Between You & I (Still Beating #1)
Prologue
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GRAPHIC: RED BANNER — “brEAKING NEWS” scrolling across the bottom of the screen
CHYRON: OUTbrEAK UPDATE — CDC URGES RESIDENTS TO SHELTER IN PLACE
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Camera is slightly shaky. A woman stands under harsh portable lighting on a dark street. Sirens wail in the distance. Behind her, a military convoy rolls slowly past a line of abandoned cars. Red and blue lights strobe across wet pavement.
REPORTER (LINDA VOSS): Pressing her earpiece, voice tight but professional
“—Steve, I’m here live on Bancroft Avenue, just three blocks from Mercy General Hospital, where the National Guard has established what they’re calling a ‘containment corridor.’ I want to be very clear with our viewers about what we’re seeing here tonight because it is unlike anything I have reported on in my fifteen years with this station. ”
She swallows. Her hand trembles slightly around the microphone.
“The CDC held a press briefing roughly forty minutes ago in which they confirmed that the pathogen—which they are still classifying as a mutated strain of viral encephalitis—has spread to at least fourteen states. The infected exhibit extreme aggression, loss of cognitive function, and—”
She pauses. A sound rises in the background—a guttural, wet moaning, like someone trying to scream through a mouthful of fluid.
“—and what medical personnel on the ground here are describing as a complete cessation of higher brain activity while motor functions remain active.”
The camera shifts slightly. The cameraman pans toward a side alley, then quickly snaps back to Linda.
CAMERAMAN (off-mic, barely audible):
“Linda. Linda. There’s something in the—”
LINDA: Eyes darting to the right, then back to the camera. Forced composure.
“We are being advised by military personnel to remain in this area, but I want to show our viewers—Marcus, can you turn the camera toward the hospital?”
The camera swings. Mercy General is in the distance.
Every window on the ground floor is dark.
The upper floors flicker with emergency lighting.
A plume of black smoke rises from somewhere behind the building.
Shapes—dozens of them—are milling in the parking lot.
They move wrong. Jerking. Lurching. Some of them are dragging limbs at angles that should not be possible.
“What you are seeing… those are patients. Those were patients. The hospital was overrun approximately six hours ago. Staff attempted to evacuate the ICU and the emergency wing, but…”
Her voice cracks.
“They didn’t make it out. Most of them didn’t make it out.”
Camera swings back to Linda. She’s pale. Mascara slightly smudged. Her blazer is wrinkled, and there’s a dark stain on her sleeve that could be coffee. Could be something else.
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CHYRON UPDATE: DEATH TOLL RISES TO 12,000+ — PRESIDENT TO ADDRESS NATION AT 11 PM EST
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ANCHOR (STEVE)—through earpiece, heard faintly:
“Linda, we’re getting reports of a second breach in the quarantine zone near your location. Are you able to confirm—”
“Steve, I—yes. Yes, we heard gunfire about twenty minutes ago from the north barricade. Soldiers were running. I saw—I saw a Humvee flip, Steve. Something… a crowd of them pushed it over. I don’t know how—they shouldn’t be that—”
She stops abruptly.
Dead silence for three seconds. The sirens have stopped.
“…Marcus.”
CAMERAMAN: Whispering
“I see it.”
The camera slowly lowers, then tilts to the right.
In the glow of a flickering streetlight about thirty feet away, a FIGURE stands in the middle of the road.
It is wearing hospital scrubs — or what’s left of them.
The fabric is black with blood. Its head is cocked at an unnatural angle, almost resting on its shoulder.
Its jaw is weirdly angled—hanging open far too wide, dislocated, swaying slightly.
Its eyes catch the light and reflect it back like an animal’s.
It is completely still.
LINDA: Barely a whisper, still holding the microphone to her lips
“…Steve, are you seeing this? Steve, we have a—we have an infected individual approximately thirty feet from our broadcast position. I need to know if the National Guard—”
The figure’s head SNAPS upright with an audible crack.
It takes a step forward.
LINDA:
“Oh God.”
Another step. Faster.
CAMERAMAN:
“WE GOTTA GO. LINDA, WE GOTTA—”
LINDA: Voice rising, still broadcasting, instinct overriding fear.
“We are—if you are in the Bancroft Avenue area, you need to get INSIDE. Lock your doors, do NOT—”
The figure brEAKS into a sprint. Not a run. A sprint. Fast. Too fast. Its arms don’t swing—they hang limp at its sides—but its legs move with a horrible, mechanical speed. A sound comes from its open mouth—a shrieking, gurgling HOWL that distorts the audio.
The camera jerks violently. The image blurs—pavement, sky, Linda’s face twisted in terror.
LINDA:
“RUN! RUN! MARCUS, RU—”
CRASH. The camera hits the ground. The lens cracks but keeps recording. Sideways angle. Wet asphalt. One of Linda’s heels in frame, then her knees as she falls.
Screaming. Her screaming. Then Marcus screaming.
The figure is ON HER. The camera captures it—the scrubs, the bare feet black with filth, the hands—the fingers are broken, bent backward, and it’s still grabbing—seizing her blazer, her hair, pulling her toward that open jaw—
LINDA: Screaming, guttural, primal
“GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF ME! HELP! SOMEONE—”
A WET sound. A sound that should not be on television.
Linda’s scream changes. It becomes something else, something that doesn’t sound like a word anymore.
More shapes appear at the edge of the frame. Three. Five. Coming from the alley Marcus saw earlier. They move toward the noise. Toward her.
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HARD CUT—BACK TO STUDIO
Steve is sitting at the anchor desk. He is white as paper. His mouth is open. For four full seconds, he says nothing. Behind him, the LIVE banner still reads BANCROFT AVENUE. The audio from the field is still bleeding through—faint screaming, that howling, something tearing—
PRODUCER’S VOICE, off-camera, frantic:
“CUT THE FEED. CUT THE FEED!”
The field audio goes dead.
STEVE: Hoarse
“…We…we appear to have lost contact with our correspondent Linda Voss. We are…we will try to…”
He looks down. His hands are shaking on the desk.
“…If you are watching this, stay in your homes. Lock your doors. Do not go outside for any reason.”
He looks back up, right into the lens.
“God help us.”
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GRAPHIC: RED BANNER — “PLEASE STAND BY”
The emergency broadcast tone begins.
Screen holds for eleven seconds.
Signal lost.
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