After breakfast, Maarg made his way back upstairs, slipping his hand into his pocket.
The small plastic capsule rattled lightly as he pulled it out.
Multivitamins.
That's what his brother had called them. He had sent them over a while ago, insisting that Maarg take one every few days. "For your health," his brother had said. "They'll keep you strong."
Maarg wasn't sure why he suddenly remembered to take one now, but after everything that happened last night, a little extra strength didn't seem like a bad idea.
He popped the capsule into his mouth and swallowed it dry.
As he slipped the container back into his pocket, he took a quick count.
Five left.
He frowned slightly, staring at the small case for a moment before shaking his head.
Not the time to think about this.
Pushing his thoughts aside, he headed to Jack's room.
Jack was already sitting in front of the TV, controller in hand, setting up their usual fighting game.
"Took you long enough," Jack muttered, tossing Maarg a controller.
Maarg caught it, smirking. "Hope you're ready to lose."
Jack scoffed. "Yeah, yeah. We'll see about that."
For the next hour, they were just two friends playing video games, the tension of the past night momentarily forgotten.
But deep down, Maarg knew—something was coming. And soon, even moments like this would be a luxury.
The sound of a sharp, piercing scream shattered the peaceful moment.
Jack and Maarg froze, controllers still in their hands.
Another scream followed—high-pitched, desperate.
Maarg was already on his feet before Jack could say anything. He rushed to the window, Jack right behind him.
Outside, in the narrow street below, stood an elderly woman—her frail frame trembling, her voice cracking as she screamed for help.
Maarg's stomach twisted.
It was Mrs. Smith.
Remmy's grandmother.
The same woman who had lived in the house Maarg had been sneaking into, till yesterday.
But she wasn't alone.
A figure stood just a few feet away from her, barely moving. The morning light cast an eerie glow on his pale skin, his suit torn and stained in red.
It was the hazmat suit man.
Or rather… what was left of him.
His reflective visor was cracked, his face visible beneath it—pale, discolored, his eyes lifeless. But what made Maarg's blood run cold was his mouth.
It was curled into that same grotesque, unnatural smile.
The same one from the zombie last night.
And then—
He turned his head slowly toward the window.
Directly at Maarg.
That haunting, twisted grin widened.
Jack took a step back. "What the hell…?"
Maarg's grip on the windowsill tightened.
Something was very, very wrong.
Maarg stood frozen at the window, his body tense.
His instincts screamed at him to move—to do something, anything—but he held himself back.
If he jumped down again, if he moved like he did last night, someone would see. Jack, his parents, the neighbors—there would be no hiding it.
Remmy's horrified expression was still fresh in his mind.
She had looked at him like he wasn't human.
And maybe… maybe he wasn't anymore.
As Maarg wrestled with his thoughts, Jack had already left his side.
By the time Maarg snapped out of it, Jack was on the street, sprinting toward Mrs. Smith.
"Hey!" Jack called out, stepping between the old woman and the hazmat suit man. "Look, man, I get it. You don't want us outside, but you don't have to scare people by chasing them."
The hazmat man stood still.
Unmoving.
Silent.
Jack frowned, stepping closer. "Did you hear me?"
Still nothing.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw it—blood seeping through the cracks of the visor.
His stomach dropped.
Maarg was right.
This guy wasn't human anymore.
Before he could react, the hazmat zombie lunged.
Jack barely had time to brace himself before the creature was on him, its weight slamming into him.
Acting on instinct, Jack threw a jab—his fist connecting with the visor.
The zombie didn't flinch.
Jack hit it again.
Then again.
And again.
The visor cracked further, caving in slightly. But the zombie kept moving, its grotesque grin still visible beneath the splintering glass.
Jack gritted his teeth, his pulse pounding in his ears.
One more punch.
Then another.
And another.
Until—
CRACK.
The visor shattered.
A wet, sickening squelch followed.
Jack stumbled back, his breath ragged. His hands were coated in something warm and sticky.
He didn't need to look to know what it was.
Inside the shattered helmet, there was nothing left but a soft, gooey mess.