"Fractures"
We weren't safe. Not really. Safety was just an illusion—a fragile thing held together by luck and desperate hands. And I had a feeling our luck was running out.
Story Start
I could still hear them. The dead. Their snarls seeped through the barricade, a constant, grating reminder that we were trapped.
The survivors worked in tense silence, reinforcing weak spots, shoving tables and broken stretchers into place. They had done this before—too many times, judging by the exhaustion carved into their faces.
The man who had shouted at me earlier—tall, lean, blood drying on his temple—turned to face me. His sharp eyes raked over me, assessing.
"You hurt?" His voice was rough, clipped.
I swallowed hard and shook my head. "Just banged up. My leg's not great."
He exhaled through his nose, nodding. "We'll patch you up. After that, you pull your weight."
No introductions. No pleasantries. That's how it was now.
"Why did you save me?" My voice came out hoarse, raw from running.
He looked at me, his expression unreadable. "We didn't mean to. You were just there." He turned, already walking away, then added over his shoulder, "We lost a good man because of you. Hope you were worth it."
I swallowed hard. I wasn't. I was just a guy who had run fast enough. Who had gotten lucky.
But luck wouldn't get me much further, would it?
A woman in scrubs—her uniform torn, splattered with dried blood—motioned for me to sit against the wall. I obeyed, wincing as I stretched out my leg. She crouched beside me, unzipping a half-empty first aid kit.
"It's a bad sprain," she muttered, wrapping my ankle with quick, efficient hands. "You'll have to deal with it. We don't have meds to spare."
I nodded stiffly. "Got it."
Her fingers hesitated—just for a second. "What's your name?"
That caught me off guard.
"…Kael."
She gave a tired smile. "Elena." Then she moved on to the next wounded survivor, not wasting another second.
I leaned my head back, closing my eyes for half a breath. My body ached. My mind buzzed with everything I had seen, everything I had done.
Then—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
My eyes snapped open.
The barricade shuddered violently. The metal carts groaned under the force. The moans grew louder, a chorus of hunger and mindless fury.
"More of them." A weary survivor muttered, grabbing a makeshift spear and driving it through the kill holes. They had been at this for a long time—long enough for the horror to become routine.
"Damn it." The words slipped out before I could stop them.
The world really had gone to shit, hadn't it?
Then—another sound.
A scream.
Not from the barricade.
From inside.
I whipped my head toward the noise, adrenaline spiking. The others reacted instantly—whipping around, gripping makeshift weapons.
A middle-aged survivor clutched his side, his pale face slick with sweat. His fingers were slick with something dark.
No.
Not just dark. Red.
The realization hit all of us at the same time.
"He's been bitten," someone whispered.
A cold weight settled in my stomach.
"No, no—wait, I—" The man's voice cracked. He staggered back, shaking his head violently. "I didn't—It's just a scratch! I swear!"
It didn't matter.
The infection didn't care about excuses.
The tall man—our leader, for lack of a better word—stepped forward. His expression was unreadable. His grip tightened around the crowbar in his hands.
"You know the rules."
Panic flashed across the bitten man's face. "Please—please, don't—I can fight! I can—"
"We can't risk it."
Elena's voice was quiet but firm, though I noticed her hands trembling at her sides. She swallowed hard, her fingers twitching like she wanted to reach for something—anything—that would change the reality of this moment.
The room tensed. No one wanted to say it, but we all knew what came next.
The man's breath hitched. His gaze darted around the room, desperate. Looking for mercy. Looking for a way out.
There was nothing.
Then—
A choice.
Put him down now or let him turn? And who would do it?
The weight of it settled over us, heavy, unspoken. Someone had to act. Someone had to make the call.
For the first time, I wondered—were we really any better than the dead?
"Show your veins. Now."
I stepped forward, limping toward the commotion.
The wounded man's gaze snapped to me. He clutched his side even tighter, desperation etched across his face. "No… I swear, it was just an accident!"
His voice rose, sharp with panic—loud enough to draw unwanted attention.
Our de facto leader stepped forward, gripping a makeshift spear. His tone was firm, final. "Do what he says. This is your only chance."
The man's eyes darted around, searching for sympathy. He found none.
"Fine…" He exhaled shakily and lifted his shirt.
Darkened veins. Rotting skin.
A quiet verdict.
"That settles it," the tall man muttered, tightening his grip on the spear. He stepped forward.
"Wait—wait! NO!"
The plea barely left his lips before the spear plunged between his eyes. Blood spilled as his body crumpled to the ground.
I stared, stomach twisting. The coppery scent of blood was thick in the air, clinging to the back of my throat. I had seen plenty of corpses—hell, I had even put some down myself.
But this?
This wasn't a monster. This was a man. Breathing. Pleading. Human.
And yet, no one hesitated. No one even flinched.
The silence pressed in, thick and unbearable, stealing the air from the room. I forced myself to look away, my gaze sweeping over the wreckage around us.
Blood—smeared and splattered—streaked the cracked linoleum tiles. Half-used IV bags dangled from their stands, some still dripping onto the floor. A wheelchair lay on its side, one wheel spinning, as if someone had fled only moments ago. This wasn't just a hospital. It was a graveyard.
The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and something sharper—something rotting.
Spacious, yet somehow suffocating.
For a moment, silence. Then the tall man exhaled, staring at the corpse with a grim expression.
"Clean it up. We still don't know how it spreads."
No argument. He was right.
"You just killed a man in cold blood!" The elderly woman's voice trembled, but her eyes were hard. "And it meant nothing to you."
Her wrinkled features barely hid the judgment behind her gaze. "How can we be sure you're not already compromised?"
The tall man let out a short, humorless laugh. "If it weren't for me, you'd all be dead by now—paralyzed by your own indecision." He exhaled, as if he'd had this conversation before. "And to answer your question—I'm ex-military. Killing a man isn't new to me."
Without another word, he turned back to the corpse and yanked his makeshift spear free. Blood dripped onto the dirt.
"For now, focus on the barricade. Those fuckers are still banging."
I glanced around, watching the others. No one liked this new reality—least of all their so-called leader. But none could deny he was right. More would have died if he hadn't acted.
After a beat, the tension in the air broke. Heads shook. Eyes lowered. One by one, they returned to their tasks, some peeling away to reinforce the barricade, cutting down the infected still clawing at the walls.
Survival didn't wait for conscience.
"You the new guy?"
A slim man approached, his fingers twitching at his sides. His sunken eyes darted around the room, never settling on one place for long. He looked wired—like a man running on fumes and paranoia.
"Yeah, I'm Kael… nice to meet you?" I kept my tone light, but something about him set me on edge.
His fingers twitched, foot tapping an uneven rhythm. He smelled of sweat and desperation.
I frowned. Something was off.
His gaze flitted across the room—quick, jittery, like a trapped animal searching for an exit. His foot tapped, his jaw clenched, his breathing uneven.
"Did… did you see anyone die out there?" His voice was barely above a whisper, but there was something raw underneath it. "While they were trying to help you?"
My stomach tightened.
"Yes." The guilt still sat heavy in my chest.
The moment the word left my lips, his whole body went rigid.
His breathing hitched—just for a second. His hand moved.
My gut screamed Move.
Too late.
He lunged.
"What—?"
Before I could react, I was slammed into the wall, a cold blade pressing against my throat.
"You got her killed."
His eyes were wild, his grip unsteady, but the knife was real. Lethal.
Others saw the commotion but hesitated. An armed man was still an armed man—no matter how frail he looked.