The rain had been falling for hours — thin sheets of gray dripping down from skies that had forgotten how to be blue. It turned New York into something quieter, softer, except for the distant hiss of tires and the occasional honk that slipped through the curtains. Arthur Hayes sat on the couch, a half-eaten bowl of cereal beside him, watching the reflections of city lights ripple across the window.
He preferred nights like this — when the world felt muffled, when nobody expected him to talk. The city had its own heartbeat, steady and far away, and that was enough company. A comic lay on his lap, digital pages glowing on the tablet balanced against his knee. The story was about a group of survivors trapped in a subway car after some viral outbreak — ironic, he thought, flipping through the panels.
Arthur had read versions of that story a hundred times. Supervillains, Zombies, plagues, survivors doing what they had to do. He wasn't sure what fascinated him more — the monsters or how people changed when the world ended.
But this was fiction. Always fiction.
The light above him flickered once, then returned. The hum of the refrigerator stuttered for half a second before continuing. Arthur's brows furrowed. Power stability wasn't unusual in these old apartment buildings, but tonight, even small things felt slightly off — as if the world outside wasn't where it was supposed to be.
He tried calling his mom again. No answer.
Her voice mail clicked on instantly: "Hi, this is Susan Hayes, nurse at St. Luke's. I'm probably at work right now, but leave a message and I'll get right back to you."
He didn't bother speaking. Just hung up and sighed.
It wasn't the first time she'd stayed past her shift, but lately, overtime had become her normal. The hospital had been getting busier — talk of flu cases, strange infections — though she'd brushed it off when Arthur asked. "It's just the season, Honey. You'll be fine. Keep the door locked, okay?"
Arthur's thumb traced the side of his tablet. The word "fine" lingered at the back of his mind. That was what she had said before his dad's funeral too.
His father had been a soldier — the kind who didn't come home until he was a stranger again. Raymond Hayes believed toughness was love, and that meant training Arthur from the time he could walk. Running drills in the park, forcing him to face imaginary enemies, timing his reflexes with stopwatches. Arthur had hated every second of it.
"Feet apart, eyes up. If you freeze, you lose," his dad used to say.
Now, years later, his body still remembered. The routines were etched into bone memory: how to stand, how to strike, how to breathe through fear. He never wanted to use any of it. But sometimes, when he caught his reflection, he saw a bit of his father's shadow in the stance of his shoulders.
The memories etched in his brain, How to observe how to read things it was all engraved in him deeply, which made all the signs he's seeing now even more absurd.
The rain deepened. From outside came faint sirens — not one or two, but several, overlapping and tangled, echoing across the wet streets. Arthur stood and pushed the curtain aside. Through the misted glass, he saw blue and red lights flicker across the far intersection. They weren't moving. Just flashing, as if whoever drove them had walked away mid-emergency.
A gust of wind rattled the windowpane. Then he heard it — a knock.
Three dull thuds.
He turned slowly toward the door.
No one knocked at night anymore. Mostly people texted before coming up, and he didn't know anyone who'd just show up unannounced.
His heart began to drum, a faint ache in his chest. "Yeah?" he called. His own voice sounded too loud.
Silence.
He waited. Maybe just the wind — maybe some kid wanting to play a prank. Then came another knock, heavier this time, followed by something scraping against the door.
Arthur's skin went cold.
He grabbed the nearest thing he could find — a metal umbrella by the coat rack. It felt clumsy in his hand, but solid. He took a slow breath, remembering his father's voice: "Don't move forward unless you know your exits."
"Who's there?" His voice trembled now. "If this is a joke, it's— it's not funny!"
No response. Just that soft scraping.
He moved closer, each step cautious. He could smell something now — something faint and wrong, like rust mixed with rot. Beneath it, the faintest sound of breathing. Heavy. Wet.
The smell of blood Arthur recognised it from a mile away, something he hated being used to.
Arthur's pulse pounded in his ears. He hesitated with his hand on the deadbolt. The weight of a thousand horror movies pressed against him, every comic panel flashing in his memory — doors opened, people dragged away screaming.
He should call for help. But the phone signal was dead now, silent gray bars mocking him.
He cracked the door open an inch.
At first, he saw only rain. Then a face pressed forward through the gap — pale, slack, eyes clouded white. Before his mind could register what he was seeing, it lunged.
Arthur stumbled backward as the door flew open. The thing — the man — fell half into the living room, arms outstretched, mouth wide and gasping. The sound it made wasn't human. A low, rasping growl, wet and hungry.
Arthur shouted and swung the umbrella as hard as he could. Metal smashed against skull. The figure staggered but didn't fall. It clawed at him, nails tearing at his shirt. He tripped over the coffee table, sending comics and glass scattering across the floor.
"Stop— get back!" he cried, thrusting forward again. The tip of the umbrella jammed against the creature's shoulder, forcing it off balance. It snarled, snapping at the air. Blood and rainwater dripped from its lips.
Arthur braced the umbrella like a spear and pushed forward with his entire weight. The point pierced through its throat, the sound sharp and wet. The figure shuddered, let out a gurgle, and went still.
The silence afterward was unbearable.
Arthur's breath came in quick, shallow bursts. His arms shook so violently he nearly dropped the umbrella. "Oh my god…" he whispered. "What… what is this?"
He sank to his knees beside the body. The man's skin was mottled gray-green. Eyes glazed. Mouth frozen halfway open, teeth stained red.
A bloody dark pool laid below, Red and murky brown the stench of rot was harrowing
Arthur reached out but stopped just short of touching him.
He didn't need to. The truth was sitting there, dead on his doorstep.
Outside, more sirens wailed, closer now. One cut off mid-blare. A scream rose from the street below — piercing, high, then abruptly gone.
Arthur's mind raced. He looked down at his shaking hands, at the small cuts across his arms, then at the body. Then he saw the picture, Him and his mother 2 years ago on a picnic the photoframe was laughing at him. Then, his thoughts turned to the hospital.
Mom.
She'd be working tonight, surrounded by people, by patients. By whatever this was.
His legs felt like stone, but he forced himself to move. Jacket. Phone. Flashlight. The small kitchen knife from the drawer — his father's voice echoing in his head: "When survival calls, hesitation kills."
He didn't want to be his father's son tonight. But he also knew he had no choice.
Arthur looked once more at the fallen creature by the door — its fingers twitched faintly. He swallowed hard, pulled the door closed behind him, and stepped into the rain.
***