Zombies were never the worst part of the outbreak. Not even close. They were slow, clumsy, pathetic in a way that almost made them less frightening than they should have been. You could outrun them without trying, outthink them without effort. Even a child crawling on the ground could move faster than those things. No, the real horror didn’t come from the infected. It came from the people who were still human, at least on the outside. The ones who decided the world had already ended and started acting like there were no rules left to follow. They didn’t wait for proof, didn’t care about symptoms or logic. If you looked wrong, moved wrong, coughed once too many times, that was enough. They pulled the trigger first and asked questions never.

That’s how my father died. Not bitten. Not turned. Not even sick in the way they feared. He had a heart attack. Just that. He collapsed on our driveway, clutching his chest, barely able to breathe. I remember hearing him trying to call my name, but his voice was too weak to carry. By the time I got to the window, they were already there. A patrol. Armed. Nervous. Trigger fingers itching for an excuse. They didn’t check his pulse. They didn’t try to help. They didn’t even hesitate. Two shots. Clean. Efficient. Necessary, in their eyes. If they had just called an ambulance, if they had waited even a minute longer, he might have lived. But they didn’t come to save anyone. They came to clean up.

My mother found him. I wasn’t there when she stepped outside and saw his body lying on the concrete. I only heard the scream. It was the kind of sound that doesn’t belong in a human throat. Something broke inside her that day, something that never came back. She stopped talking. Stopped reacting. Days passed, then weeks, and she barely moved. She would sit in the same spot for hours, staring at nothing, like her mind had already left her body behind. I tried to take care of her, tried to bring her back, but it was like speaking to a shadow.

The night the infected got in, she didn’t even notice. I heard the pounding on the front door, slow and heavy, like something testing the barrier rather than trying to break it. I shouted for her, but she didn’t answer. Then the wood cracked. The sound echoed through the house like a gunshot. By the time I reached the hallway, it was already inside. It moved toward her, drawn by something I couldn’t see, something deeper than sound or sight. I killed it. I don’t even remember how. Rage, fear, instinct. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I was too late.

The bite was small. Almost nothing. If you didn’t know what it meant, you might have missed it. I told myself that. Lied to myself. Because I couldn’t lose her too. Not after him. Not like that. So I did the only thing I could think of. I locked her in the basement. Told myself it was temporary. That I was buying time. That someone, somewhere, would fix this. That there had to be a cure.

Weeks turned into months. I kept checking the news, clinging to every rumor, every promise, every whisper of hope. The outbreaks came in waves, but they were always contained. The infected were hunted down, eliminated, erased. It became routine. Predictable. Controlled. Like the world was slowly learning how to live with the nightmare. But still no cure. Still no salvation. Just survival.

Then one day, everything changed. The announcement came like a miracle. A vaccine. They said they had it. Said it worked. Said people could be saved. I didn’t even think. I ran downstairs, tied her up as gently as I could, ignoring the way she moved now, the way she sounded. I put her in the car and drove. Faster than I ever had. Toward the nearest field hospital. Toward hope.

They took her from me at the entrance. Soldiers, calm and practiced. Like they had done this a hundred times before. I tried to follow, but the doctor stopped me. Told me to wait outside. His voice was steady. Too steady. Like he had rehearsed this conversation.

He said the waves never stopped because people like me kept hiding the infected. Waiting. Hoping. Believing in something that didn’t exist. He said there was no vaccine. Not really. Not for them. Not anymore.

I heard the shots before I understood the words. Two. Close. Final.

He told me she had died a long time ago. That they were just ending it properly. Like that made it better. Like that made it right.

I don’t remember what I said exactly. I know I was screaming. I know I wanted to tear him apart with my bare hands. All I asked was to see her. Just once. To say goodbye. He hesitated. Then he nodded.

Inside, it was quiet. Too quiet. She was lying there, still. Blood spreading beneath her like a shadow. For a moment, I almost believed him. Almost believed she was already gone. That this was mercy.

But I couldn’t accept it. Not like that. Not from them.

So I made a choice.

I touched the blood. Warm. Fresh. Real. I smeared it across my gums, forcing it into my mouth. If they thought this was the only way forward, then fine. I would follow it. I would become what they feared. I would show them what they had created.

I expected weakness. Fever. Collapse.

Instead, I felt strength.

Something was wrong.

The world sharpened. Every sound, every movement, every breath became clear. My body felt lighter, faster. Alive in a way it had never been before. The hunger came next. Not slow. Not creeping. Immediate. Overwhelming.

The last thing I remember from that room was moving. Not walking. Not running. Something else. Something faster. I reached the doctor before he could react. Before he could understand.

And then…

There was nothing left of him to understand anything.