David awoke in a silence that felt wrong. Not peaceful, not calm — dead. The hospital lights buzzed faintly above him, flickering every few seconds. He pushed himself upright with a groan, the memory of the massacre returning in sharp, stabbing images. The halls that had once echoed with life were now grave-quiet. Blood painted the walls. Bodies lay motionless in corners and doorways, slumped where they had fallen. Not one person stirred.
He rose slowly, and after a long moment of staring at his brother's lifeless form, David lifted Matthew into his arms. The weight was familiar, but heavier now in the way that only death could make someone feel heavier — final, unchangeable. He began walking toward the exit, each step echoing off the walls, his breath the only sign of life in the corridor.
As he neared the reception area, movement caught his eye. A soldier crouched behind the desk, only his lower half visible. David froze.
His heartbeat roared in his ears. Slowly, carefully, he took measured steps toward the exit, praying to whatever might be listening that the soldier stayed crouched.
Then, a crackle. Speakers above came to life.
"If anyone can hear this… please help… we're trapped in the security room. They're outside. The sick people—please!"
The soldier behind the desk lifted his head toward the sound.
David's breath caught. His face was grayish, sunken, and streaked with something dark. And his eyes — cloudy, lifeless, yet moving.
The soldier was sick.
He began to shamble toward the wall speaker. David stayed completely still, inching backward. Then—
Ring-ring.
David's phone lit up in his pocket, blaring through the silence like a scream.
The soldier's head whipped toward him. A low growl rumbled in his throat.
David quickly cut the call, stepping back in panic. He tried the exit door, but it wouldn't budge—jammed or locked. Thinking fast, he spotted a tangled telephone wire on the reception desk.
Grabbing it, he circled behind the walker in silence as the soldier couldn't see, his eyes being covered by his helmet. The soldier was still going toward the gate while David had already come behind him, and in the next moment, he struck.
With a powerful shove, he drove the infected man to the ground, wrestling his arms behind his back. The knot came naturally—his father had taught it to him when he was a kid, and his hands remembered even when his mind raced. He tied the legs next, fast and tight.
The soldier writhed, snarling.
David leaned in to inspect him, only to recoil in horror.
The man's throat was torn open. Not slashed — ripped. There was no way he should've been alive, let alone moving.
Something deeper than fear curled in David's stomach.
He staggered to the wall, grabbed the fire axe from its emergency case, shattered the glass, and used it to break the jammed door open. Glass and steel gave way.
David lifted Matthew again and ran.
Outside, the world was still. No chaos. No gunfire. Just the eerie calm of abandonment. Cars were left in the middle of the road, some with doors open, others with their lights still on. He found one — a dusty sedan, keys still dangling in the ignition. The owner had fled in a hurry.
He placed Matthew in the back seat and shut the door.
For a moment, he sat in the front, eyes staring blankly into the rearview mirror. He didn't recognize the face staring back — dirtied, bloodied, numb.
Then he looked at Matthew.
His brother.
Tears spilled from David'seyes before he even realized they'd started. He gripped the steering wheel and sobbed silently, shoulders shaking as the full weight of loss landed. Matthew — his last anchor, the one constant since their childhood — was gone.
Eventually, the tears dried. Grief turned to silence. David started the car.
The drive to Matthew's house, located on the city's outskirts, was quiet. The madness hadn't reached there yet. Trees swayed in the afternoon breeze. The world looked normal—but felt like a lie.
He pulled up to the curb and stepped out.
As he opened the back door and tried to pull Matthew out, the front door of the house slammed open.
"Daddy!"
Hope's voice rang out as she sprinted toward the car. Naela, Sarah's younger sister, rushed after her.
"Hope, wait — don't go out!"
But it was too late. The little girl stopped cold when she saw Matthew's limp body.
Naela reached her a second later and froze. Her hands flew to her mouth, eyes wide.
"Oh God," she whispered. "Matthew…"
David, exhausted, nodded at her wordlessly. She stepped forward and helped him lift Matthew out of the car.
As they carried him inside, neighbors watched from behind curtains, unseen but felt.
They laid him gently on the couch.
"Why's Daddy not waking up?" Hope asked, her voice trembling.
She touched his forehead, noticing the dried blood around the bullet wound.
"He's hurt… he's hurt bad… Uncle David, why did you bring him here?"
David opened his mouth but no words came. Nothing he could say would make sense.
Naela asked him, "How did this happen?"
He answered, "Some soldiers started killing all the patients in the hospital." He paused before continuing, "I tried to take him out of the hospital before they found him, but..."
He fell silent. His silence was understood by her. He had tried to save him, but couldn't.
Hope looked at the two with confusion and emotions that a child should never have to carry. "Mommy. I need Mommy."
Then suddenly Naela remembered something and asked, panicked, "Where's Sarah?"
David looked at her sharply, a flicker of fear in his eyes.
He hadn't seen Sarah since the call.
She was on her way to the hospital.
And she never came home.