his keys onto the counter, and collapsed onto the couch. The TV flickered to life, the same grim anchor from this morning now visibly shaken.
"…if you're just tuning in, we urge you to stay indoors and lock your doors. Authorities are still working to understand the cause of these incidents, but initial reports suggest the possibility of a new contagion…"
Jack leaned forward, lighting another cigarette with shaky hands. Outside his window, the rain fell harder, and somewhere in the distance, a faint scream echoed through the night.
Jack froze, the cigarette halfway to his lips. The scream wasn't the kind of sound you could ignore—it cut through the steady hiss of the rain like a razor. High-pitched, desperate, and then… silence.
He stood slowly, moving to the window, the glowing ember of his cigarette lighting the darkness of his apartment. His eyes scanned the street below. The rain streaked his view, but he could make out the faint forms of people moving—no, running. A group of three sprinted down the sidewalk, their footsteps splashing through shallow puddles. One of them looked over their shoulder, and even from up here, Jack could sense their panic.
Behind them came another figure, moving faster than seemed natural, jerking forward in uneven bursts like a predator closing in. Jack squinted, his stomach twisting. The chaser's body was gaunt, its arms swinging wildly as it ran. When it closed the gap, it launched itself onto the last person in the group, tackling them into the wet pavement.
Jack stepped back from the window, his heart pounding. This wasn't normal. This wasn't just another night in the city. Whatever was happening wasn't contained to a few hospital rumors or vague news reports. It was spreading, fast.
He paced the room, his cigarette burning down to a stub. The news anchor droned on in the background, her voice shaky as she tried to maintain professionalism.
"…unconfirmed reports from across the city suggest that law enforcement is struggling to respond to the increasing number of violent incidents. Citizens are advised to stay indoors and avoid all contact with individuals exhibiting erratic or aggressive behavior…"
Jack tossed the cigarette into the ashtray and grabbed his phone, scrolling through the local news app. Every headline seemed more dire than the last:
"Violence Spreads Downtown: Police Stations Overwhelmed"
"Emergency Rooms at Capacity: 'We Can't Handle the Influx'"
"Rumors of Contagion Stir Panic"
One post, buried among the chaos, caught his eye. It wasn't from a news outlet, just someone on a local forum.
"If you're in the city, GET OUT. My brother's a cop, and he says it's worse than they're letting on. People aren't just sick—they're… attacking each other. Like animals. He told me to leave before it gets worse."
Jack's grip tightened on his phone. He didn't know this person, and internet rumors were usually worth less than nothing, but the unease he'd felt all day was settling into something heavier.
He moved back to the window, peering out cautiously. The streetlights cast a pale, sickly glow over the rain-soaked pavement. The group he'd seen earlier was gone, but the figure that had tackled one of them remained. It knelt in the middle of the sidewalk, hunched over something Jack couldn't see clearly.
And then, slowly, it lifted its head.
Jack's breath caught in his throat. Even from here, the thing's face looked wrong—distorted, slack-jawed, with dark streaks running down its chin. It tilted its head upward, its empty eyes scanning the buildings, and for a moment, Jack swore it was looking directly at him.
He stumbled back from the window, his pulse hammering in his ears.
"This is crazy," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. "You're jumping at shadows."
But deep down, he knew that wasn't true.
He turned back to the TV, hoping for clarity, but the news feed had changed. The anchor was gone, replaced by a "Technical Difficulties" screen. The room suddenly felt too quiet, the rain outside too distant.
Jack moved to the kitchen, grabbing the half-empty bottle of whiskey from the counter. He poured a generous splash into a glass, his hand shaking slightly as he brought it to his lips. The warmth of the alcohol didn't help much.
From the street below came another noise—not a scream this time, but the sound of glass shattering. Jack tensed, setting the glass down carefully.
Grabbing the baseball bat he kept by the door, he moved back to the window, pressing himself against the wall as he peered out. Down the block, a storefront window had been broken, shards of glass glittering on the wet pavement. Two figures were climbing inside, their movements frantic. Looters, maybe. That was normal, right? People always looted when things went south.
But then he saw something else. A third figure appeared, limping toward the broken window. Its gait was uneven, like its legs didn't work properly. One of the looters turned, yelling something Jack couldn't hear. The limping figure didn't stop.
It grabbed the looter by the shoulders and pulled him to the ground. The second looter screamed and bolted, leaving his friend behind. Jack couldn't look away as the limping figure crouched over its victim, jerking and twitching as if…
Jack turned from the window, his stomach churning. He didn't want to think about what he'd just seen.
The TV snapped back to life behind him, but it wasn't the news anchor this time. It was an emergency broadcast, the mechanical voice cold and detached.
"This is an emergency alert. Residents are advised to remain indoors and lock all doors and windows. Avoid contact with individuals exhibiting erratic or violent behavior. Do not attempt to intervene. Further instructions will follow."
The message repeated, over and over.
Jack stared at the screen, the baseball bat still in his hand. For the first time in years, he felt genuinely afraid. Whatever was happening, it wasn't normal. It wasn't something you could just wait out.
He moved to the door and double-checked the lock. Then he checked the windows, pulling the curtains shut. He knew it wouldn't stop anything, not really, but it made him feel a little better.
Sitting back on the couch, Jack picked up his phone again and scrolled through his contacts. He didn't know who he was planning to call—maybe Shelly, maybe one of the old friends he hadn't talked to in months—but his thumb hovered over the screen, hesitating. What would he even say?
Instead, he set the phone down and grabbed the whiskey. Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing the streets clean of everything except the growing chaos.