The bonking didn't stop.
Eli moved cautiously toward the front door, each step slow and measured. Temp stayed close, ears low, tail tucked. The knock wasn't rhythmic—just desperate. Bonk. Pause. Bonk. Thud. Bonk.
He stopped at the door and leaned down, pressing one eye to the peephole—the tiny fisheye lens embedded in the door, made for seeing visitors without opening it.
Nothing. Just black.
Either someone had smeared something over the other side, or… more likely, Eli hadn't cleaned the thing since he moved in two years ago. He wiped the inside glass with his thumb out of habit, knowing it wouldn't help.
"Miss Smith?" Eli called softly. "Is that you?"
No answer.
He slid the door chain into place—a short, metal latch that allowed the door to open a crack, but no farther than the length of the chain. Just enough to peek through without exposing himself entirely.
The hinges creaked as he opened it slowly. Temp stood at his side like a guard dog, hackles raised, silent but visibly shaking.
Eli peeked through the small opening.
Nothing.
The hallway was empty. The light above the apartment door flickered. Just an old bulb giving out. Confused, he leaned closer, brow furrowed.
That's when he saw it.
Three long, bony fingers gripped the edge of the door. They were pale, sickly, almost grey. Tendons showed through stretched skin. Nails yellowed and cracked. They curled around the doorframe, quiet, still.
Eli's heart slammed against his ribs.
"Miss Smith…?" he asked again, voice tightening.
He leaned in closer, eyes narrowing.
And then—
Two glassy eyes snapped into view, right in front of the gap, barely inches from his own. Lifeless. Milky. Wide. Too wide.
Temp lunged, barking frantically.
Eli jolted backward, slamming the door shut so fast it echoed through the apartment.
The chain rattled. The knob turned. Scraping followed.
The door shook as something slammed into it again.
Bonk. Bonk. Bonk.
No voice. No plea. No recognition.
Eli backed away, eyes wide, pulse hammering.
Whatever stood outside his door… wasn't Miss Smith anymore.
He'd seen this before.
In movies. In books. On late-night TV reruns where the world fell apart under apocalyptic skies.
Never once had Eli believed it could really happen.
But what stood behind his door—those glassy, lifeless eyes, those bone-thin fingers—sure as hell looked like a zombie.
Eli turned away from the door, his breath shallow. Temp whimpered softly behind him, staying close. There was no time to waste, no room for hesitation. Whatever was going on, he wasn't about to be caught unprepared.
He stripped off his pajama shirt and pulled on a grey hoodie, then a pair of faded jeans. Nothing fancy, just something with pockets.
He grabbed a backpack from his closet and filled it quickly—cans of beans, tuna, dog food, a few protein bars. A handful of water bottles. Enough for a few days if things went bad.
He tossed it all next to the door and moved to the kitchen.
The knife drawer slid open with a sharp clack.
He grabbed a set of kitchen knives, slipping all but one into the side pockets of the backpack. He weighed the remaining blade in his hand—steel, balanced, about eight inches long. It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do.
Then, Eli stepped back to the door.
He held the knife in one hand, and with the other, closed his eyes.
His mana core pulsed—deep inside his head, behind his eyes, like a muscle flexing during intense workout. Eli exhaled slowly, feeling the air shift around him.
With a subtle gesture, he let that pressure build—not in his lungs, but in the space between his palm and the blade. It hovered now, the knife suspended a few inches above his hand. The surrounding air condensed, forming a pocket of compressed force, like a spring pulled tight.
He visualized the force like coiled tension.
His command would be the trigger.
Once released, it would launch the knife forward like a bolt from a crossbow—faster, maybe even stronger.
"Temp, stay back," Eli said firmly.
Temp, tail curled between his legs, obediently retreated to the far side of the room.
Eli exhaled once more.
He unlatched the door chain, hand shaking just slightly, then stepped back several paces. The front door creaked open on its own—more from the shift in air pressure than any deliberate movement.
Nothing yet.
The hallway beyond was a haze of dim light and long shadows, the pre-dawn chill sliding into the apartment like a whisper. Eli tensed, keeping the floating knife aimed forward, ready.
Then—
The fingers again.
Pale. Gripping the corner of the door like a spider climbing from a crack. They crept into view slowly, gripping the frame.
"Miss Smith?" he tried again, his voice hollow. "If it's you, just… just say something."
No answer.
And then—a slow, deliberate thud echoed across the floorboards.
She stepped inside.
Miss Smith. Eighty years old. Frail. Normally hunched and smiling. But now…
Her back was arched unnaturally, head twitching as she shuffled forward in blood-stained slippers. Her white hair was soaked with something dark. Red. Her left ear was missing. Her eyes were locked on Eli, but there was no recognition in them. Only hunger.
One step.
Two.
Three.
Her feet dragged with a sickening scrape, her breath shallow and rapid, like something was struggling to breathe through her lungs.
Eli took a half-step back, his voice trembling. "Please stop, Miss Smith. Just… just go back home. You're bleeding. You don't look well."
But she didn't stop.
Her feet scraped forward another inch.
And the knife in Eli's hand remained still—floating, silent, waiting for the order.
Eli's knuckles whitened as he held his stance, heart pounding like a drumline in his ears. His fingers trembled, not from fear of dying—but from the hesitation of killing. Even now, a small part of him hoped this was some elaborate misunderstanding. A sick joke. Maybe Miss Smith had tripped. Maybe the red in her hair wasn't blood. Maybe—
But then she growled.
Not a cry of pain. Not a confused murmur.
A low, wet, gurgling growl. Animalistic. Not human.
And she charged.
Eli flinched—reflex over reason—and let go of the compressed air spring he'd been holding in his core. The floating knife snapped forward, slicing through the still air with a metallic shriek. The speed was blinding.
THUNK.
The blade buried itself just above Miss Smith's eyebrow, sinking deep into her skull with a jarring crack. Her body froze mid-charge, one slipper catching on the edge of the rug. She stood there for half a second, almost as if pausing to process what had happened—then collapsed forward in a heap.
The room went silent.
Eli's chest rose and fell in quick, shallow bursts.
"Temp," he whispered, voice shaking. The dog hadn't moved. He was crouched low by the sofa, ears pinned back, whimpering softly.
"She—she was gone already. That wasn't her." He repeated it like a mantra. "That wasn't Miss Smith."
And even if it had been… she was trying to kill him.
He walked over slowly and crouched beside the corpse. The smell hit him first—not death, but decay. Premature, unnatural. Her veins were swollen, dark. Her skin around the mouth was cracked and bruised, dried blood caked around her teeth.
She had tried to bite him.
He staggered backward, his breath shaky.
This was real.
This was happening.
Eli grabbed his bag, retrieved the knife from Miss Smith's body, which came lose with a sickening sound of flesh. He stood in the doorway, breath shallow, his hoodie clinging to the sweat forming at his back. Temp stuck close by his leg, ears low, tail tucked. The hallway was dim, flickering lights giving everything a sickly strobe. The scent of iron drifted faintly in the air.
And then—sirens.
At first just one. Then another. Then dozens more.
The symphony of emergency blared from every direction, mixing with distant shouts, crashing metal, and the occasional, unmistakable crack of electricity—a high-pitched whine of pressurized air.
Eli stepped outside.
From the top of the steps of his apartment complex, Vellwyn was unrecognizable.
The early morning sky was the colour of ash and dying embers. Fires painted the horizon in jagged orange strokes, casting warped shadows across buildings and storefronts. A black column of smoke rose from somewhere near the central district. Distant shapes scrambled down roads, leaping fences, smashing windows.
People ran. Dozens of them.
Some shouted the names of loved ones. Others just screamed.
A teenager tore down the sidewalk barefoot, launching ice shards behind him in a desperate attempt to slow what followed.
A woman with glowing green eyes raised both palms, forming a barrier of twisting vines from the street itself. Behind her, a man dragged an unconscious body with telekinetic tethers, teeth gritted, blood soaking his arm.
Everywhere Eli looked, powers were being used—poorly, chaotically, in panic.
And then, just ahead, someone leapt.
No—not someone. Something.
A ragged, twisted figure, half-clothed and snarling, launched itself from the roof of a parked car. Its legs bent unnaturally, like a spring wound too tight. It soared over an entire lane of traffic and landed hard on a fleeing bystander, sending them both tumbling across the pavement.
The figure rose again. Flesh gray. Eyes milked over. Jaw half-torn. A zombie.
But this one had used a leap ability.
It wasn't just Patient Zero.
The infected were still using their powers.
Eli's blood ran cold.
Temp growled low beside him, fur bristling. Eli reached down and gently rested a hand on his scruff.
They were too late.
The fall of Vellwyn had already begun.
[EMERGENCY ALERT – RENDLE CITY COLLAPSE – NATIONWIDE ABILITY BREACH]
Status: FULL SYSTEMIC FAILURE – CONTAINMENT UNACHIEVABLE
Casualties: 100000+ (EST.)
Advisory:
RENDLE CITY AND ASSOCIATED MUNICIPALITIES HAVE BEEN LOST
SHELTER IN PLACE OR EVACUATE AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION
FEDERAL RESPONSE UNITS ARE UNABLE TO PROVIDE IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE
REMAIN VIGILANT
– INFECTED MAY RETAIN ABILITIES
– Federal Security Broadcast (FSB)