The closet reeked of bleach and mildew, the smell clinging to his throat like old smoke. Eli sat with his back against the wall, knees drawn up, breath finally slowing.
He forced himself to move.
His fingers trembled as he pushed himself to stand, legs slow to obey. Every joint ached with exhaustion, adrenaline wearing thin like torn skin over muscle. A dull pain bloomed beneath his ribs—likely a contusion. No crepitus, no sharp jolt when he breathed. Nothing cracked.
Small mercy.
Pain lanced through his shoulder as he reached up, brushing a raw welt where he'd slammed into the metal cabinet. His lip was split. His knuckles were bleeding. His entire right arm felt like it had been struck by a bat.
He scanned the room—mop buckets, cartons of disinfectant, a rusting utility sink. One of the shelves sagged under the weight of old supplies, and just beside a battered box of gloves sat a red plastic case, dulled with time.
A first aid kit.
Probably kept there for the janitorial or maintenance crew. Old buildings like this often doubled up their storage spaces. Eli didn't care why it was there, only that it was.
He pulled it down and flipped it open.
Inside: gauze pads, adhesive strips, alcohol packets, a tube of antibiotic ointment—thank God—and a small roll of medical tape. The essentials.
He peeled his jacket away slowly. Dried blood stuck the inner fabric to his skin. His fingers trembled as he wiped the worst of it clean, flinching at every touch.
He tore open an alcohol pad and hissed as it stung the split on his cheek. The knuckles were worse—broken skin and swelling. He disinfected them as best he could, then wrapped them with gauze and tape.
Nothing elegant. Nothing sterile.
But it would hold.
Eli sat back on his heels, eyes half-lidded, letting his hands rest in his lap. The floor beneath him felt strangely distant, like he was hovering just above it. His limbs pulsed with aftershock, and for a moment, he just listened to the silence.
But it didn't last long.
A flicker of thought cut through the fog—sharp and unwelcome.
You need to move.
He exhaled hard through his nose, forcing his body to respond. His legs protested. His back groaned. But he stood.
You can't stay here. That thing… no, those things—two of them, at least. Maybe more. If they were still nearby, resting wouldn't matter. And if others were changing like that—
Eli's throat tightened.
He stepped out of the closet and into the hallway. The flickering lights made every shadow twitch, every corner seem deeper than it should be.
He needed to get out of this building.
A vehicle. That was his best shot.
Walking—limping—through half a city like this? Not happening.
That's when it hit him.
The keys.
His car keys were still in his locker. Third floor. Break room hallway. North wing.
His heart sank.
It wasn't far, but every hallway now felt like it spanned miles.
He clenched his jaw, fingers curling into the grip of the baton again.
Get the keys. Get the car. Get out. That was the plan now. Simple and sharp.
And if anyone—or anything—got in the way…
He didn't let the thought finish.
He was already moving.
The stairwell groaned underfoot as he climbed, every step ringing louder than it should in the stale, echoing dark. Third floor. Just a few more steps.
Eli's breath caught halfway up. He leaned on the railing, chest rising with effort, the ache under his ribs flaring again with every inhale. The world felt narrowed—every corridor a threat, every noise a possibility.
When he reached the landing, he paused, swallowing bile and fear alike. The emergency lighting hummed overhead, casting everything in a dim, sour yellow. Dust drifted lazily in the air like fallout.
He pushed open the door and slipped into the hall.
The lockers were just ahead, nestled in a hallway he used to walk daily without thinking. It felt alien now—elongated, distorted by dread. Half the ceiling tiles had collapsed near the vending machines, and water stained the far wall like a bruise spreading beneath skin.
Eli moved carefully, shoulders hunched, baton tight in his grasp.
Then he heard it.
A breath.
Not the creak of the building, not the electrical hum—something wet. Labored.
Human.
He froze.
Another breath came, followed by a stifled whimper. Ragged. Small.
It wasn't the sound of those things. Not the snarling static of their throats. Not the jarring shuffle of their limbs.
Eli crept forward, heart a metronome in his ears. He reached the break room entrance, its glass window smeared with fingerprints and something darker.
He peered in.
There—beneath the long metal counter—was a boy. Maybe seventeen. Thin. Pale. Curled into himself like a wilted flower. Hospital gown, one sleeve torn. One bare foot. The other in a sock soaked red at the heel. His knees were tucked to his chest, and his arms trembled as they held his ribs.
His face snapped toward the sound of Eli's breath.
Wide eyes, swollen from crying. Lips cracked, but lucid. Human.
"D-Don't come closer," the boy rasped, panic coiled tight in his voice. "Please—I'm not—I'm not sick."
Eli didn't move.
"I'm not either," he said, voice low, careful. "But I've seen what is."
The boy's eyes darted to the dried blood on Eli's shirt, the gauze wrapped sloppily around his knuckles.
"Then why are you bleeding?"
"Because I survived something that didn't want me to."
That made the boy flinch, but he didn't run. Just curled tighter into himself.
Eli slowly crouched, knees popping with strain.
"What's your name?" he asked.
The boy hesitated. "Paolo."
"I'm Eli. I'm headed to my locker. My car keys are in there. I need to get out of here. I can take you with me—but only if we move now."
Paolo didn't answer right away. His gaze had shifted to the hallway behind Eli, where the shadows loomed like open mouths.
"I saw them," he whispered. "The things. One of the nurses... her face was gone. Like it caved in, and then she screamed without a voice."
Eli felt his stomach lurch. But he said nothing. Just listened.
"She chased someone down the corridor," Paolo went on. "I heard them. The screaming. Then nothing."
The silence that followed felt heavy, oppressive.
"Are you hurt?" Eli asked.
"My ankle," Paolo murmured. "I tripped running from them. I bandaged it with... with someone's shirt. I didn't look at whose."
He winced as he shifted, revealing a makeshift wrap—half unraveled, stained with dark blood. The swelling around the joint was obvious. Probably a sprain. Maybe worse.
"I'll help you walk," Eli said. "You can't stay here."
Paolo's chin trembled. "You're not gonna leave me?"
"I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."
It was the kind of promise you had to mean in a place like this.
He reached out slowly, offering his hand. Paolo hesitated only a moment before taking it.
His fingers were ice.
Eli hauled him up, bracing him against his uninjured side. Paolo stifled a cry as his weight shifted onto the bad ankle. Eli adjusted his hold, looping the boy's arm across his shoulders.
"Alright," Eli muttered. "Step at a time. We stay low. Stay quiet. If you hear anything—anything—you tell me."
Paolo nodded, biting his lip.
Together, they limped from the break room, each footstep an act of willpower.
The lockers loomed ahead in flickering shadow.
But Eli didn't let himself hope yet.
Hope was too loud.