2nd July 2026
The cold from the wall seeped into my back as I stirred awake, groggy and disoriented. My neck ached from the awkward position I'd slept in, leaning against the glass door. For a fleeting moment, I forgot where I was. Then it hit me: the silence, the blood-streaked walls, and Johan's absence—swept away with the horde last night.
I stayed still, my ears straining for sounds. The guttural moans and occasional shuffling of zombies outside the newsroom were fewer now. It wasn't much of a comfort, though. The tension clung to the air, thick and suffocating. I didn't dare move for a while, just watching the faint light spill through the shattered windows and creep across the floor.
The monitor beside me hummed faintly, the words "USA Has Fallen" flashing in bold red. They looped endlessly, a stark reminder of the chaos outside. My stomach churned as I thought about it. What hope did we have if the strongest nation on Earth couldn't stop this?
The world wasn't just falling—it was being devoured, piece by piece. Cities crumbled under the weight of the infected hordes, and nations that once boasted unshakable power were reduced to nothing but desperate screams on flickering screens. Yet, the apocalypse outside felt distant compared to the war waging within me. My stomach ached with a gnawing hunger that wouldn't subside, and my throat burned, dry, and raw, each breath feeling like sandpaper. Every groan from my own body felt louder than the chaos beyond these walls, a cruel reminder of how fragile survival truly was.
The newsroom was unnervingly still. I reached out to the desk beside me for support, pulling myself up slowly. My legs trembled from two days of near-immobility, and every joint in my body protested. I stayed close to the wall, leaning against it as I surveyed the room. The shattered glass on the floor glinted in the sunlight, each shard a reflection of the world's broken state.
On one of the larger monitors across the room, muted news clips continued to play. I found myself drawn to them, shuffling forward cautiously. The feed alternated between live footage and pre-recorded clips, each more horrifying than the last.
Video 1: A crowded street somewhere in New York. A man, bitten on the arm, staggered backward as a woman tried to help him. Within seconds, he convulsed violently, his eyes glazing over. He lunged at her, his teeth sinking into her shoulder. The crowd scattered, screams erupting as the infection spread like wildfire.
Immediate conversion. The bitten changed in seconds, just like Johan.
Video 2: A man sitting in his living room, recording himself on a phone. He looked pale, sweating profusely as he described being scratched by an "infected stranger". Hours passed on the video timestamp, and his symptoms worsened—dark veins appearing on his neck, his voice growing raspy. But the transformation wasn't instant. It took time.
My mind raced, trying to piece it together. Why the difference? Some turned immediately, while others… lingered. The thought gnawed at me. Was it the nature of the bite? The location of the wound? Or something else entirely?
Video 3: A security camera feed from a grocery store. A woman collapsed near the bottled water section, clutching her stomach. Moments later, she began convulsing. No visible bite, no scratch. But she turned, attacking the horrified shoppers around her.
I stumbled back, the weight of the realization hitting me. Not everyone needed to be bitten. There were other ways. The infection wasn't just spreading—it was evolving and maybe somebody is infecting places where the infected can't reach.
The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in. I leaned against a desk, trying to steady my breathing. Outside, the occasional groans of the undead persisted, but they seemed distant compared to the chaos playing out on the screens. Each video was a puzzle piece, and the picture they formed was far more terrifying than anything I'd imagined.
I needed to clear my head. Slowly, I began pacing the room, staying close to the walls. My steps echoed faintly, a reminder of how empty this place had become. Each circle I made brought me back to the same thought: Why had Johan turned so quickly? The person in the video had taken hours, maybe longer. Was it the proximity to death? The nature of the virus?
I stopped in front of the large glass windows overlooking the street below. The city was unrecognizable. Fires burned in the distance, smoke rising into the sky like ominous beacons. Cars were abandoned mid-intersection, their doors flung open. A few stray figures shuffled aimlessly on the pavement, their jerky movements unmistakable.
I thought of the girl from yesterday—her screams, the way the horde had surged after her. Could I save her? Hell, I couldn't even save myself. But I couldn't stay here forever. There is no food, and every second I spent here felt like borrowed time.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I'd go out. I didn't know where, but anywhere had to be better than this. I'd find supplies, maybe other survivors.
I sank back down against the wall, exhaustion pulling at me. The monitors still flashed their grim headlines, but I turned away from them. The world was falling apart, and I was just a speck caught in its collapse.
As my eyes grew heavy, I clung to one thought: Tomorrow, I'd move. Tomorrow, I'd start surviving.
For now, I'd sleep. And hope the silence would last a little longer.