The first few days passed like a slow, blurry fade-out.
News scrolled endlessly in the background—official statements, reassuring speeches, vague numbers.
I took notes in my journal.
Barely slept, but watched everything.
Thomas tried to maintain a routine.
The balcony became our haven: lukewarm beers, a crackling radio, half-spoken conversations.
The images on television grew more disturbing.
The first infected—once nearly immobile—had begun to move.
“Scientists agree that the loss of motor and speech functions was only the first phase. After a few days, the virus appears to bypass muscle atrophy… Subjects manage to move, though irregularly.”
“Their coordination is limited, but some cover long distances. Without any apparent purpose.”
“They’re slow, but never fall. As if they’re not in a hurry.”
Is what I wrote,
The first wave passed. No deaths.
But the real disaster was elsewhere.
At first, the outbreak felt unreal—almost absurd.
Some people treated it like a bad movie.
But the mood turned quickly.
Fear took root.
Worst of all, there was a massive power cut. According to the information provided by the state, it was due to a clash during a riot, at the wrong time and in the wrong place, but frankly, who's going to believe that? One thing's for sure: it got the crowds going.
Civilians refused to stay indoors.
They went out—armed with nothing but kitchen knives, iron bars, makeshift weapons—determined to “cleanse” the streets themselves.
Some hunted the infected back to their homes.
Others broke down neighbors’ doors, convinced they were protecting the greater good.
But not all were driven by duty or fear.
Some were driven by something darker:
Excitement.
A rush.
The hunt became a game. A release. A distraction in the chaos.
They struck without thought, forgetting that those they pursued had been neighbors, friends, brothers—just days ago.
Some could’ve been saved.
Others still had family fighting to protect them.
But the line between infected and non-infected blurred.
Families refused to abandon their loved ones—even when symptoms appeared.
They stepped in between, begged, cried, pleaded for another chance. Just one more day. A maybe-cure.
The violence escalated fast.
Blows from pipes, blades, hammers.
No mercy. No rescue.
Too many wounded.
And among them—some infected.
Scratches. Blood spray. Skin contact.
This chaos sparked the second wave.
Infections exploded.
Panic gestures fed the spread.
And soon, no one knew who had started what.
That’s when true chaos took hold.
It wasn’t just a virus anymore.
It was the collapse of social order itself.
From their hotel, Thomas and I watched the events unfold—stunned.
We were shocked by what we saw on the news, so we decidedto limit out outings as much as possible.
Not just because of law enforcement,
but also because of the infected—growing in number.
Luckily, they seemed stuck in phase one:
Still.
Barely able to walk.
One pattern repeated across broadcasts:
At night, the infected became completely inert.
Even in the presence of noise or light, they didn’t move.
As if something inside them had switched off.
“Inactive at night. No reaction to sound or light.”
That’s when we made our move.
Nighttime became our window.
Our only chance to restock.
Shops were all closed.
But with some skill—and a well-placed screwdriver—we managed to force open the shutters of small groceries.
we only took what we needed. Some civilians might need some food too.
Thomas would go down to fetch supplies,
while I stayed on the balcony, watching the streets through binoculars, scanning for patrols or hostile presences.
Thomas burst through the hallway—drenched, breath ripped straight from his chest.
But he didn’t come in the hotel, he stayed outside.
His eyes—two black voids widened by a fear he couldn’t put into words—froze in the doorway.
With trembling fingers, he fumbled for his phone and typed:
GET OUT OF THE HOTEL. NOW. AS FAST AS YOU CAN. TRY THE BACK EXIT.
WHATEVER YOU DO—DON’T MAKE A SOUND.
I’M WAITING IN THE SMALL UNIT DOWNSTAIRS. I’LL SIGNAL YOU.
I read the message.
Once.
Twice.
My breath stuck in place.
A horrible cold began to slide down my back, like my spine itself was locking up.
I stood.
Each motion stiff, mechanical—like a puppet whose strings had been cut, stumbling through a world gone senseless.
I glanced over the balcony.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
And yet, something twisted in my gut—moist, rancid, visceral.
Like something ancient, forgotten, poorly buried… had just opened its eyes within these walls.
I grabbed my bag.
My fingers brushed against the axe leaning by the wall.
The motion felt like a prayer.
Not one of faith or hope, but necessity.
I approached the door.
The handle was ice-cold. It barely resisted.
But I did.
My breath caught. My body hesitated.
On the other side—only silence.
But not the normal kind.
A silence that smelled like the end.
Like rot.
Like the crumbling of reality itself.
I cracked the door open—just slightly.
The smell hit me first.
Wet.
Metallic.
Then I saw it.
A breath—
rancid.
Dead.
A face.
Frozen. Just centimeters away.
Flesh sagging like it didn’t belong to the bone.
Red, veined eyes—bloody, but void of will.
Too close.
Way, way, way too close.
It was one of them.
I froze.
It didn’t move.
But its gaze was there.
Present.
And worse—patient.
I shut the door.
Slowly.
The wood groaned like a dying breath.
Inside, the silence took form.
It thickened.
It pulsed.
I could feel each heartbeat pounding in my neck, in my temples, in my palms.
Sweat traced a line down my spine—warm, like oil.
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I reached for the axe.
Then, on a sudden instinct, I grabbed a small pocket mirror.
Why? I didn’t know.
It just felt… necessary.
I scraped gently at the wood.
The sound was tiny.
But in this suffocating stillness, it howled.
I slid the mirror into the crack of the door.
And what I saw—
Almost ten shapes.
Bent. Twisted.
Distorted limbs, stained and still.
All facing me.
Their eyes… open.
Red.
Wet.
Nothing moved.
But they knew.
The mirror trembled in my hands.
I held my breath.
The world stopped.
I pulled the mirror back.
Shut the door.
Sat down with my back against it, axe clutched tightly to my chest—like a child hugging a stuffed animal against the dark.
The silence pulsed.
It lived now.
With me.
I stood again.
Heavy. Sluggish.
Each limb coated in dread.
I reached the window, drawn by one thought—run.
Outside air stung my nose.
I searched for ledges, pipes, anything.
But there was nothing.
Too high.
Too smooth.
Even knotted sheets wouldn’t hold.
And even if they did…
To fall was to give my body to the void.
I stepped back.
Returned to the middle of the room.
My legs gave out.
I didn’t sit.
I fell.
My hands clutched my scalp, but my mind remained blank.
No escape.
No plan.
Just stale air… and monsters waiting in the dark.
But I felt everything.
Every nerve.
Every warped heartbeat.
The silence, breathing beside me.
The imagined footsteps I already heard in the hallway.
I didn’t think.
Didn’t pray.
I just existed.
Hung between life… and something unspeakable.
Run. Don’t hesitate.
The voice echoed inside my head.
Run into what, exactly?!
They weren’t supposed to move!
Maybe they’ve been here for a while. Homeless? Workers? Maybe they drifted here over days…
It doesn’t matter. I’m not in danger. I’m not. Not really.
The door was death.
The balcony—my last chance.
I ran to the railing.
Climbed—hands sweating, legs trembling.
The wind slapped my face.
No time to think.
Jump. Now.
I inhaled deep.
And leapt.
Too short.
Shit.
My foot hit the far balcony—slid.
I slammed chest-first against concrete, barely catching the edge with one arm.
My fingers screamed. My shoulder burned.
But I pulled myself over.
Rolled to the ground.
Breathing.
Alive.
I looked back.
The walls… they breathed.
Like they knew what I’d just escaped.
I approached the next door.
It was slightly ajar—like it was waiting.
I slipped the mirror through the crack.
Darkness.
Thick.
Seven shapes? Maybe eight.
Crooked, trembling lines—like a scared hand had drawn them in charcoal.
Not watching.
Just knowing.
They didn’t move earlier. They won’t move now. Don’t think. Just go.
One step after another, I moved through the room.
Maybe they’ll stay frozen, I thought.
But I couldn’t believe that.
Not fully.
Not anymore.
I turned my head.
One last look.
What I saw wasn’t surprising.
It was confirmation.
My body reacted first—before my mind could register.
My heart skipped, in silent surrender.
I turned away.
I didn’t think.
Didn’t breathe.
I ran.
Then—
A sound.
Tiny.
A single drop of water.
Falling like a stone into black water.
You’d be surprised how deafening one drop is…
when a hallway goes still.
I turned.
Just to see them again.
They’d moved.
Closer.
Three meters, maybe.
Nothing was in its place.
No sound.
No breath.
They had shifted while my eyes were turned.
But now—frozen.
Like statues.
And I realized, far too late—
They hadn’t reacted to my escape.
They had expected it.
Waited for it.
Planned it.
—GO TO HELL, YOU BASTARDS!
I’d barely turned my back when I heard them.
First, the sound—
heavy, erratic, like a thousand poorly hinged bones snapping back into motion.
Then, footsteps.
Not human.
Light and chaotic.
They charged.
I ran. As fast as my legs allowed.
Each breath tore through my throat like broken glass.
My heart slammed against my ribs, a prisoner pounding on the walls of its cell.
Behind me, the noise rose.
No screams.
No voices.
Just limbs—slamming against floors, walls, doors.
I toppled a shelf.
Then a chair.
There was a street sign lying nearby—why the hell was it even there?
Doesn’t matter. I threw it down the stairwell without looking.
—THEY'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ACTIVE AT NIGHT !!!
I yelled.
Out loud.
To who? Them? Myself?
Every turn in the hallway drained another breath from me.
I grabbed a coffee table and jammed it across a narrow gap.
It wouldn’t stop them.
But I didn’t need stop.
I needed a second.
Just one. Pathetic. Second.
I ran.
Their pace didn’t slow.
It quickened.
I sprinted till my lungs burned, legs trembling with each stride.
The hallway blurred past me—flickering lights, moldy walls.
And then—dead end.
Wall.
Shit.
No way out.
Wait—a door.
I threw myself at it.
The handle jammed.
Locked.
I slammed my shoulder.
Nothing.
I yanked the handle.
Still nothing.
The footsteps behind me drew closer.
Heavy.
Wild.
Without pause.
Predators with no need for hesitation.
My hand found the axe.
No time to be afraid.
I swung.
Again.
Again.
The lock shattered—screaming wood and twisted metal.
I didn’t know what was behind that door.
Didn’t care.
Because they… they were nearly here.
Go. Don’t think. Just go.
The door burst open with a shriek of splintered wood, revealing a pitch-black room.
A laundry.
Scattered steel bins, most overturned. Empty.
At the far end—
A hatch.
Dark. Open.
A mouth to the basement.
I didn’t hesitate.
I sprinted.
Leapt.
Feet first.
Mid-fall, I drew the axe—
and with pure reflex, jammed the handle between the hatch walls, angled tight.
It caught.
Held.
An improvised trap.
A barrier.
A suspended blade.
Air slapped my face as I dropped.
I hit something soft—
A pile of laundry.
It hurt.
But I was alive.
Why the hell was there still laundry down here?
No time to think.
I gasped for air—
just as the next sound came.
A body.
Falling.
Then another.
The first hit the axe.
A muffled scream.
A burst of blood.
The second crashed onto the blade—
groaning, twitching, snarling.
The trap worked.
They impaled themselves.
Stuck.
Thrashing.
I pressed myself against the wall, hands trembling, legs numb.
But I was still breathing.
I stayed there.
Still.
Shaking.
Every nerve pulled tight, ready to snap.
Then came the thought—
not a thought, really.
More a seizure.
A wave of cold clarity.
It’s night.
And yet…
they moved.
They ran.
They hunted.
Like the rules no longer held them back.
Like the silence of night no longer leashed them.
I pushed myself up, wide-eyed, chest heaving.
If the ones inside can run now...
Then the ones outside can too.
Shit.
I spun around, eyes scanning for meaning—
for some answer in the shadows of the basement.But there was only the echo of dying screams.
And the creeping, inescapable sense that something had changed.
Something irreversible.
...
Wait...
…What are those sounds?
The stress had torn me from the world.
The screams, the chase, the fear—everything had swallowed me whole.
Only now did I realize where I was.
The hotel basement.
The air was thick. Moist. It clung to my skin like rot.
And in that silence—tense, swollen—I heard it.
At first, static.
Then a deep, irregular rumble.
A far-off uproar.
Like footsteps.
Or something worse.
Something with no name.
I crouched.
Grabbed an iron rod left on the floor.
It was slick with grime and dust. But it would do.
No time to hesitate.
I climbed—
Stair by stair.
Each step creaked like a whispered warning.
Up top, through smeared windows, orange light spilled over the pale floor of the hotel’s main hall.
The entrance was dark, and that contrast made the glow outside all the more violent.
Screams.
Guttural.
Human?
I wasn’t sure anymore.
I tightened my grip on the rod.
Something was out there.
Someone.
An infected.
A teenager.
Too young—far too young to be here.
He crouched in the corner, folded in on himself like he was trying to disappear into his ribcage.
He didn’t move.
Not even a twitch.
No breath. No flinch.
Had he seen me?
Did he know I was there?
I held my breath.
A chill slid through me.
The worst part wasn’t that he was there.
It was that he did… nothing.
I stepped forward.
Slowly.
One foot.
Then the next.
And something told me—turn your head.
I looked.
He was watching me.
Just for a second—
our eyes met.
Then he pulled his head between his knees, arms behind his neck, curling in on himself like a child bracing for a beating.
A motion not learned, but remembered.
Primitive. Pure instinct.
He didn’t run.
He didn’t scream.
He just… waited.
Like he expected to be erased.
I shivered.
Again.
I walked faster, throat tight, the idea of facing another infected gripping me like a noose.
As I neared the exit, I saw it—through the glass:
A flickering red light.
Unsteady. Like a flame.
Then came the smell.
Burned plastic. Ash.
Acrid and thick.
I opened the door.
Trash cans ablaze cast embers across the street.
Screams echoed—mixed with blaring horns, smashing doors, sobs in the alleyways.
And in the middle of it—shapes.
Human. Armed. Disoriented. Elated.
A crowd that no longer knew if it wanted to flee, to fight, or simply prove it still existed in the madness.
And what’s the story now?
Am I gonna get torn apart by infected?
Or get butchered by lunatics with knives and bats?
I didn’t have time to choose.
A red dot flashed against my left eye.
Blinding. Just for an instant.
I squinted toward the source.
Amidst the chaos, the echoing silence, the flames and shadows—
