The air in the medical camp clung to my skin—too thick, too warm, reeking of antiseptic and sweat. Outside, the storm still howled, but in here, the fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps, casting everything in a sickly glow. We sat in a ragged line, bandaged and hollow-eyed, watching the crowd shift around us like ghosts. No one spoke. The silence was a living thing, broken only by the distant growl of generators and the whispered horror stories of survivors who'd already lost too much.
Then the speakers crackled to life.
"Attention all survivors: Two evacuation flights remain. Priority boarding begins in ten minutes."
Zayn's head snapped up. His cracked lips stretched into something like a smile. "We're actually getting out of here."
The nurse handed us our clearance slips with clinical detachment. No fever. No infection. Just exhaustion and blood loss humming through our veins like a bad drug.
Then—food.
Aaron froze when he saw it. A small paper packet, steam curling from the top. His hands shook.
"That's..." His voice broke. "That's the same porridge my mom made this morning. I didn't eat it. I was late."
The words hung there, sharp as a knife. A stupid, ordinary thing—breakfast—now a relic from a dead world. Aaron's shoulders hunched, his breath coming in ragged hitches. For the first time since this nightmare started, he cried.
Lightning split the sky.
The explosion that followed wasn't thunder.
We turned as one, just in time to see the rescue plane—the one that had taken off minutes ago—plummet from the clouds like a shot bird. Fire bloomed across the runway, painting the rain red.
Silence. Then—
Movement.
Shambling figures emerged from the storm's edge, drawn to the flames like moths. Dozens. Hundreds. A tide of rotting faces and grasping hands, flooding toward the wreckage—and the airport.
Aaron's whisper cut through the chaos: "We're not safe yet."
The nurse came at a dead sprint, tablet clutched to her chest. "Infected in the camp!" The screen flashed a name in bloody pixels. "He's hiding it—"
A wet gurgle cut her off.
The man three feet from us collapsed, his skin graying mid-fall. His body twisted, bones snapping like dry wood as he lurched back up—mouth unhinged, pupils blown black.
The first scream ignited the stampede.
"BOARDING GATE NOW!"
We ran, elbows slamming into ribs, sneakers skidding on blood-slick tile. The "BOARDING" sign flickered ahead like a mirage. Behind us, the growls multiplied, closer every second.
The metal gate shrieked as we crashed through—
Just as the first gunshots rang out