It should have been just another normal morning. A typical start to an ordinary day, when the quiet American city would rouse from its nightly slumber and return to its bustling routine. But suddenly, everything changed. And not in a subtle way. It hit all at once, abrupt and brutal. The world tilted. Streets, neighborhoods, malls, government buildings, military bases, research centers—even the White House—everywhere people lived, worked, or passed through fell into chaos. A kind of chaos that couldn't be stopped, that spread like wildfire.
Liam was jolted awake in his worn-out apartment. From outside the window came the faint sounds of a car crash, a woman screaming at the top of her lungs, and something else—something guttural, like a snarl. There was a faint scent of blood. Not from the outside—his senses weren't that sharp, not with the windows shut. No, it was coming from somewhere inside the building.
Bang bang bang—a heavy pounding on the door snapped Liam's attention away from the window. Somewhere out in the hallway, something was growling.
"Is anyone there? Please open the door! They're coming—please help me!" It was a panicked, desperate woman's voice right after the banging. He knew the voice—it was Manila, the girl who lived next door. They weren't close, but he'd known her in passing for a while. She was twenty-two, a prostitute, living with another girl named Bellucci.
What the hell's going on? The thought flashed through Liam's head but didn't stay. There wasn't time for wondering. Someone was screaming for help, and he had no idea what he was walking into—but he had to check.
Still in his boxers, Liam jumped out of bed and grabbed the baseball bat leaning against the wall.
"What's going on, Manila?" he asked as he approached the door, keeping his voice low and steady. Through the peephole, he could see only Manila's terrified face. Something had scared her badly. The old building didn't do much to muffle sound, and from this close, Liam could hear the snarling more clearly—wet, guttural, and something else: a nauseating chewing noise, like a dog tearing into raw meat. The smell of blood was getting stronger.
"Please—hurry—AH!" Manila's scream cut through the hallway. Liam saw a blood-soaked hand grab her by the shoulder and yank her out of view.
That was it. He yanked the door open and bolted into the hallway.
What he saw made him stop dead.
Down the hall, about eight meters away in front of Manila's door, a naked middle-aged man with a paunch was straddling a naked woman, holding her to the ground. Blood was everywhere. The man was chewing on her. Not metaphorically—he was literally eating her. Her stomach had been torn open. Flesh and organs spilled out across the floor. Her intestines lay coiled in a pool of blood.
Liam knew the woman too. It was Bellucci, Manila's roommate. Her throat had been ripped out—she was gone. Judging by the scene, the man devouring her was probably one of the clients they'd brought home the night before.
To Liam's left, just a few meters away, another naked man was pinning Manila to the floor, baring his teeth and snarling as he leaned toward her. Manila was screaming, pushing against his shoulders, trying to keep his mouth away from her.
Liam didn't hesitate. He sprinted toward them and swung his bat, smashing it against the man's head and knocking him sideways. Then he reached down and yanked Manila up.
The man rolled on the ground, blood soaking his skin—probably Bellucci's. Despite the brutal blow, he got back to his feet, eyes blood-red and locked on Liam, snarling like an animal. His movements were jerky, stiff—like his muscles weren't working right—but he was moving fast enough to be dangerous.
Behind Liam, the other man—still smeared with Bellucci's blood—stood up too, snarling as he began shuffling toward them.
"What the hell is this…" Liam muttered, pulling Manila back toward his apartment. He'd never seen anything like it.
"They've lost their minds… they ate Bellucci…" Manila sobbed, clutching Liam's arm with trembling hands.
Just then, more doors along the hallway opened—two at once. One burst open from the force of something hitting it, the other was opened from the inside.
From the first, two people stumbled out—bloodshot eyes, blank expressions, soaked in blood. Liam recognized them. A young couple from the building. They had a little girl. She wasn't with them. Given the state of their clothes and faces, Liam had a good guess as to why.
From the second door, a man staggered out clutching his throat. Blood spurted between his fingers, spraying down his chest. He stumbled a few steps before collapsing, sobbing in shock. Then a woman came out, grabbed his ankle, and dragged him back inside like he weighed nothing.
That was the last thing Liam saw before slamming his own door shut behind him.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The pounding started again. Hard. Wild. The door shook under the force of it. Liam was sweating now, backing away slowly. Through the peephole, he saw the two blood-eyed men from earlier slamming their hands against the door, mouths open in grotesque snarls. He could still see bits of meat between their teeth.
He stepped back, raised a finger to his lips at Manila, who was curled on the floor crying. If these people—no, these things—were acting on instinct, then maybe noise was what drew them. If they couldn't hear them, maybe they'd go away.
Manila pressed her hands over her mouth and sat frozen, eyes locked on the door, tears running down her face.
Two minutes passed. The pounding stopped. Liam heard screaming farther down the hall. The two men must have found someone else to chase.
"They're gone," Liam whispered, barely audible. But the dread in his chest only grew heavier. He crept to the window and peeked through the curtain.
Outside was a warzone.
The street was chaos. The "crazy ones"—he didn't know what else to call them—were everywhere. Cars had crashed and piled up, some were on fire. Smoke rose in thick black columns. People were running, screaming, trying to escape, but there were too many of them. Too many of the ones with red eyes and bloody mouths. Even though they moved slower than normal people, the sheer number of them meant only a handful managed to escape. The rest were caught. Surrounded. Torn apart.
"They ate her… they ate Bellucci… oh God… they killed her…" Manila whispered, still crying.
"It's not just them. It's everyone. Come look," Liam said, still at the window.
Manila looked up at him, tears streaking her face. She hesitated, but when Liam motioned her over, she got up and joined him.
"Oh God…" she muttered, covering her face and sinking to the floor again.
"Could be biochemical," Liam said softly, pulling the curtain shut and tugging it tight. First thought in his head: terrorism. Second: maybe the Russians. But he had no idea how deep this ran.
He didn't know it yet, but things were much worse than he imagined.
Liam turned from the window and went to the TV, keeping the volume low. He started with CBS. Morning news should be live. And it was live. Except the anchors were gone. The desk was a mess. Scripts strewn across the floor. A massive bloodstain on the wall behind the desk.
CBS was down. He flipped channels. Every live broadcast showed similar scenes—empty studios, chaos, or just the color bars. A few pre-recorded shows were still airing, but even those were starting to cut out.
"This isn't coincidence… unless…" Liam muttered, glancing at the window. Then, with sudden urgency, he scrambled onto the bed and pulled a phone from under his pillow. Scrolling through his contacts, he found Dr. Mien. He called.
"Pick up, pick up…" he whispered.
No answer.
He tried his parents next. Nothing.
Silence settled over the room like a weight.
Manila sat naked on the floor by the window, arms around her knees, staring at the floor. Her lips were moving, but no sound came out.
Liam lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, blinking slowly. He needed to stay calm.
Half an hour passed before things outside finally quieted a little. The ones who could run had run. The ones who couldn't were probably dead. Only the snarls of the red-eyed ones remained.
"What the hell just happened?" Liam asked suddenly, sitting up and turning to Manila.
She looked at him, calmer now. Then looked away and said quietly, "This morning… I got up to shower. Halfway through, I heard Bellucci scream. I ran out and saw those two men—those clients—they were biting her. I panicked. I grabbed something—anything—and hit them. I pulled Bellucci and tried to run. They chased us. They caught up to her… then…" Her voice cracked.
"That's enough," Liam cut in. He'd seen the rest.
He got up and glanced at Manila. It was automatic, instinctive. Any man would look. She was young, beautiful, with a body that turned heads, curves that made it obvious what she did for work. Her full chest—possibly enhanced—was hard to ignore. But Liam only looked for a second. Then he walked to his closet, pulled out a large T-shirt and shorts, and tossed them to her.
"Put something on."
Liam wasn't a saint. He'd paid for sex before. But if he was thinking about that kind of thing now, something was seriously wrong with him.
As Manila got dressed, Liam changed into jeans and a T-shirt, throwing on a leather jacket. Then he dropped to the floor and pulled a small black case from under the bed.
Inside: a silver Beretta 92F. A 9mm. Common, reliable. He'd bought it through underground channels in case things ever got messy with his line of work. He hadn't used it yet, but he'd trained at the range. He knew how to handle it.
Next to the gun were two full magazines and a box of extra rounds. The rest of the case was filled with surgical tools—scalpels, blades, clamps, gauze, disinfectant, sutures. All brand new.
He checked the magazine, loaded the gun, and tucked it into the back of his waistband. Locked the case and slid it back under the bed.
Fully clothed now, Manila stood at the window, brushing her hair behind her ear. She looked at Liam, then at the gun on his waist, her eyes unreadable.