u/doozyBrook_

Original Story. No AI tool used to write the story.

Something began with the animals.

First the rats.
Then the birds.
Then the livestock.

At first, the world ignored it.

A strange virus was spreading — turning living creatures into something violent, something unnatural. Scientists called it **TAV — The Aggressor Virus**.

They said it wasn’t dangerous to humans.

They were wrong.

Cities collapsed. Governments vanished. The streets filled with something far worse than death.

Now, survival means staying silent… staying hidden… and praying the infected never find you.

When Harsh leaves his apartment to search for food for his family, he thinks the greatest danger is what’s waiting outside.

He’s about to learn the truth.

Because the real horror isn’t the infection.

It’s what the virus does to you.

And once it starts… there may be no way out.

Welcome to **Bird Cage**.

Watch till the end.

“I remember the day it all began.

It was a beautiful day. Above me, a vast dome of clear blue sky stretched into eternity, clouds drifting in soft whites and pale blues. An eagle circled overhead. Summer was close.

Then something went wrong.

The eagle faltered mid-flight, wings stuttering as if the air itself had turned hostile. Without warning, it folded inward and plunged straight down, a living projectile, piercing the skull of a man standing beside me. He collapsed without a sound.

That was the first anomaly.

I remember the feeling vividly—the red veins crawling beneath my skin, blooming inside my head like warning signs I couldn’t ignore. Sometimes I wonder if it was all just a fever dream, if I’m trapped at the beginning, forced to watch the ending repeat itself.

It started with the rats. Then the birds. Then the livestock. The infection spread faster each time, accelerating, learning.

What came after was not the catastrophe.

It was only the beginning.

I remember that day as if it were yesterday.”

***

Harsh woke up still trapped in yesterday’s horror. The man had died. There was no gentler way to think about it.

He wanted to forget, but sleep hadn’t granted him that mercy. The dark hollows beneath his eyes were proof enough. Outside, the world was trying to stand back up—at least part of it was. Morning routines resumed. Traffic hummed. Life pretended nothing had happened.

The other part of the world was on the news.
Reports of a virus spreading among rodents.

“I hope it’s nothing serious,” Harsh muttered, staring at his reflection as he brushed his teeth.

The mirror didn’t agree.

“I’m sure it’s fine, Harsh.” Chhaya kept his ironed shirt on the couch.

He nodded and pushed open the door to Shravya’s room. She was still asleep. Watching her breathe, slow and steady, it struck him how grown she looked—already twelve. Time had slipped past without asking permission.

Flew, he thought.

The word dragged him back to yesterday.

He saw it again—the eagle folding in on itself, diving. The deafening crack, the wet crunch as bone met bone, shattered on impact. Blood spraying outward, streaking the faces and clothes of those standing too close. The memory hit me so hard my stomach lurched.
It felt like his insides were grinding—cogwheels jammed together, thick with syrup. He gagged, leaning slightly forward, willing myself to vomit.

Nothing came out of his gullet.

He sat down in front of the TV, letting the noise wash over him. He needed something—anything—to keep his thoughts from circling.

The reporter said, “The exact origin of the virus was still unknown. However, preliminary simulations suggested it may have emerged somewhere in the United States. They were calling it TAV—The Aggressor Virus. According to early findings, TAV made rodents unnaturally violent toward every living thing. When confined together, the behavior escalated: the rodents attacked one another, consuming each other until only one remained. What unsettled researchers most was that the animals were still technically alive. Brain activity persisted. Heart function continued. Yet scans showed unnatural alterations—patterns no one could fully explain. For now, the spread appeared limited to rodents. There’s no need to worry,” the reporter concluded.

He left for work. The sky was the same blue as yesterday’s, and the heat was beginning to rise. To everyone else, the day looked ordinary—unchanged, unbothered.

For him, normal had taken on a different shape. But that didn’t seem to matter anymore. Yesterday was spent. The memory had already latched itself in place, settling where it would stay.

The burning behind his eyes had faded.

For now.

***

A flash of pain tore through his head—so sudden, so violent, he barely had time to brace for it. Memories ignited and vanished in rapid succession, each image striking like a small bolt of lightning before dissolving into darkness.

His awareness folded inward. He focused not on the shadows that felt as if they were gathering behind him, but on the chaotic messages spinning through his mind—fragments, warnings, things he couldn’t yet name.

He stood up.

Chhaya was fast asleep. Streetlights bled through the partially drawn curtains, casting thin bands of orange across the room.

He drank a glass of water, then turned on the TV and flipped through channels. Nothing held his attention. He shut it off, opened his laptop, and began mindlessly surfing, hoping sleep would find him again.

He glanced up, half-expecting to see Chhaya.

There was only darkness, waiting.

He lowered his gaze and kept scrolling. That was when he found the article.

TAV was no longer confined to rodents. It had begun infecting birds and livestock, spreading at an accelerating rate—yet there was no sense of urgency anywhere. Only a handful of outlets were reporting it. There was no statement from the WHO, and no confirmed human infections.

He sighed. “Feels unusual,” he muttered without realizing he’d spoken aloud.

No one else seemed concerned. Social media overflowed with entertainment, trends, and noise. It felt as though chaos was gathering just out of sight, and humanity had chosen to look away.

The images made his stomach churn. The infected animals behaved exactly as he had witnessed—same violence, same unnatural escalation. Each recorded incident mirrored the last, aggression intensifying with every frame. Watching it felt unreal, like a badly edited film looping the same scene.

I’m sure it’s fine, Harsh. Chhaya’s words echoed in his head.

“No… it’s not fine,” he murmured.

He glanced up.

For a moment, the shadows in the room seemed to shift—stirring in a breeze that didn’t exist. Then the movement vanished, leaving behind something heavier.

Not motion.

Just a deeper stillness.

He woke up on the couch the next morning.

“Good morning,” Chhaya said softly. Then, after a pause, “Are you okay?” Her voice carried a worry she wasn’t trying to hide.

He nodded, rubbing his eyes. Without a word, he turned on the TV.

It was confirmed.

TAV had crossed into humans.

Within hours, the WHO declared a pandemic. The information that followed was terrifyingly brief: TAV spread through contact between infected blood and a healthy body. That was all. No timeline. No reassurance. No plan.

He looked at Chhaya. She looked back at him. Neither of them spoke. The announcement had already hollowed out the room.

The virus spread like wildfire. Cities fell first. Then the economy. Eventually, even the institutions meant to hold the world together collapsed. The last to fall was the WHO itself.
Chaos followed.

Day and night lost their meaning. Silence became a memory. Aggressive snarls echoed through the streets while they stayed locked inside their home. Nights were the worst—no lights, only darkness and sound. The snarling sometimes crept closer. Teeth rattled nearby, a grotesque rhythm that chilled him more than screams ever could.

The rattling always slowed.

That meant feeding.

Flesh tearing. Bone crunching. Bodies crashing together until only one remained. Even on the quietest days, the screams carried.

He remembered the day it all began.

He knew others remembered it too.

And yet, humanity had walked straight into the terror of its own making. Ignorance had led them here—or perhaps ignorance was simply the mechanism, the final step toward an inevitable end.

He wondered if people still prayed.

He never had. He doubted he ever would.

Above it all, the sky remained vast, blue, and serene.

Below it, the world had become a wasteland of blood and bone.

***

He woke with a jolt, startled by a sudden noise from outside. Slowly, he pushed himself up and cracked the window open, peering down into the street.

Nothing.

He turned around and recoiled in fright.

“Chhaya,” he exhaled, pressing a hand to his chest. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. Her voice trembled. “We’re almost out of food. And the water’s nearly gone.” Fear surfaced in her eyes. “What are we going to do?”

He had no answer. Not one he was willing to say aloud. He knew what had to be done, and he hated it. The thought of going outside twisted something in his gut. Even with fewer infected roaming the streets, it was still a risk.

“I can go,” she offered.

He stopped her before the words could settle.

No. He couldn’t let her go out there. Shravya needed her mother. The decision felt instinctive, not rational.

He shook his head. “I’ll gather some supplies. There has to be something left in the other apartments.”

She nodded slowly.

They held each other for a moment—longer than necessary. They kissed, gently, and carefully. It felt too much like a goodbye, and he clung to that feeling, turning it into resolve.
If nothing else, it would give him the strength to walk out the door.

***

He eased the front door open and glanced into the corridor.

Quiet.
Too quiet.

He stepped out and closed the door behind him, careful to make no sound. The stairwell was empty—if emptiness could still exist here. Dried blood smeared the walls and steps, flesh fused to surfaces as if the building itself had tried to swallow what remained. Every breath dragged rot into his lungs.

There were no lights. Debris littered everything—clothes tangled with dirty plates, overturned food containers, garbage pressed into corners and ground beneath careless feet. Old spills had darkened into black stains, caked with dust and time. The air hummed with flies. Maggots writhed in clusters. Occasionally, the wind sighed through broken spaces, a soft, mournful howl that made him regret leaving.

What if we die?

The thought surfaced uninvited.

He forced it away, thinking of his daughter—of Chhaya. He couldn’t let it end like that. Bodies collapsing indoors, dragged through days of thirst and hunger, the slow shutdown of organs while pain lingered long enough to be remembered. He wouldn’t leave them to that.
Fear whispered from both sides.

Die inside.
Or turn outside.
Neither was acceptable.

A distant howl cut through his thoughts.

He slipped into an empty apartment and peered out through a shattered window. Nothing moved. No signs of life. No supplies. Apartment after apartment had already been stripped bare. The silence pressed harder than the noise ever had.

He made a decision.

If there was anything left, it would be outside—maybe one of the airdrops from the early days. The military had scattered supplies during the initial contamination phase. He doubted anyone had lived long enough to claim them.

The drop zone wasn’t far.

He peeked out again. The road lay empty.

He took a single step outside—
—and an infected lurched into view from around the corner.

He recoiled instantly, slamming back against the wall. His breath caught. He clamped a hand over his mouth, instinctively silencing himself as his heart hammered in his chest.

His attention snapped to the sound of teeth rattling—rapid, violent, louder than anything he had ever heard. Panic surged through him. He could hear her breathing now—ragged, restless—sniffing the air like an animal searching for a scent.

The clattering was getting closer.

Footsteps followed, uneven but fast. If he ran, she would hear him. There was nowhere to hide. She sniffed again, closer this time.

She was right outside the entrance.

Either he killed her, or she killed him.

“H… e… l… p…”
The word scraped its way out of her throat, broken and wrong. A chill ran down his spine. He had never heard an infected speak. Not even once.

Does she know I’m here?
His thoughts spiraled. What do I do? Where can I go?

Then she let out a piercing screech.
Something flashed past his vision.

He flinched, clenched his teeth, and dared to look outside. Two infected were tearing into each other, bodies crashing together, flesh ripping free as they fed with desperate violence.
He moved the moment they were distracted.

Slow. Quiet. Every step measured.
He put distance between himself and the building, his heart pounding so hard it drowned out everything else. His lungs burned; he still hadn’t recovered his breath. There was ground yet to cover. He took the narrowest paths available, slipping through tight corridors and broken alleys, avoiding open spaces.

The infected were everywhere.

At first glance, it looked organized—as if each had claimed a territory, never crossing invisible lines. That illusion didn’t last. They were not mindless. They were shrewd.
People had called them aggressors in the beginning. Over time, the names changed—each one an attempt to make sense of them.

For him, they were simply infected.

They followed patterns. They calculated movement and attack. Even during the outbreak, there had been intent behind their actions. Now, as their numbers thinned, their range expanded less often—but when they moved, it was deliberate.

He remembered the message that had been broadcast to survivors.

The aggressors will die if they are unable to consume for a prolonged period. Over time, starvation will force them to turn on one another. Survivors are advised to avoid all contact and remain within secured locations. Stay safe. We promise—this will be over soon.
He remembered the day he understood they had been wrong.

Human ignorance was the variable no one had accounted for. Instead of staying hidden, armed civilians poured into the streets, determined to eliminate the infected themselves. The bullets didn’t stop them. By nightfall, mountains of bodies lay motionless across every city.

He remembered the massacre clearly.

From his window, he watched helplessly as people he once knew—people he had shared meals with—were torn apart. Friends. Colleagues. Even relatives. They screamed the names of those they loved as the streets filled with chaos. Innocent blood soaked the ground. Children cried. Voices begged for help that never came.

He closed the window.
Then he locked himself in the bathroom and cried.

Looking back, it felt less like an accident and more like something designed.

A calculated outbreak.
The memories shattered at the sound of a piercing screech.

He spun around.
An infected had spotted him and was already sprinting toward him, limbs pumping with a feral intensity, like a mad dog unleashed. Panic flared, but he forced his breathing into control, willed his trembling body into motion, and ran.

He avoided the open street and darted into the nearest building.
The infected followed.

He took the stairs two at a time. The sound of pursuit filled the stairwell—ragged breathing, snarls, the violent rattle of teeth echoing off concrete walls. Each step hammered through his legs as the distance between them closed.

Too close.
Closer still.
“S… t… o… p…”

The word broke out of the infected’s throat, mangled and wrong. It echoed his earlier encounter, and for a split second confusion cut through the panic. He had never seen this before. Never heard it.

Why now?

There was no time to stop and understand.

He glanced over his shoulder—and his eyes widened.

The infected leapt.

Hands slammed into his face, knocking him to the ground. The impact stole his breath as the creature pinned him down. He struggled, tried to twist free, but the grip was impossibly strong. Blood-slick fingers tried to dig into his skin. Its sores split open and bone glinted through torn flesh.

He couldn’t shake him off.

“Someone—help me!” he screamed.
The regret was instant.

Another screech answered from somewhere nearby, closing in fast.

The infected straddled him, swinging wildly, snapping its teeth inches from his face. He shoved with everything he had, but terror drained his strength, turning his limbs heavy and uncooperative as the creature bore down on him.

Shaking him off was nearly impossible. His weight crushed down on him, every movement lagging, his body refusing to respond fast enough. He couldn’t keep the infected at a distance anymore. The attempts to bite him were frantic and unending.

Another snarling sound crept closer.

He could hear it now—ragged breathing, wet sniffing, footsteps dragging toward them.
He shoved the infected’s face aside, careful to keep his teeth from sinking into his hand. Dried blood caked his mouth and jaw. His rib cage heaved violently, each breath rattling through a body that should have stopped working long ago. The skin on his face was so pale it was almost translucent, hanging loose, stretched and splitting as if it might peel away entirely. Half-open eyelids revealed only white.

It felt like time had slowed.

The rattling grew so clear, so constant, that an eerie calm settled over him. For a moment, the idea of the end felt almost peaceful. He turned his face away.

That was when he saw it.

A rusted knife lay within reach.

He grabbed it and drove it into the infected’s throat. Pulled it free. The creature screamed—and became more violent. He stabbed again. And again. Throat. Stomach. Finally, he plunged the blade through the skull. Still, it fought.

The knife snapped as he tried to wrench it free. The infected’s movements faltered then—weak, sluggish, collapsing into spasms. He shoved the body aside, staggered to his feet and froze.

At the end of the stairwell stood the other infected.
Too close.

He could smell her before she moved—rancid, sour, unmistakable.

She let out a screech louder than anything he’d heard before and launched herself forward, springing higher than a human ever should. He ran up the stairs and she followed him.
He didn’t have the strength to fight her. He barely had the strength to run. Still, he forced his legs to move.

He burst onto the roof and slammed the door shut.
The impact from the other side tore it open.

She came through on all fours, feral and rabid, launching herself into the air again—no longer moving like something human.

He grabbed a loose pipe and swung with everything he had.
The blow caught her midair, crushing into her skull and sending her body hurtling across the rooftop. She hit the ground hard—but she didn’t stop moving.

She was still alive.

The realization hollowed him out. Killing her was the only option left, yet he didn’t know how. Every strike he landed should have ended it. Nothing did.

One more hit, he told himself.

He raised the pipe, intent on smashing her head open and she punched him in the stomach.
The impact sent him rolling across the concrete, air ripped from his lungs. He lay there gasping, stunned not just by the pain, but by the impossibility of it.

How?
The question echoed as he struggled to understand her movement—too precise, too intentional to be dismissed as reflex.

“I… t… h… u… r… t…” The words spilled out of her mouth in a broken rasp.

Before he could react, the other infected burst up from the stairwell and slammed into her, driving her to the ground. He watched in horror as it repeatedly smashed the back of her head against the concrete. Bone split. Flesh collapsed inward.

She was still moving. Her eyes found him. “H… r… t…”

“Hey!” The word tore out of him before he understood why he’d said it. She was infected. This was his chance. The realization hit too late.

I’m an idiot.
He gritted his teeth and swung the pipe, smashing it into the other infected’s head. The creature shrieked and lunged, grabbing his leg and yanking hard. He lost his footing and slammed onto his back, the concrete knocking the air from his lungs.

He gasped, choking, panic clawing at his chest. For a moment, it felt as if his lungs had collapsed entirely.

Pain tore through his spine as he struggled to breathe.

Get up. Get up.
The words repeated in his mind as he fought through the agony. The infected turned back toward him, eyes burning with wild, focused rage. It charged.

He raised the pipe just in time. The creature swung—he blocked—and countered in the same motion, driving the pipe straight into its face. The impact crushed both eyes at once.
Blood burst outward. The infected recoiled, releasing a deep, furious screech—something closer to a war cry than pain.

He staggered, pressing himself against the cold wall as he crawled backward toward the exit. There was nothing left in him—no strength to deliver a finishing blow. If he was caught again, this time he wouldn’t survive.

When he finally reached outside, the screams behind him faded, then stopped altogether.
He exhaled, sagging with exhaustion and relief.

He was alive.
Unhurt—but barely standing.

Then a heavy thud shattered the stillness.

He turned just in time to see the infected female from the roof crumpled on the ground below. He looked up.

The other infected stood at the edge, staring down.

“Did he throw her?” he muttered, disbelief creeping into his voice.

The answer came immediately.

The infected jumped.

The body struck the ground with terrifying force. The head took the impact—bone collapsing, flesh splitting apart in a wet explosion. Blood sprayed outward, painting the concrete in a grotesque finality.

It was over.
Harsh doubled over and vomited.

***

He spotted a torn parachute snagged against the side of a building.
Beneath it sat an unopened supply container.

It was close—close enough to see clearly—yet the ground between them felt unreal, as if crossing it meant stepping into a different world. There was no straight path to it.
He scanned the area again.

Nothing.

The silence unsettled him. It felt absolute, unnatural—like the world had been scrubbed clean, leaving him as the only thing still breathing. Every step forward tightened his nerves. So close to his goal now, he moved carefully, deliberately, eyes constantly sweeping the buildings around him. A dormant infected could be anywhere, waiting for the slightest mistake.

But what appeared wasn’t what he feared.

A person emerged, walking quietly toward the container.

The man was tall and unnaturally thin, his posture slightly stooped but his movements quick and alert. Pale skin clung to sharp features, and his hollow eyes made him look more like an apparition than someone alive.

He pressed himself against a wall and watched.

The stranger reached the container and struggled with it, pulling hard until the doors groaned open halfway. That was when he made his choice.

He stepped out from cover, hands raised, palms open—an unspoken promise of peace.
The man noticed him instantly.

He recoiled, took a step back, and drew a knife.

The blade caught what little light remained.

“Wait.” Harsh dipped his head slightly, hands still raised. “I mean no harm. I just need food and water—for my family.”

The man leveled the knife at him. “This is mine. I’m not sharing.”

“Please.” Harsh paused, then took a slow step forward. “I only need a little. It’s a big container. There’s enough for both of us.”

The man slashed the air with the blade. “I’ll cut you.” His teeth were clenched as he spoke.
As the distance closed, he noticed the man’s hand trembling. Not fear—weakness. His arm shook as if it could barely stay raised.

“Please,” Harsh said again, voice low. “I’m begging you.”

Another step. Close enough now that he could lunge for the knife.
The man suddenly leaned forward.

He was taller than Harsh had judged from a distance.

The blade skimmed his forearm. Pain flared—sharp but shallow. He recoiled, hissing through his teeth.

“I… told you…” the man said, his voice quivering.

Anger surged.
“Mother—” Harsh snatched up a rock, and hurled it. The man threw his arms up to protect his face.

That was the opening.

Harsh drove a kick into the man’s chest, sending him crashing back into a wooden fence. The boards buckled but held, rattling violently. The man slid down, clutching his chest, gasping.

He looked up, fury burning through the pain. “Who the hell are you?” he spat. “This is mine…”

“I’m not taking all of it,” he snapped back. “I just need enough for my family. So stop being unreasonable.”

The words hung between them—sharp, desperate, and far too fragile for the world they were standing in.

The man suddenly surged back to his feet and lunged at Harsh. His arms lashed out wildly, whipping through the air as he tried to slash him with the knife. Harsh lost his footing for a split second—and that was enough.

A kick slammed into Harsh’s stomach, sending him flying backward four, maybe five feet. Before he could recover, the man leapt, coming down on top of him with the blade angled straight for his throat.

Harsh grabbed both of the man’s wrists and shoved upward with everything he had. The knife hovered inches from his neck. One more push in the wrong direction and he would be choking on his own blood.

Gritting his teeth, Harsh drew his knee up, planted his foot against the man’s waist, and heaved.

The man sailed over Harsh’s head.

His back struck the side of the supply container with a heavy thud before he crumpled, hitting the ground headfirst.

Then they both heard it.

A loud screech tore through the air.

Down the street, an infected stood perfectly still, staring directly at them. She didn’t rush. She didn’t howl again. She tilted her head slightly, sniffing the air—calculating.
Her gaze snapped upward.

The screech that followed was ear-splitting.

She broke into a sprint, arms swinging at unnatural angles, jerking as if they were broken or no longer under her control.

Harsh’s attention locked onto the charging infected and that was when the man struck.
Hands seized Harsh’s shirt and slammed him back against the container. The impact sent a violent shock through his body, rattling his spine. His vision blurred. The world tilted.
Harsh tried to stand.

His legs didn’t respond.

“Serves you right,” the man spat. “Being fed to that aggressor is exactly what you deserve.”
Harsh’s vision swam, the world still blurred from the impact, but he caught the fear in the man’s eyes. The man wasn’t looking at Harsh anymore.

He was staring upward—toward the top of the container.

A shape dropped from above.

Harsh saw only a blur of motion before the infected slammed into the man, dragging him down. Flesh tore. Screams cut off abruptly. In seconds, the man was being ripped apart.
Understanding hit Harsh even before the noise stopped.

The infected had gone for the one standing in the open.

Harsh had been in her blind spot.

The man’s aggression had saved him.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Harsh was grateful to still be alive.

He snatched the fallen knife and drove it into the infected’s skull. Once. Twice. Again and again. He kept stabbing until the top of her head collapsed into something unrecognizable.
Only then did she stop moving.

Harsh staggered back, chest heaving. His hands and clothes were soaked in blood—far more than he thought a body could hold. The thought flickered briefly, then vanished. There was no time for trivial reflections. That screech would draw others. It always did.

He turned to the container.
Inside were two large, sealed boxes.

He scanned the area, searching for a way to move them both at once. One trip had nearly killed him—there was no chance he’d risk a second. Nearby, half-hidden beneath debris, he spotted an old wooden cart once used for hauling vegetables. The wood was splintered, the wheels worn thin, but they still turned. Or at least, he hoped they would.

He loaded both boxes onto the cart and began pushing.

Every few steps, Harsh paused to scan the road, the buildings, the windows that stared back too quietly. The silence pressed in on him, thick and watchful. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone.

Whether it was the infected—
—or the dead themselves, lingering and waiting—
Harsh felt certain something was watching him, patiently hoping for his end.

Fortunately, Harsh found himself standing in front of his building.

Relief washed over him—brief and overwhelming—only to be followed by a surge of pain and exhaustion that nearly brought him to his knees. Every muscle burned. His body felt hollowed out, held together by will alone.

He forced himself to look around one last time, scanning the street to be sure it was safe to haul the boxes upstairs.

That was when he saw it.

A mangled body lay sprawled nearby.

Fear seized him instantly. His mind jumped back to what he’d witnessed earlier—two infected tearing into each other with animal ferocity. He could see one corpse.
So where was the other?

The answer stepped out of the shadows.

From within the building, the remaining infected emerged slowly, her silhouette unfolding from the darkness as if she had been waiting. Watching.

Harsh’s throat tightened. No sound came out. Screaming wasn’t an option.

All he could feel was the weight of his exhaustion—and the pain flooding his body as the distance between them closed.

***

The door opened, and Harsh was met with Chhaya’s face collapsing in relief.

For a moment, it almost broke him.

He wondered how she would react if he told her the truth. There wasn’t time.
“I don’t have much time,” Harsh said, forcing the words out as he dragged both boxes inside.

Chhaya understood immediately.

He turned to step back out—but she grabbed him, pulling him inside and refusing to let go. His vision was already dimming, the edges of the world dissolving into shadow. He saw her crying. It felt like drowning—an endless fall into a sea without a bottom.

“S… t… o… p…”

The sound came from his own mouth.

Broken. Wrong.

He froze as the realization struck him with brutal clarity. That voice—it was the same voice he’d heard from the infected.

Harsh understood then.

He was a bird trapped in a cage, wings intact, escape impossible.

Chhaya hugged him tightly and kissed him, desperate, shaking. For a moment, he let himself stay. Then he gently pushed her away. His eyes drifted to the bedroom door.

Shravya was asleep.

He was grateful for that.

He couldn’t bear for her to see this. Chhaya would find a way—she always did. A different story. A softer truth. Something that wouldn’t shatter their daughter.

Harsh turned toward the window.

For a brief second, he wondered how they would survive without him. The thought faded quickly. Somehow, he knew—they would be okay. At least for now.

He climbed.

The railing snapped as he vaulted over it.

The fall felt slow.

Peaceful.

As the ground rushed up to meet him, Harsh remembered the day it all began—the day the world ended. Now, he was part of that ending. Another consequence. Another casualty.
He wasn’t afraid.

Only disappointed.

Disappointed that he never got to say how much he loved them—how he always would.
His vision flooded with red. Veins crawled inward from the edges, writhing like living things. In that final instant, Harsh knew it without doubt.

He was infected.

His body struck the ground.

His eyes opened.

He saw himself crawling.

Confusion flickered—alive?—until the truth settled in. He wasn’t alive.

He was trapped.

Imprisoned inside a body that no longer belonged to him. He had no control. No voice. No rest. His ruined form dragged itself forward against his will.

Loneliness crushed him.

He wanted to stop. To lie still. To finally leave this world behind.

But his body kept crawling.

And then he understood.

Every infected human—every one of them—was still inside. Watching. Screaming silently as their bodies betrayed them.

The words came again, tearing out of his throat in that same broken voice:
“H… e… l… p…”

Harsh remembered the day it all happened.

And he knew now—the nightmare wouldn’t end until his mind finally did.

Only then would he rest in peace.

“I remember the day it all began.

It was a beautiful day. Above me, a vast dome of clear blue sky stretched into eternity, clouds drifting in soft whites and pale blues. An eagle circled overhead. Summer was close.

Then something went wrong.

The eagle faltered mid-flight, wings stuttering as if the air itself had turned hostile. Without warning, it folded inward and plunged straight down, a living projectile, piercing the skull of a man standing beside me. He collapsed without a sound.

That was the first anomaly.

I remember the feeling vividly—the red veins crawling beneath my skin, blooming inside my head like warning signs I couldn’t ignore. Sometimes I wonder if it was all just a fever dream, if I’m trapped at the beginning, forced to watch the ending repeat itself.

It started with the rats. Then the birds. Then the livestock. The infection spread faster each time, accelerating, learning.

What came after was not the catastrophe.

It was only the beginning.

I remember that day as if it were yesterday.”

***

Harsh woke up still trapped in yesterday’s horror. The man had died. There was no gentler way to think about it.

He wanted to forget, but sleep hadn’t granted him that mercy. The dark hollows beneath his eyes were proof enough. Outside, the world was trying to stand back up—at least part of it was. Morning routines resumed. Traffic hummed. Life pretended nothing had happened.

The other part of the world was on the news.
Reports of a virus spreading among rodents.

“I hope it’s nothing serious,” Harsh muttered, staring at his reflection as he brushed his teeth.

The mirror didn’t agree.

“I’m sure it’s fine, Harsh.” Chhaya kept his ironed shirt on the couch.

He nodded and pushed open the door to Shravya’s room. She was still asleep. Watching her breathe, slow and steady, it struck him how grown she looked—already twelve. Time had slipped past without asking permission.

Flew, he thought.

The word dragged him back to yesterday.

He saw it again—the eagle folding in on itself, diving. The deafening crack, the wet crunch as bone met bone, shattered on impact. Blood spraying outward, streaking the faces and clothes of those standing too close. The memory hit me so hard my stomach lurched.
It felt like his insides were grinding—cogwheels jammed together, thick with syrup. He gagged, leaning slightly forward, willing myself to vomit.

Nothing came out of his gullet.

He sat down in front of the TV, letting the noise wash over him. He needed something—anything—to keep his thoughts from circling.

The reporter said, “The exact origin of the virus was still unknown. However, preliminary simulations suggested it may have emerged somewhere in the United States. They were calling it TAV—The Aggressor Virus. According to early findings, TAV made rodents unnaturally violent toward every living thing. When confined together, the behavior escalated: the rodents attacked one another, consuming each other until only one remained. What unsettled researchers most was that the animals were still technically alive. Brain activity persisted. Heart function continued. Yet scans showed unnatural alterations—patterns no one could fully explain. For now, the spread appeared limited to rodents. There’s no need to worry,” the reporter concluded.

He left for work. The sky was the same blue as yesterday’s, and the heat was beginning to rise. To everyone else, the day looked ordinary—unchanged, unbothered.

For him, normal had taken on a different shape. But that didn’t seem to matter anymore. Yesterday was spent. The memory had already latched itself in place, settling where it would stay.

The burning behind his eyes had faded.

For now.

***

A flash of pain tore through his head—so sudden, so violent, he barely had time to brace for it. Memories ignited and vanished in rapid succession, each image striking like a small bolt of lightning before dissolving into darkness.

His awareness folded inward. He focused not on the shadows that felt as if they were gathering behind him, but on the chaotic messages spinning through his mind—fragments, warnings, things he couldn’t yet name.

He stood up.

Chhaya was fast asleep. Streetlights bled through the partially drawn curtains, casting thin bands of orange across the room.

He drank a glass of water, then turned on the TV and flipped through channels. Nothing held his attention. He shut it off, opened his laptop, and began mindlessly surfing, hoping sleep would find him again.

He glanced up, half-expecting to see Chhaya.

There was only darkness, waiting.

He lowered his gaze and kept scrolling. That was when he found the article.

TAV was no longer confined to rodents. It had begun infecting birds and livestock, spreading at an accelerating rate—yet there was no sense of urgency anywhere. Only a handful of outlets were reporting it. There was no statement from the WHO, and no confirmed human infections.

He sighed. “Feels unusual,” he muttered without realizing he’d spoken aloud.

No one else seemed concerned. Social media overflowed with entertainment, trends, and noise. It felt as though chaos was gathering just out of sight, and humanity had chosen to look away.

The images made his stomach churn. The infected animals behaved exactly as he had witnessed—same violence, same unnatural escalation. Each recorded incident mirrored the last, aggression intensifying with every frame. Watching it felt unreal, like a badly edited film looping the same scene.

I’m sure it’s fine, Harsh. Chhaya’s words echoed in his head.

“No… it’s not fine,” he murmured.

He glanced up.

For a moment, the shadows in the room seemed to shift—stirring in a breeze that didn’t exist. Then the movement vanished, leaving behind something heavier.

Not motion.

Just a deeper stillness.

He woke up on the couch the next morning.

“Good morning,” Chhaya said softly. Then, after a pause, “Are you okay?” Her voice carried a worry she wasn’t trying to hide.

He nodded, rubbing his eyes. Without a word, he turned on the TV.

It was confirmed.

TAV had crossed into humans.

Within hours, the WHO declared a pandemic. The information that followed was terrifyingly brief: TAV spread through contact between infected blood and a healthy body. That was all. No timeline. No reassurance. No plan.

He looked at Chhaya. She looked back at him. Neither of them spoke. The announcement had already hollowed out the room.

The virus spread like wildfire. Cities fell first. Then the economy. Eventually, even the institutions meant to hold the world together collapsed. The last to fall was the WHO itself.
Chaos followed.

Day and night lost their meaning. Silence became a memory. Aggressive snarls echoed through the streets while they stayed locked inside their home. Nights were the worst—no lights, only darkness and sound. The snarling sometimes crept closer. Teeth rattled nearby, a grotesque rhythm that chilled him more than screams ever could.

The rattling always slowed.

That meant feeding.

Flesh tearing. Bone crunching. Bodies crashing together until only one remained. Even on the quietest days, the screams carried.

He remembered the day it all began.

He knew others remembered it too.

And yet, humanity had walked straight into the terror of its own making. Ignorance had led them here—or perhaps ignorance was simply the mechanism, the final step toward an inevitable end.

He wondered if people still prayed.

He never had. He doubted he ever would.

Above it all, the sky remained vast, blue, and serene.

Below it, the world had become a wasteland of blood and bone.

***

He woke with a jolt, startled by a sudden noise from outside. Slowly, he pushed himself up and cracked the window open, peering down into the street.

Nothing.

He turned around and recoiled in fright.

“Chhaya,” he exhaled, pressing a hand to his chest. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. Her voice trembled. “We’re almost out of food. And the water’s nearly gone.” Fear surfaced in her eyes. “What are we going to do?”

He had no answer. Not one he was willing to say aloud. He knew what had to be done, and he hated it. The thought of going outside twisted something in his gut. Even with fewer infected roaming the streets, it was still a risk.

“I can go,” she offered.

He stopped her before the words could settle.

No. He couldn’t let her go out there. Shravya needed her mother. The decision felt instinctive, not rational.

He shook his head. “I’ll gather some supplies. There has to be something left in the other apartments.”

She nodded slowly.

They held each other for a moment—longer than necessary. They kissed, gently, and carefully. It felt too much like a goodbye, and he clung to that feeling, turning it into resolve.
If nothing else, it would give him the strength to walk out the door.

***

He eased the front door open and glanced into the corridor.

Quiet.
Too quiet.

He stepped out and closed the door behind him, careful to make no sound. The stairwell was empty—if emptiness could still exist here. Dried blood smeared the walls and steps, flesh fused to surfaces as if the building itself had tried to swallow what remained. Every breath dragged rot into his lungs.

There were no lights. Debris littered everything—clothes tangled with dirty plates, overturned food containers, garbage pressed into corners and ground beneath careless feet. Old spills had darkened into black stains, caked with dust and time. The air hummed with flies. Maggots writhed in clusters. Occasionally, the wind sighed through broken spaces, a soft, mournful howl that made him regret leaving.

What if we die?

The thought surfaced uninvited.

He forced it away, thinking of his daughter—of Chhaya. He couldn’t let it end like that. Bodies collapsing indoors, dragged through days of thirst and hunger, the slow shutdown of organs while pain lingered long enough to be remembered. He wouldn’t leave them to that.
Fear whispered from both sides.

Die inside.
Or turn outside.
Neither was acceptable.

A distant howl cut through his thoughts.

He slipped into an empty apartment and peered out through a shattered window. Nothing moved. No signs of life. No supplies. Apartment after apartment had already been stripped bare. The silence pressed harder than the noise ever had.

He made a decision.

If there was anything left, it would be outside—maybe one of the airdrops from the early days. The military had scattered supplies during the initial contamination phase. He doubted anyone had lived long enough to claim them.

The drop zone wasn’t far.

He peeked out again. The road lay empty.

He took a single step outside—
—and an infected lurched into view from around the corner.

He recoiled instantly, slamming back against the wall. His breath caught. He clamped a hand over his mouth, instinctively silencing himself as his heart hammered in his chest.

His attention snapped to the sound of teeth rattling—rapid, violent, louder than anything he had ever heard. Panic surged through him. He could hear her breathing now—ragged, restless—sniffing the air like an animal searching for a scent.

The clattering was getting closer.

Footsteps followed, uneven but fast. If he ran, she would hear him. There was nowhere to hide. She sniffed again, closer this time.

She was right outside the entrance.

Either he killed her, or she killed him.

“H… e… l… p…”
The word scraped its way out of her throat, broken and wrong. A chill ran down his spine. He had never heard an infected speak. Not even once.

Does she know I’m here?
His thoughts spiraled. What do I do? Where can I go?

Then she let out a piercing screech.
Something flashed past his vision.

He flinched, clenched his teeth, and dared to look outside. Two infected were tearing into each other, bodies crashing together, flesh ripping free as they fed with desperate violence.
He moved the moment they were distracted.

Slow. Quiet. Every step measured.
He put distance between himself and the building, his heart pounding so hard it drowned out everything else. His lungs burned; he still hadn’t recovered his breath. There was ground yet to cover. He took the narrowest paths available, slipping through tight corridors and broken alleys, avoiding open spaces.

The infected were everywhere.

At first glance, it looked organized—as if each had claimed a territory, never crossing invisible lines. That illusion didn’t last. They were not mindless. They were shrewd.
People had called them aggressors in the beginning. Over time, the names changed—each one an attempt to make sense of them.

For him, they were simply infected.

They followed patterns. They calculated movement and attack. Even during the outbreak, there had been intent behind their actions. Now, as their numbers thinned, their range expanded less often—but when they moved, it was deliberate.

He remembered the message that had been broadcast to survivors.

The aggressors will die if they are unable to consume for a prolonged period. Over time, starvation will force them to turn on one another. Survivors are advised to avoid all contact and remain within secured locations. Stay safe. We promise—this will be over soon.
He remembered the day he understood they had been wrong.

Human ignorance was the variable no one had accounted for. Instead of staying hidden, armed civilians poured into the streets, determined to eliminate the infected themselves. The bullets didn’t stop them. By nightfall, mountains of bodies lay motionless across every city.

He remembered the massacre clearly.

From his window, he watched helplessly as people he once knew—people he had shared meals with—were torn apart. Friends. Colleagues. Even relatives. They screamed the names of those they loved as the streets filled with chaos. Innocent blood soaked the ground. Children cried. Voices begged for help that never came.

He closed the window.
Then he locked himself in the bathroom and cried.

Looking back, it felt less like an accident and more like something designed.

A calculated outbreak.
The memories shattered at the sound of a piercing screech.

He spun around.
An infected had spotted him and was already sprinting toward him, limbs pumping with a feral intensity, like a mad dog unleashed. Panic flared, but he forced his breathing into control, willed his trembling body into motion, and ran.

He avoided the open street and darted into the nearest building.
The infected followed.

He took the stairs two at a time. The sound of pursuit filled the stairwell—ragged breathing, snarls, the violent rattle of teeth echoing off concrete walls. Each step hammered through his legs as the distance between them closed.

Too close.
Closer still.
“S… t… o… p…”

The word broke out of the infected’s throat, mangled and wrong. It echoed his earlier encounter, and for a split second confusion cut through the panic. He had never seen this before. Never heard it.

Why now?

There was no time to stop and understand.

He glanced over his shoulder—and his eyes widened.

The infected leapt.

Hands slammed into his face, knocking him to the ground. The impact stole his breath as the creature pinned him down. He struggled, tried to twist free, but the grip was impossibly strong. Blood-slick fingers tried to dig into his skin. Its sores split open and bone glinted through torn flesh.

He couldn’t shake him off.

“Someone—help me!” he screamed.
The regret was instant.

Another screech answered from somewhere nearby, closing in fast.

The infected straddled him, swinging wildly, snapping its teeth inches from his face. He shoved with everything he had, but terror drained his strength, turning his limbs heavy and uncooperative as the creature bore down on him.

Shaking him off was nearly impossible. His weight crushed down on him, every movement lagging, his body refusing to respond fast enough. He couldn’t keep the infected at a distance anymore. The attempts to bite him were frantic and unending.

Another snarling sound crept closer.

He could hear it now—ragged breathing, wet sniffing, footsteps dragging toward them.
He shoved the infected’s face aside, careful to keep his teeth from sinking into his hand. Dried blood caked his mouth and jaw. His rib cage heaved violently, each breath rattling through a body that should have stopped working long ago. The skin on his face was so pale it was almost translucent, hanging loose, stretched and splitting as if it might peel away entirely. Half-open eyelids revealed only white.

It felt like time had slowed.

The rattling grew so clear, so constant, that an eerie calm settled over him. For a moment, the idea of the end felt almost peaceful. He turned his face away.

That was when he saw it.

A rusted knife lay within reach.

He grabbed it and drove it into the infected’s throat. Pulled it free. The creature screamed—and became more violent. He stabbed again. And again. Throat. Stomach. Finally, he plunged the blade through the skull. Still, it fought.

The knife snapped as he tried to wrench it free. The infected’s movements faltered then—weak, sluggish, collapsing into spasms. He shoved the body aside, staggered to his feet and froze.

At the end of the stairwell stood the other infected.
Too close.

He could smell her before she moved—rancid, sour, unmistakable.

She let out a screech louder than anything he’d heard before and launched herself forward, springing higher than a human ever should. He ran up the stairs and she followed him.
He didn’t have the strength to fight her. He barely had the strength to run. Still, he forced his legs to move.

He burst onto the roof and slammed the door shut.
The impact from the other side tore it open.

She came through on all fours, feral and rabid, launching herself into the air again—no longer moving like something human.

He grabbed a loose pipe and swung with everything he had.
The blow caught her midair, crushing into her skull and sending her body hurtling across the rooftop. She hit the ground hard—but she didn’t stop moving.

She was still alive.

The realization hollowed him out. Killing her was the only option left, yet he didn’t know how. Every strike he landed should have ended it. Nothing did.

One more hit, he told himself.

He raised the pipe, intent on smashing her head open and she punched him in the stomach.
The impact sent him rolling across the concrete, air ripped from his lungs. He lay there gasping, stunned not just by the pain, but by the impossibility of it.

How?
The question echoed as he struggled to understand her movement—too precise, too intentional to be dismissed as reflex.

“I… t… h… u… r… t…” The words spilled out of her mouth in a broken rasp.

Before he could react, the other infected burst up from the stairwell and slammed into her, driving her to the ground. He watched in horror as it repeatedly smashed the back of her head against the concrete. Bone split. Flesh collapsed inward.

She was still moving. Her eyes found him. “H… r… t…”

“Hey!” The word tore out of him before he understood why he’d said it. She was infected. This was his chance. The realization hit too late.

I’m an idiot.
He gritted his teeth and swung the pipe, smashing it into the other infected’s head. The creature shrieked and lunged, grabbing his leg and yanking hard. He lost his footing and slammed onto his back, the concrete knocking the air from his lungs.

He gasped, choking, panic clawing at his chest. For a moment, it felt as if his lungs had collapsed entirely.

Pain tore through his spine as he struggled to breathe.

Get up. Get up.
The words repeated in his mind as he fought through the agony. The infected turned back toward him, eyes burning with wild, focused rage. It charged.

He raised the pipe just in time. The creature swung—he blocked—and countered in the same motion, driving the pipe straight into its face. The impact crushed both eyes at once.
Blood burst outward. The infected recoiled, releasing a deep, furious screech—something closer to a war cry than pain.

He staggered, pressing himself against the cold wall as he crawled backward toward the exit. There was nothing left in him—no strength to deliver a finishing blow. If he was caught again, this time he wouldn’t survive.

When he finally reached outside, the screams behind him faded, then stopped altogether.
He exhaled, sagging with exhaustion and relief.

He was alive.
Unhurt—but barely standing.

Then a heavy thud shattered the stillness.

He turned just in time to see the infected female from the roof crumpled on the ground below. He looked up.

The other infected stood at the edge, staring down.

“Did he throw her?” he muttered, disbelief creeping into his voice.

The answer came immediately.

The infected jumped.

The body struck the ground with terrifying force. The head took the impact—bone collapsing, flesh splitting apart in a wet explosion. Blood sprayed outward, painting the concrete in a grotesque finality.

It was over.
Harsh doubled over and vomited.

***

He spotted a torn parachute snagged against the side of a building.
Beneath it sat an unopened supply container.

It was close—close enough to see clearly—yet the ground between them felt unreal, as if crossing it meant stepping into a different world. There was no straight path to it.
He scanned the area again.

Nothing.

The silence unsettled him. It felt absolute, unnatural—like the world had been scrubbed clean, leaving him as the only thing still breathing. Every step forward tightened his nerves. So close to his goal now, he moved carefully, deliberately, eyes constantly sweeping the buildings around him. A dormant infected could be anywhere, waiting for the slightest mistake.

But what appeared wasn’t what he feared.

A person emerged, walking quietly toward the container.

The man was tall and unnaturally thin, his posture slightly stooped but his movements quick and alert. Pale skin clung to sharp features, and his hollow eyes made him look more like an apparition than someone alive.

He pressed himself against a wall and watched.

The stranger reached the container and struggled with it, pulling hard until the doors groaned open halfway. That was when he made his choice.

He stepped out from cover, hands raised, palms open—an unspoken promise of peace.
The man noticed him instantly.

He recoiled, took a step back, and drew a knife.

The blade caught what little light remained.

“Wait.” Harsh dipped his head slightly, hands still raised. “I mean no harm. I just need food and water—for my family.”

The man leveled the knife at him. “This is mine. I’m not sharing.”

“Please.” Harsh paused, then took a slow step forward. “I only need a little. It’s a big container. There’s enough for both of us.”

The man slashed the air with the blade. “I’ll cut you.” His teeth were clenched as he spoke.
As the distance closed, he noticed the man’s hand trembling. Not fear—weakness. His arm shook as if it could barely stay raised.

“Please,” Harsh said again, voice low. “I’m begging you.”

Another step. Close enough now that he could lunge for the knife.
The man suddenly leaned forward.

He was taller than Harsh had judged from a distance.

The blade skimmed his forearm. Pain flared—sharp but shallow. He recoiled, hissing through his teeth.

“I… told you…” the man said, his voice quivering.

Anger surged.
“Mother—” Harsh snatched up a rock, and hurled it. The man threw his arms up to protect his face.

That was the opening.

Harsh drove a kick into the man’s chest, sending him crashing back into a wooden fence. The boards buckled but held, rattling violently. The man slid down, clutching his chest, gasping.

He looked up, fury burning through the pain. “Who the hell are you?” he spat. “This is mine…”

“I’m not taking all of it,” he snapped back. “I just need enough for my family. So stop being unreasonable.”

The words hung between them—sharp, desperate, and far too fragile for the world they were standing in.

The man suddenly surged back to his feet and lunged at Harsh. His arms lashed out wildly, whipping through the air as he tried to slash him with the knife. Harsh lost his footing for a split second—and that was enough.

A kick slammed into Harsh’s stomach, sending him flying backward four, maybe five feet. Before he could recover, the man leapt, coming down on top of him with the blade angled straight for his throat.

Harsh grabbed both of the man’s wrists and shoved upward with everything he had. The knife hovered inches from his neck. One more push in the wrong direction and he would be choking on his own blood.

Gritting his teeth, Harsh drew his knee up, planted his foot against the man’s waist, and heaved.

The man sailed over Harsh’s head.

His back struck the side of the supply container with a heavy thud before he crumpled, hitting the ground headfirst.

Then they both heard it.

A loud screech tore through the air.

Down the street, an infected stood perfectly still, staring directly at them. She didn’t rush. She didn’t howl again. She tilted her head slightly, sniffing the air—calculating.
Her gaze snapped upward.

The screech that followed was ear-splitting.

She broke into a sprint, arms swinging at unnatural angles, jerking as if they were broken or no longer under her control.

Harsh’s attention locked onto the charging infected and that was when the man struck.
Hands seized Harsh’s shirt and slammed him back against the container. The impact sent a violent shock through his body, rattling his spine. His vision blurred. The world tilted.
Harsh tried to stand.

His legs didn’t respond.

“Serves you right,” the man spat. “Being fed to that aggressor is exactly what you deserve.”
Harsh’s vision swam, the world still blurred from the impact, but he caught the fear in the man’s eyes. The man wasn’t looking at Harsh anymore.

He was staring upward—toward the top of the container.

A shape dropped from above.

Harsh saw only a blur of motion before the infected slammed into the man, dragging him down. Flesh tore. Screams cut off abruptly. In seconds, the man was being ripped apart.
Understanding hit Harsh even before the noise stopped.

The infected had gone for the one standing in the open.

Harsh had been in her blind spot.

The man’s aggression had saved him.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Harsh was grateful to still be alive.

He snatched the fallen knife and drove it into the infected’s skull. Once. Twice. Again and again. He kept stabbing until the top of her head collapsed into something unrecognizable.
Only then did she stop moving.

Harsh staggered back, chest heaving. His hands and clothes were soaked in blood—far more than he thought a body could hold. The thought flickered briefly, then vanished. There was no time for trivial reflections. That screech would draw others. It always did.

He turned to the container.
Inside were two large, sealed boxes.

He scanned the area, searching for a way to move them both at once. One trip had nearly killed him—there was no chance he’d risk a second. Nearby, half-hidden beneath debris, he spotted an old wooden cart once used for hauling vegetables. The wood was splintered, the wheels worn thin, but they still turned. Or at least, he hoped they would.

He loaded both boxes onto the cart and began pushing.

Every few steps, Harsh paused to scan the road, the buildings, the windows that stared back too quietly. The silence pressed in on him, thick and watchful. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone.

Whether it was the infected—
—or the dead themselves, lingering and waiting—
Harsh felt certain something was watching him, patiently hoping for his end.

Fortunately, Harsh found himself standing in front of his building.

Relief washed over him—brief and overwhelming—only to be followed by a surge of pain and exhaustion that nearly brought him to his knees. Every muscle burned. His body felt hollowed out, held together by will alone.

He forced himself to look around one last time, scanning the street to be sure it was safe to haul the boxes upstairs.

That was when he saw it.

A mangled body lay sprawled nearby.

Fear seized him instantly. His mind jumped back to what he’d witnessed earlier—two infected tearing into each other with animal ferocity. He could see one corpse.
So where was the other?

The answer stepped out of the shadows.

From within the building, the remaining infected emerged slowly, her silhouette unfolding from the darkness as if she had been waiting. Watching.

Harsh’s throat tightened. No sound came out. Screaming wasn’t an option.

All he could feel was the weight of his exhaustion—and the pain flooding his body as the distance between them closed.

***

The door opened, and Harsh was met with Chhaya’s face collapsing in relief.

For a moment, it almost broke him.

He wondered how she would react if he told her the truth. There wasn’t time.
“I don’t have much time,” Harsh said, forcing the words out as he dragged both boxes inside.

Chhaya understood immediately.

He turned to step back out—but she grabbed him, pulling him inside and refusing to let go. His vision was already dimming, the edges of the world dissolving into shadow. He saw her crying. It felt like drowning—an endless fall into a sea without a bottom.

“S… t… o… p…”

The sound came from his own mouth.

Broken. Wrong.

He froze as the realization struck him with brutal clarity. That voice—it was the same voice he’d heard from the infected.

Harsh understood then.

He was a bird trapped in a cage, wings intact, escape impossible.

Chhaya hugged him tightly and kissed him, desperate, shaking. For a moment, he let himself stay. Then he gently pushed her away. His eyes drifted to the bedroom door.

Shravya was asleep.

He was grateful for that.

He couldn’t bear for her to see this. Chhaya would find a way—she always did. A different story. A softer truth. Something that wouldn’t shatter their daughter.

Harsh turned toward the window.

For a brief second, he wondered how they would survive without him. The thought faded quickly. Somehow, he knew—they would be okay. At least for now.

He climbed.

The railing snapped as he vaulted over it.

The fall felt slow.

Peaceful.

As the ground rushed up to meet him, Harsh remembered the day it all began—the day the world ended. Now, he was part of that ending. Another consequence. Another casualty.
He wasn’t afraid.

Only disappointed.

Disappointed that he never got to say how much he loved them—how he always would.
His vision flooded with red. Veins crawled inward from the edges, writhing like living things. In that final instant, Harsh knew it without doubt.

He was infected.

His body struck the ground.

His eyes opened.

He saw himself crawling.

Confusion flickered—alive?—until the truth settled in. He wasn’t alive.

He was trapped.

Imprisoned inside a body that no longer belonged to him. He had no control. No voice. No rest. His ruined form dragged itself forward against his will.

Loneliness crushed him.

He wanted to stop. To lie still. To finally leave this world behind.

But his body kept crawling.

And then he understood.

Every infected human—every one of them—was still inside. Watching. Screaming silently as their bodies betrayed them.

The words came again, tearing out of his throat in that same broken voice:
“H… e… l… p…”

Harsh remembered the day it all happened.

And he knew now—the nightmare wouldn’t end until his mind finally did.

Only then would he rest in peace.