After breakfast, Maarg made his way back upstairs, slipping his hand into his pocket.
The small plastic capsule rattled lightly as he pulled it out.
Multivitamins.
That's what his brother had called them. He had sent them over a while ago, insisting that Maarg take one every few days. "For your health," his brother had said. "They'll keep you strong."
Maarg wasn't sure why he suddenly remembered to take one now, but after everything that happened last night, a little extra strength didn't seem like a bad idea.
He popped the capsule into his mouth and swallowed it dry.
As he slipped the container back into his pocket, he took a quick count.
Five left.
He frowned slightly, staring at the small case for a moment before shaking his head.
Not the time to think about this.
Pushing his thoughts aside, he headed to Jack's room.
Jack was already sitting in front of the TV, controller in hand, setting up their usual fighting game.
"Took you long enough," Jack muttered, tossing Maarg a controller.
Maarg caught it, smirking. "Hope you're ready to lose."
Jack scoffed. "Yeah, yeah. We'll see about that."
For the next hour, they were just two friends playing video games, the tension of the past night momentarily forgotten.
But deep down, Maarg knew—something was coming. And soon, even moments like this would be a luxury.
The sound of a sharp, piercing scream shattered the peaceful moment.
Jack and Maarg froze, controllers still in their hands.
Another scream followed—high-pitched, desperate.
Maarg was already on his feet before Jack could say anything. He rushed to the window, Jack right behind him.
Outside, in the narrow street below, stood an elderly woman—her frail frame trembling, her voice cracking as she screamed for help.
Maarg's stomach twisted.
It was Mrs. Mills,
Remmy's grandmother.
The same woman who had lived in the house Maarg had been sneaking into, till yesterday.
But she wasn't alone.
A figure stood just a few feet away from her, barely moving. The morning light cast an eerie glow on his pale skin, his suit torn and stained in red.
It was the hazmat suit guy.
Or rather… what was left of him.
His reflective visor was cracked, his face visible beneath it—pale, discolored, his eyes lifeless. But what made Maarg's blood run cold was his mouth.
It was curled into that same grotesque, unnatural smile.
The same one from the zombie last night.
And then—
He turned his head slowly toward the window.
Directly at Maarg.
That haunting, twisted grin widened.
Jack took a step back. "What the hell…?"
Maarg's grip on the windowsill tightened.
Something was very, very wrong.
Maarg stood frozen at the window, his body tense.
His instincts screamed at him to move—to do something, anything—but he held himself back.
If he jumped down again, if he moved like he did last night, someone would see. Jack, his parents, the neighbors—there would be no hiding it.
Remmy's horrified expression was still fresh in his mind.
She had looked at him like he wasn't human.
And maybe… maybe he wasn't anymore.
As Maarg wrestled with his thoughts, Jack had already left his side.
By the time Maarg snapped out of it, Jack was on the street, sprinting toward Mrs. Smith.
"Hey!" Jack called out, stepping between the old woman and the hazmat suit guy. "Look, man, I get it. You don't want us to go outside, but you don't have to scare people by chasing them."
The hazmat man stood still.
Unmoving.
Silent.
Jack frowned, stepping closer. "Did you hear me?"
Still nothing.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw it—blood seeping through the cracks of the visor.
His stomach dropped.
Maarg was right.
This guy wasn't human anymore.
Before he could react, the hazmat zombie lunged.
Jack barely had time to brace himself before the creature was on him, its weight slamming into him.
Acting on instinct, Jack threw a jab—his fist connecting with the visor.
The zombie didn't flinch.
Jack hit it again.
Then again.
And again.
The visor cracked further, caving in slightly. But the zombie kept moving, its grotesque grin still visible beneath the splintering glass.
Jack gritted his teeth, his pulse pounding in his ears.
One more punch.
Then another.
And another.
Until—
CRACK.
The visor shattered.
A wet, sickening squelch followed.
Jack stumbled back, his breath ragged. His trembling hands were coated in something warm and sticky.
He didn't need to look to know what it was.
Inside the shattered helmet, there was nothing left but a soft, gooey mess.
***
Jack wiped his hands on his pants, grimacing at the sticky mess. He took a deep breath and turned to the old woman.
"You alright, ma'am?" he asked, still catching his breath.
Mrs. Mills, visibly shaken, placed a wrinkled hand over her chest but managed a small nod. "Oh, dear, I'm fine," she said, her voice trembling slightly. Her eyes flickered to the now lifeless corpse in the hazmat suit. A deep sadness settled in her expression. "I was just bringing this kind young man some food… I thought he must be hungry after guarding the gate for so long. But then—" She shook her head. "He started running after me without warning."
Jack pressed his lips into a thin line. He didn't have the heart to tell her that the "kind man" had died long before she brought him that food.
While Jack was busy reassuring the old woman, Maarg quietly made his way toward the colony gate, choosing to take the normal route this time.
His eyes scanned the area carefully. If one had made it inside, others could be on their way.
The streets outside the gate were eerily empty. A few abandoned cars, some scattered trash, but no sign of movement.
For now.
Maarg exhaled slowly. 'No more zombies.'
Still, he wasn't about to take any chances.
He locked the gate and looked around for something to reinforce it.
A concrete bench sat nearby. It was meant for residents to rest on during evening strolls, but at that moment, Maarg saw it as the perfect barricade.
He walked over, grabbed the edges, and lifted it—effortlessly.
A few weeks ago, this would have been a struggle. But now?
It felt as light as a wooden chair.
Suppressing the unease creeping up his spine, Maarg carried the bench over and propped it firmly against the gate, wedging it in place.
No one would be getting through easily now.
At least, no human would.
Maarg dusted off his hands, not giving much thought to the fact that he had just lifted a concrete bench that easily weighed over 500 kilograms. His mind pushed away the nagging questions—how he had done it, why it had felt effortless.
Now wasn't the time.
He turned and walked back toward Jack and Mrs. Mills, who were now standing a bit away from the lifeless body of the hazmat-suited guy.
The old woman, though visibly shaken, had a warm smile as she looked at them. "You boys… you saved me." She sighed, looking down at the tiffin box she had brought. "Well… that poor man won't be needing this anymore."
She held the tray out toward them. "Here, you take it. You must be hungry after all that effort."
Jack and Maarg exchanged glances.
It was just a simple home-cooked meal packed in a tiffin box. But at that moment, after everything, it felt like more than just food.
It was gratitude.
Jack took the box with a small nod. "Thanks, Mrs. Mills. You should head inside and lock your doors, alright?"
She nodded, giving them both a final look of appreciation before making her way back to her home.
As she disappeared inside, Jack let out a deep breath and looked at Maarg. "Alright, man… what the hell is happening?"
Maarg had no answer.
But deep down, he knew—whatever was going on, it was only the beginning.
The news spread fast. By noon, social media was flooded with videos, shaky phone footage of people being attacked, bitten, and—horrifyingly—getting back up even after suffering fatal injuries. Reports were conflicting. Some claimed it was a bioterrorist attack, others thought it was a new virus outbreak, worse than anything before.
One thing was certain: something was very, very wrong.
Jack and Maarg sat with Maarg's parents, discussing everything that had happened that morning.
"Zombies," Jack muttered, rubbing his temples. "I still can't believe I'm saying that word seriously."
Surprisingly, Sammy remained silent through the whole conversation. She wasn't panicking, nor wasn't questioning anything. She simply listened, her expression unreadable.
Maarg's father, a chemist by profession, had the most concerned look of all. "In times like these, chaos rises. And when chaos rises… bad things happen." His voice was grim. "It won't just be the infected we'll have to worry about. Desperation makes people dangerous."
A tense silence followed his words.
Then, as if the universe itself wanted to prove him right—
BANG.
A heavy thud against the colony gate.
Then another.
And another.
Jack and Maarg exchanged glances before rushing to the window.
Outside, a growing horde of zombies had gathered, pressing against the gate, their decayed hands slamming against the metal bars. Their eyes were lifeless, their mouths twisted in hunger and an unnatural smile.
But the gate held.
And so did the massive concrete bench Maarg had placed earlier.
Jack let out a shaky breath. "Whoever put that bench there… good call."
Maarg said nothing.
He just stared at the horde.