Chapter 9
The next hour was the quietest.
And the worst.
Not because whatever was happening had ended.
The ambulance simply drove away.
Then the second.
A police cruiser remained.
At 2:26, it left too.
At 2:31, my internet went out.
My phone still had data.
At 2:38, someone fired three gunshots somewhere far enough away that I couldn't tell the direction.
At 2:46, a door opened on my floor.
Then closed.
At 2:52, something scraped along the hallway wall.
Slowly.
I stood beside my door with the hammer.
The sound continued.
Scrape.
Pause.
Scrape.
Pause.
Then it stopped outside my apartment.
I held my breath.
Nothing touched the door.
Thirty seconds.
A minute.
I pictured the woman from earlier standing inches away.
Or someone else.
Or a maintenance cart somebody had abandoned.
Don't invent things you can't see.
The thought didn't help.
The scraping resumed.
Moved away.
Only when it disappeared did I look through the peephole.
Empty hallway.
One ceiling light flickered near the stairwell.
I couldn't see the floor directly outside my door.
I had no idea what had passed.
At 3:03, the power went out for four seconds—long enough for the darkness to become complete and for me to understand how much worse everything would be without electricity. Then the lights returned.
My phone showed sixty-two percent.
Battery pack full.
Fine.
I ate a granola bar without being hungry. My hands felt cold. Stress.
At 3:12, another emergency alert arrived.
Remain indoors. Avoid contact with individuals displaying violent or erratic behavior. Do not approach injured persons unless the scene is safe. Emergency response resources are experiencing significant delays.
I read the wording carefully.
Individuals displaying violent or erratic behavior.
Not attackers.
Not suspects.
Not infected.
Careful language from people who either didn't know what was happening or had no idea how to explain it.
I opened social media again despite telling myself not to.
The word zombie was everywhere now.
Some people were joking.
Others weren't.
One video showed a blood-covered man striking a glass door while someone behind the camera begged, "Trevor, stop." He kept hitting it until blood spread across the glass. He didn't appear to notice.
I watched fifteen seconds.
Closed it.
My stomach tightened.
That isn't normal.
I went back to the window.
From a distance, the city still looked intact. That disturbed me more than destruction would have.
Streetlights. Apartment windows. Traffic signals. A few moving cars. Ordinary life still looked intact.
The sounds were wrong.
Fewer engines.
More sirens in the distance.
Occasional shouting.
Then long stretches of nothing.
I checked Aaron.
Last active twenty-seven minutes ago.
I sent:
Still good?
No immediate response.
Mom had sent:
Still awake? Dad watching driveway like Clint Eastwood.
I smiled and replied that I was still staying put.
I put the phone down.
At 3:24, something struck a door down the hall.
Once.
Then again.
A man's voice said something too low to understand.
Furniture moved.
Then silence.
I realized I'd been standing in exactly the same spot for nearly five minutes.
I sat.
The hammer lay across my knees.
What is happening?
For the first time, I let myself answer honestly.
I don't know.
And there might not be anyone left who does.