"Unity"
The last thing I expected from an apocalypse. But at least it's a positive one, to say the least. In a world where it feels like God has forsaken us, it's the only thing we can cling to.
Story Start
I knew that hitting Marcus head-on wouldn't be enough. A half-assed swing wouldn't kill him—it would only get me killed. If I was going to survive, my plan had to work.
I tightened my grip on the IV pole, my palms slick with sweat, my fingers trembling around the cold, metallic shaft. Marcus lurched forward again, his decaying body twisting unnaturally, bones cracking with each movement. His sunken eyes—clouded, inhuman—locked onto me, a wet, gurgling growl escaping his ruined throat. The stench of rot was overwhelming, a mixture of spoiled meat and death that clung to the sterile hospital air.
The sound of his approach—like wet meat slapping against tile—sent a violent shudder down my spine. No time to focus on that. No time for fear.
I steadied myself, sucked in a sharp breath, and swung.
CRACK!
His leg shattered like brittle wood, the jagged edges of his tibia piercing through necrotic flesh. He let out a strangled, choking sound as his body collapsed to the floor, his face hitting the cold tile with a sickening THUD.
I stared at his twitching form, my breath ragged, my heart slamming against my ribs. His limbs convulsed, fingers spasming against the blood-speckled linoleum. A sickly-colored fluid seeped from his shattered limb, pooling beneath him in a viscous, unnatural puddle. Not blood. Something else. Something wrong.
But there was no time to think about it. No time to hesitate.
I raised the IV pole above my head, gripping it like a spear, my pulse roaring in my ears. My breath hitched, and for a split second, I hesitated.
Then I thrust it down.
A wet, crunching sound echoed through the room. The pole sank deep into his skull, piercing through softened bone like a knife through rotten fruit. His body spasmed once, then stilled. The air was heavy, thick with the metallic tang of something unnatural.
"I did it… I fucking did it."
I stumbled back, my hands trembling, the IV pole still lodged in his skull. A part of me wanted to be horrified. Another part was relieved. Marcus was dead.
And then reality slammed back into me.
The intercom. The distant screaming. The chaos unraveling around me. This wasn't an isolated incident.
I staggered to the door, gripping the frame for balance. My leg screamed in pain, but adrenaline dulled the worst of it. I took one last look at Marcus' body, twisted and broken on the floor.
Then I stepped out.
And into hell.
The hallway was a battlefield.
People like Marcus—shambling, ravenous, wrong—were attacking anything that moved. Doctors and nurses, once fighting to save lives, were now forced to take them. Blood splattered across sterile white walls. A gurney slammed into the ground with a deafening crash as a nurse was tackled onto it, screaming. Teeth tore into flesh. Handprints dragged along the surface like someone had been clawing their way to safety. A gurney lay overturned, its wheels still spinning lazily. A doctor—his coat stained with crimson—was on the ground, his throat torn open, glassy eyes staring blankly at the ceiling as a hunched, snarling figure feasted on his insides.
Bodies. Everywhere. Some still twitching, others completely still, their flesh torn away in ragged chunks. The air was thick with the stench of iron, antiseptic, and decay.
Then they turned.
The dead—what was left of them—jerked toward me, their heads snapping unnaturally in my direction. Hollow eyes, slack jaws, and rotting teeth dripping with viscous fluids. They moved in sharp, erratic bursts, their bodies no longer bound by the same rules as the living.
"Oh, fuck me," I breathed.
No time to gawk.
Move. Now.
The ground floor was a death trap—I knew that much from the intercom chaos. And if this infection spread, that meant outside wasn't any better. Running out the front doors would be suicide.
That left one option.
I have to go up.
If I could reach the next floor and barricade myself inside, I might have a chance. Best case scenario? I hold out long enough for help to arrive.
Worst case?
"Don't think about that," I muttered to myself, shaking off the thought.
I turned sharply, sprinting toward the nearest stairwell, my leg screaming in protest. I could barely think beyond the thunderous pounding of my heart. But then—
Three of them.
They lunged out of a side hallway, dragging a man down as he let out a bloodcurdling scream. I skidded to a stop, panic clawing at my throat. That path's blocked.
"Shit, shit, shit!" I gasped, spinning on my heel.
No choice. I pivoted, forcing myself down another corridor. The hospital was a damn maze, and every second spent running blindly meant I was running out of time.
Suddenly, another three biters lunged out in front of me.
I had to take another detour, sprinting through the hospital's winding hallways, desperately scanning for signs that could lead me to the fourth floor. Every second counted. And with all this running, I had attracted a horde.
"Someone! Please… HELP!" I cried out, desperate for an escape.
The snarling grew louder. The sound of feet dragging, bodies slamming against walls as they scrambled toward me. The chaotic symphony of the dead closing in. My legs burned. My breath came in ragged gasps. My vision blurred at the edges.
They were gaining on me. The hospital was a damn maze, and the chaos around me was shifting. The sound of fighting was fading—replaced by guttural snarls and bloodcurdling screams.
That meant only one thing.
Most of the survivors were dead.
"Please… someone…" I gasped, my breath ragged, my legs burning. My adrenaline could only push me so far—especially with this broken leg.
Was this it?
I stumbled, my vision blurring. I regretted everything. Wasted time. Wasted chances. I wished I had lived more before all this happened.
Then—
CRASH!
A medical cart barreled into the hallway behind me, toppling over with a thunderous bang. The noise was deafening.
Before I could even process what had happened, they appeared.
Five figures—clad in scrubs, lab coats, and makeshift armor—rushed into view. One of them, a woman in blood-splattered scrubs, shoved another cart into place, forming a barricade. Another swung a crutch like a club, cracking it against a snapping jaw. They weren't soldiers. They weren't prepared for this.
But they fought like people who had no other choice.
"MOVE IT, DUMBASS!"
One of them, a tall man with a jagged gash across his temple, shouted at me.
I didn't hesitate. I ran.
My leg throbbed with agony, but I pushed forward with everything I had.
Behind me, the sounds of battle rang out. Then—
Silence.
I glanced over my shoulder.
Four of them were now running alongside me.
The fifth?
Gone.
The same person who had shouted at me was now barking directions as we ran.
I had no idea who they were.
But I knew one thing.
I owed them my life.
We reached a stairwell—and at the top, a barricade.
A group of survivors stood behind it, gripping weapons, their faces tense. The wall itself was a haphazard mix of hospital tables, chairs, and whatever else they could scavenge. Unlike the chaos below, it seemed like the upper floors had managed to gain some control—unlike the third, second, or ground floor, which had already fallen.
The guards spotted us running for our lives and immediately unlocked the barricade.
We stumbled inside, breathless, just as the rest of our group caught up. No sooner had we passed through than the guards slammed the barricade shut, locking us in.
Then—
CRASH! BANG! SLASH!
The horde hit the barricade like a battering ram. Dozens of them. Their snarls and guttural howls filled the air as they clawed at the makeshift wall, trying to break through.
But the survivors here had prepared for this.
The barricade had strategic openings, just large enough to jab spears through—a kill hole.
They wasted no time.
Spears shot out like fangs, piercing through rotting flesh, impaling biters one by one.
The floor trembled with the sheer force of the attack. But for now—
For now, we were safe. But it didn't feel like safety—it felt like a pause. The barricade groaned as the dead pressed against it, their weight straining the stacked hospital beds, overturned desks, and IV stands holding it together.
A nurse—her uniform streaked with dried blood—jabbed a broken IV pole through a gap between the barricade's layers. A sickening squelch followed as the sharpened metal punched through a biter's eye socket. Another survivor did the same, using what looked like a snapped-off mop handle with makeshift duct-taped shears attached to the end.
Spears. Not true weapons, but tools—cobbled together from whatever could be turned into something sharp. A necessity when the only thing keeping us from being torn apart was a wall that wouldn't hold forever.
And from the exhaustion in their faces, I could tell—they had been fighting like this for a while.
How much longer could they last?