"White"

The last color I saw before everything fell apart. The rhythmic beeping of the machine beside my roommate was my only comfort, the only thing keeping the silence at bay—until they appeared.

Story Start

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly, casting a sterile glow over the hospital room. The air smelled of disinfectant, sickness, and something else—something I couldn't quite place. The rhythmic beeping of machines droned on, a cruel reminder of the slow march of time.

"It's just a broken leg, for Christ's sake." My voice cut through the sterile quiet of the hospital room, frustration laced in every word.

"Why the hell do I have to be stuck here for a week?" I groaned, my irritation boiling over.

A raspy voice cut through my rant, rough and tired. "Can you… fucking shut up?" It was quiet, but the weight behind it was enough to make me freeze. "At least let me die in peace."

I turned my head slowly, suddenly aware of just how little I had paid attention to my roommate, Marcus, before now.

I glanced over at him. His skin was waxy, stretched too thin over his bones, and his eyes were dull, sunken. A faint, unpleasant odor clung to him—like something left out too long. I told myself it was just sickness. Just decay from within. But still… something about it made my stomach turn.

I sighed. "You're right. My bad." I did feel for the guy. Dying alone in a hospital room? No visitors, no one waiting for him outside? That wasn't a fate I'd wish on anyone.

"Still, I don't get it. I can take care of myself. Instead, I'm stuck here listening to the beeping like some kind of death countdown." I sighed, shifting uncomfortably in bed.

Patience was never my strong suit, and maybe this was my punishment for it—forced to endure the same dull routine every day. I let out a dry chuckle at my own joke, more to keep myself from losing it than anything else. Screw it. I needed a distraction.

I fumbled for the call button clipped to the side of my bed and pressed it. A few moments later, the intercom crackled.

"Yes?"

The voice on the intercom was flat, indifferent, as if whoever was on the other end was barely paying attention.

"Hey, the remote's gone. Can someone turn on the TV?" A long pause. Then, an exasperated sigh crackled through the speaker, heavy with impatience.

"Is this an emergency?"

I rolled my eyes. "No, but I'm losing my mind here."

Another pause. A reluctant sigh, drawn out like they were weighing the effort of dealing with me. "Sure, I'll send someone over."

The intercom clicked off, leaving me alone with the steady beeping of the monitors. I exhaled, settling back into my pillow, staring at the ceiling.

A few minutes passed in silence. Then, without warning, static crackled through the speaker, sharp and grating like nails on glass.

I frowned. That was new.

The sound sent a prickle of unease down my spine. I waited, fingers gripping the bed sheets as boredom turned to discomfort. Then, I pressed the call button again.

"Hello? Did you already send someone?"

The same voice responded, but something was wrong. There was an edge to it now—a strained tightness, a mix of fear and urgency barely held in check.

"I'm sorry, but we have no available personnel at the moment. A large number of patients are currently experie—"

The intercom cut out abruptly, leaving the last syllable unfinished, swallowed by dead air.

I sat up, unease curling in my gut like a clenched fist. What the hell was that?

A few seconds passed. Then—

"Sir!" The voice came back, but this time, it was frantic. "Are you okay? Are you still in your room?"

My pulse spiked. "Yeah? What the hell is going on?"

Shouting erupted in the background, voices overlapping, tangled in confusion and fear. A crash, then another. Someone screamed—a raw, desperate sound that made my blood turn to ice.

"Get security up now!" a voice barked. More static. More voices.

Then, one voice cut through the chaos. A man, furious and terrified all at once.

"The fuck? Get away from me, you freak! Don't touc—"

A sharp gasp. Then… nothing.

The intercom went silent.

I waited, gripping the sheets in a vice-like hold.

It didn't come back on.

It never would.

"What the hell's going on?" I muttered, shifting uncomfortably in bed.

I turned to Marcus, hoping he had some insight. "What do you make of it, man?"

He didn't answer. Didn't even look at me. He just stared at the wall, his expression empty.

A strange, uneasy feeling crept up my spine. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. Had he always breathed like that? The sickly sheen on his skin looked worse now—greener, like spoiled meat.

I sighed and lay back, trying to shake the tension from my body. Whatever's going on, it'll fix itself, I told myself. I'll just sleep it off and wake up when everything's normal again.

Then—

COUGH!

The sharp, guttural sound shattered the silence, jolting me upright. My head snapped toward Marcus.

COUGH! COUGH! COUGH!

His entire body convulsed violently with each hack, his frail frame jerking like a puppet with its strings yanked too hard. His chest heaved, his ribcage rising and falling in erratic spasms, as if something inside him was trying to claw its way out.

His breathing turned ragged, wet—like he was drowning in his own lungs.

"Hey, man—hang in there." My pulse spiked. Panic bled into my voice.

I wanted to help. I had to help. But what the hell could I do? I wasn't a doctor. I had no medical expertise. And the intercom—

The intercom was dead.

The silence from it was suffocating. A cruel contrast to the sounds of someone choking to death just a few feet away.

I clenched my fists. Think. Do something.

"Hold on, I'll get someone."

I swung my legs over the bed, but the second I put weight on them—

THUD.

Agony shot up my broken leg like wildfire, sending a searing jolt straight through my bones. My body crumpled instantly, slamming onto the cold tile floor.

"Fuck…!"

I gritted my teeth, sucking in sharp breaths as I pushed myself onto my elbows. My leg screamed in protest, but I ignored it. I had bigger problems.

Then—

Silence.

The coughing had stopped.

A wave of relief started to wash over me… but it didn't last.

Because if Marcus wasn't coughing anymore, that meant one of two things.

Either he was fine.

Or he was dead.

A cold weight settled in my stomach. My mouth felt dry.

I swallowed hard.

"…Yo, man… you okay?"

I gazed at Marcus' body, confusion washing over me. His skin sagged, drained of color—not pale like a sick man, but like meat left out in the sun. His veins were dark, pulsing, as if something inside him was trying to crawl free. A sickly, gray-brown hue had set in, veins darkening beneath the surface. His lips had peeled back slightly, revealing teeth that looked longer than they should.

Then, he moved.

I wish he hadn't.

A series of cracks and pops echoed through the room as his joints jerked unnaturally. His neck twisted too far to the side before snapping back with a sickening jolt.

In a fraction of a second, he lunged out of bed and crashed onto the floor beside me.

"FUCK FUCK FUCK—WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!?"

Adrenaline hit me like a truck. I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the searing pain in my leg.

"Cut it out, man!" I shouted, grabbing the nearest IV pole as a makeshift weapon. Not that I had the guts to use it.

Marcus—who, just moments ago, could barely move—was now twisting, his body contorting in ways no human should. Then, with a frantic jerk, he stood up. His limbs spasmed as he lunged at me again, mouth wide open—aiming to bite.

I barely dodged in time as Marcus crashed onto my bed, rolling off the other side with a sickening thud. My mind raced.

What the hell is this thing? Is this still Marcus?

No. This… this wasn't happening. It couldn't be.

Marcus was sick. That's all. Maybe he was having a seizure or some kind of violent reaction. Maybe… maybe he was still in there.

I grabbed the IV pole, gripping it so tightly my knuckles ached. "Marcus," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. "Come on, man. Talk to me."

He jerked again—spasming, twitching, his head tilting at an unnatural angle. No recognition in his eyes. No pain, no fear. Just… hunger.

Cold dread pooled in my stomach, thick and choking. My breath hitched. My fingers trembled around the IV pole

This wasn't Marcus anymore.

I tightened my grip on the IV pole. I didn't want to do this. I shouldn't have to do this.

But if I didn't, I was dead.

But my hands still shook.

I tightened my grip on the IV pole, but the thought of swinging it—of bashing in the head of the man I'd just shared a room with—made bile rise in my throat. He was already dead, wasn't he? Was I about to kill someone who was already gone?

No. That thing standing before me—it had Marcus' face, but Marcus was gone. And if I didn't move now, I would be too.

The problem? I stood no chance in a fight. Even in perfect condition, I wasn't exactly a fighter—and with a broken leg, I was as good as dead in a fair brawl.

I needed a plan. Fast.

The best I could hope for was to make him trip again, giving me an opening. If that even worked.

Still, I'd rather die trying than just die.

No way in hell was I about to be torn apart by a rotting old man.

I had no time to waste. If I wanted to survive, I needed more than just blind luck—I needed a real plan.

I could try placing a chair in his way, hoping he'd trip over it. Or maybe I could bait him into lunging at me again and pray he'd crash into something. But those ideas relied too much on chance, and right now, I didn't have the luxury of gambling.

No. If I wanted to live, I had to take control. I had to trip him. I had to create my own opening and end this before he got the chance to tear me apart.

My heart pounded against my ribs, my grip tightening around the IV pole as I braced myself.

"Come at me, you fucker!" I roared, forcing more confidence into my voice than I actually felt.

The rotting husk that had once been Marcus twitched at the sound, his head snapping toward me in a jerky, unnatural motion. His milky, lifeless eyes locked onto mine, and for a brief second, I swore I saw nothing human left in them—just hunger.

A chill crawled down my spine, but I clenched my jaw.

Fear could paralyze me. And if I hesitated for even a second, I was dead.

Marcus let out a guttural snarl—a sound too deep, too raw to come from human lungs. Then, he moved.

Not like a man. Like a puppet whose strings had been yanked too hard. His joints popped, his spine jerking at unnatural angles as his feet barely skimmed the floor. His hospital gown, torn and stained, clung to his gaunt frame, fluttering with his erratic movements.

His fingers twitched—bone-thin, the nails cracked and blackened. And his mouth… dear God, his mouth. It stretched too wide, lips peeling back like torn leather, revealing gums shriveled and black. His teeth—longer now, jagged and wrong—snapped together like a bear trap, saliva thick and yellowing, dripping onto the tile.

And his eyes. Empty. Clouded. As if nothing human remained inside.

I held my ground.

Come to think of it, I'd never really stood up for myself before. I always let things happen, let people push me around. I was never the type to fight back.

And now? It took the literal end of the world for me to finally stop running.

Better late than never.