"OK, time to move."
Grabbing the baton from the bag's outer pocket and gripping the broken mop handle, Eli slowly made his way through the exit.
The stairwell greeted him with stale air and the hum of emergency lights—flickering, frail, casting eerie shadows that pulsed and danced like ghosts across the concrete.
The walls sweated condensation. The lower he went, the warmer it became. Damp heat pressed against his skin, as if something unseen was breathing against him from below.
Despite his efforts, each step echoed too loudly. He kept to the outer edge, near the railing, where his footfalls softened into stealth. His hand clenched the mop handle tighter, sweat slicking the grip. He had descended two flights when he froze.
Someone was there. Slumped on the second-floor landing.
At first glance, just a patient, maybe—thin gown clinging to bone, arms tightly around the torso. But there was no movement, no breath. Just waiting.
But then the figure stirred.
A faint sound—wet, uneven breathing.
The head lifted slightly, eyes searching. Not fully glazed over. There was still something human in them.
"Help…" the person rasped, voice dry, barely audible. "It hurts…"
Eli's chest tightened. He took a step forward, unsure, lowering the baton just slightly.
The figure's body jerked, as if caught in a muscle spasm. Then the figure twitched again. Harder this time. Their back arched, and a strangled groan escaped them, followed by a long exhale, trembling with pain.
"No—stop, I can't—" they whispered.
Eli froze.
Then the body sagged forward.
For a moment, he stood there, unsure whether to move closer or run.
The figure twitched again. "Help... please... It's in my head—" the voice cracked, Barely a whisper, Barely human.
A wet gasp tore from its throat—choked, bubbling. Then its head jerked upward.
Their eyes met, glassy and glazed over.
Then it convulsed. Bones shifted audibly. Blood gushed from its nose, thick and black like oil. The body writhed as if pulled by wires.
"No—no-no-no-no—" it mumbled. Then the jaw dislocated with a snap.
And then it screamed. Hoarse and guttural.
Eli didn't wait. He turned and ran.
Down the stairs. Fast. Clumsy. The sound of flesh slapping against tile followed, unsteady at first, then disturbingly fast. It was gaining ground.
Eli didn't look back.
He reached the third-floor door and slammed through it into the west hallway.
STAIR ACCESS — WEST EXIT — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
He barely registered the sign.
A sound.
Soft. Muffled.
Not from the stairwell. From the hall ahead.
Eli froze, breath shallow.
Far down the corridor, beneath the flicker of a broken ceiling light, something dragged itself across the floor. Shoulders hunched.
It hadn't seen him.
To the right: a janitor's closet. The door, half open. He slipped inside, eased the door shut behind him, and crouched low between cleaning supplies and shelves. His heart pounded, his breath shallow.
The creature crept closer. Sniffed.
Stopped outside.
A low growl built in its throat—feral, vibrating.
The knob twitched.
Eli raised the baton.
The door shuddered.
Then silence.
He didn't breathe.
Then—
A shriek, inhuman and piercing.
Eli flung the supply door open and stumbled into the back room, crashing into a metal cabinet. He spun, bracing the door just as it slammed shut behind him.
Another impact. The hinges groaned. The metal warped under the weight.
His legs strained. Arms locked. He couldn't hold it much longer.
Then—
Crash.
The door gave out. He flew backward.
The creature was on him in a heartbeat, a blur of limbs and gurgling hunger. Its fingers clawed at his jacket. Its mouth opened impossibly wide, froth and blood dripping like some nightmare unspooled from the dark.
Eli screamed and jammed the baton into its throat. The thing hissed, gurgled, convulsed, trying to bite past the metal lodged in its windpipe.
He rolled, grabbed the mop handle, and swung.
Crack.
The head snapped sideways, but it kept coming.
He screamed again—wordless, feral—swinging, striking, flailing. His blows were fueled by panic, not skill.
One hit crushed the jaw. Another fractured the eye socket.
Its limbs were twisted unnaturally, splayed across the cold floor like broken scaffolding. The head lolled sideways, jaw shattered, leaking thick black ichor onto the concrete. Eli stood over it, shaking, chest hitching with short, ragged gasps. The baton trembled in his grip, slick with blood. His knees buckled. He dropped beside the supply shelf, curling into himself, arms wrapped tight around his middle.
He stared at what he'd done.
At what it had been.
At what it became.
A heat rose behind his eyes—grief, horror, disbelief, all tangled together.
Breathe. Just breathe.
"You're okay," he whispered. "You're okay."
But something wasn't.
A faint sound reached him—wet and dragging, like bare feet slapping linoleum in uneven rhythm. It echoed from the hallway just outside. Eli froze, every nerve in his body bristling.
He forced himself to move, legs stiff and aching, fingers wrapped tight around the mop handle. The air in the storage room felt thick now, like it hadn't been breathed in for hours.
He edged toward the door he'd come through.
Then—
BANG.
The second door slammed open.
Eli jerked back. A silhouette staggered through the opening—thin, soaked, trembling.
It stepped into the flickering light.
A woman. Her hospital gown clung to her frame, stained with rain and rust-colored fluid. One eye was clouded over, the other darting with wild, fevered movement. Blood streamed from her nose, thick and dark.
Still mid-change.
Still fighting it.
For a breathless second, Eli saw her—the real her—flickering behind the veil of whatever had taken hold.
"Please," he murmured. "Don't."
Her mouth opened. A rasping gasp escaped. Then she twitched.
And charged.
Eli had no time to think.
The mop handle came up in a clumsy block, striking her shoulder. She spun, stumbled, but didn't fall. Her head snapped back unnaturally, and she launched again, arms out, wild and clawing.
They crashed into the shelving. Tins clattered to the floor. Eli shoved forward, shoulder into her chest, trying to drive her back.
She latched onto him. Fingers digging through fabric, nails catching skin.
"Get off me!"
He shoved with everything he had. Her grip broke just long enough for him to slam the baton across her collarbone. A crack. She recoiled but didn't stop—there was no pain, just momentum.
She swiped at him—an uncoordinated swing. Eli ducked, brought the mop handle around low. It struck her shin. She howled, dropped to one knee.
He didn't hesitate.
Eli raised the baton and swung down hard. It struck the back of her shoulder. The jolt ran up his arm. She screamed—choked and wet—then sprang at him again, unrelenting.
They fell.
Eli hit the floor on his back, the breath knocked from his lungs. Her weight pressed down. Her face loomed inches from his, jaw distending, teeth bloodied.
He jammed the baton beneath her chin, forcing her head back. She gurgled, thick fluid bubbling from her throat. Her arms flailed, trying to grip, to tear, to maul.
"Stop!" Eli growled, but she wasn't listening—couldn't.
His wrists shook under the strain. Her teeth snapped, just missing his cheek.
He twisted, using his whole body to roll. They slammed sideways into a bucket, knocking over a metal rack. She shrieked, a dry, splintered sound, and tried to bite again.
He headbutted her.
It dazed them both, but she slipped off.
Eli scrambled backward on hands and heels, breath ragged, vision tunneling. She rose, wobbling, one leg dragging.
He gripped the mop handle tighter, sweat blinding him.
She lunged once more.
This time he was ready.
Eli sidestepped, brought the baton down across her temple.
Crack.
She dropped to one hand, twitching. He swung again, then again—desperation giving way to survival. Every blow came faster, heavier. One broke her jaw. Another fractured her skull.
She finally collapsed in a heap, limbs spasming once. Then stillness.
Eli backed into the corner, dropped the baton. His hands were shaking, blood-caked. His lungs fought for air that didn't seem to fill them.
His fingers went slack, and the baton slipped from his grip, clattering to the floor.
He stumbled back a step.
Then another.
His knees buckled.
He let himself sink back, sliding down the cold wall until he hit the ground hard, legs bent beneath him, hands limp at his sides. The storage room swam in his vision, shadows stretching across shelves and scattered cleaning supplies like stains that wouldn't wash out.
His breath came in short, shaky bursts. His body screamed with bruises—shoulder, ribs, knees—but it was the weight inside him that hurt most. The kind that didn't bleed.
His eyes flicked to the bodies. Still. Twisted.
He couldn't look for long.
He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, swallowing back the tremor in his throat.
It was over.
But it didn't feel like it.
Not really.
The air stank of blood and rust, sour sweat, and something fouler beneath it all—something wrong, like the world was rotting from the inside out.
His bloodied sleeve stuck to his forearm. His lip throbbed where it had split. A fresh bruise was blooming under his ribs where the infected had landed on him.