May 20, 2025, around 7:00 AM

  The day should have started like any other, with the bustling metropolis of the United States waking up to another day of chaos and routine. But suddenly, the world changed—abruptly and without warning. Streets, residential areas, shopping centers, government buildings, military bases, research facilities, and even the White House were plunged into unprecedented chaos. The entire nation was in turmoil, and the disorder was spreading uncontrollably.

  Vincent was jolted awake in his old apartment by car crashes outside, high-pitched screams, and strange growls. He smelled blood, but it wasn’t coming from outside—his windows were shut, and he wasn’t *that* sensitive. The scent was coming from inside the building.

  *Bang! Bang! Bang!*

  The violent knocking on his door snapped his attention to the hallway. He could hear strange growls and a woman’s desperate cries.

  “Is anyone there? Please open the door! They’re coming! Help me!” The voice was frantic, and Vincent recognized it. It was his neighbor, Manuela, a 22-year-old streetwalker who lived next door with another woman named Bianca. Vincent didn’t know her well, but they’d crossed paths enough times for him to recognize her voice.

  “What’s going on?” The thought flashed through Vincent’s mind, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. Someone was screaming for help, and he had to act.

  Vincent jumped out of bed in his boxers, grabbed a baseball bat from beside his bed, and rushed to the door.

  “Manuela, what’s wrong?” Vincent asked quickly, peering through the peephole. All he could see was Manuela’s terrified face. The growls outside were louder now, accompanied by the sickening sound of chewing—like a dog tearing into raw meat. The smell of blood was overwhelming.

  “Please, hurry! Ah!” Manuela screamed as a bloody hand grabbed her shoulder and yanked her out of view.

  Vincent didn’t hesitate. He flung the door open and stepped into the hallway. What he saw shocked him to his core.

  To his right, about seven meters away, near Manuela’s apartment door, a naked, overweight middle-aged man was crouched over another naked woman, tearing into her flesh. Blood was everywhere—it was Bianca, Manuela’s roommate. Her throat had been ripped out, and her stomach was torn open, intestines spilling onto the floor. The man was eating her.

  To his left, about four meters away, another naked man had pinned Manuela to the ground, growling as he tried to bite her. Manuela was screaming, struggling to push him off.

  Vincent didn’t have time to process what he was seeing. He rushed to Manuela’s side, swung the bat, and hit the man in the head, knocking him off her. He grabbed Manuela and pulled her to her feet.

  The man, covered in Bianca’s blood, staggered back up. His eyes were completely red, and he let out a guttural growl as he lurched toward Vincent. His movements were stiff but deliberate, like a puppet with tangled strings.

  Behind Vincent, the man who had been eating Bianca stood up and turned toward him, growling.

  “What the hell is going on?” Vincent muttered, pulling Manuela back toward his apartment. He had no idea what was happening, but he knew they needed to get inside.

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  As they retreated, two more doors in the hallway opened. One was forced open, and a young couple stumbled out, their eyes blood-red and their bodies covered in blood. Vincent recognized them—they lived down the hall with their young daughter. The daughter wasn’t with them, and Vincent could guess why.

  The other door opened, and a man stumbled out, clutching his bleeding neck. He collapsed to the floor, screaming as a woman dragged him back into the apartment by his ankles.

  Vincent didn’t wait to see more. He pulled Manuela into his apartment and slammed the door shut.

  *Bang! Bang! Bang!*

  The door shook as the two men outside pounded on it. Vincent peered through the peephole and saw their blood-red eyes and bloodstained faces. They were still chewing on pieces of flesh.

  Vincent backed away, signaling for Manuela to stay quiet. If these people were acting on instinct, maybe they’d lose interest if they didn’t hear anything.

  Manuela covered her mouth, tears streaming down her face as she stared at the door.

  After two minutes, the pounding stopped. The “lunatics” had moved on, drawn by other sounds in the building.

  “They’re gone,” Vincent whispered, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He crept to the window and pulled back the curtain slightly to look outside.

  The street was chaos. Dozens of those same stiff, growling people were everywhere. Cars had crashed, some were on fire, and people were running for their lives. But there were too many of the “lunatics.” They moved slowly but relentlessly, surrounding and overwhelming anyone they caught. The screams were unbearable.

  “They’re insane… they ate Bianca… God, they killed her…” Manuela sobbed quietly.

  “It’s not just them. Most people. Come see.” Vincent motioned for her to join him at the window.

  Manuela hesitated, then stood and looked outside. She immediately covered her face and sank to the floor.

  “It’s like a bio-weapon,” Vincent muttered, closing the curtains. His mind raced. Was this a terrorist attack? Or something worse?

  He turned on the TV, keeping the volume low. The news channels were in disarray. Some showed empty, bloodstained studios, while others displayed static or error messages. Only a few pre-recorded programs were still running.

  “Everyone’s affected… this can’t be a coincidence…” Vincent muttered. He grabbed his phone and scrolled through his contacts, stopping at “Dr. Mien.” He dialed the number.

  “Come on… pick up…” Vincent whispered.

  No answer.

  He tried calling his parents next—still nothing.

  The room fell silent. Manuela sat by the window, hugging her knees, her lips trembling as she muttered silently to herself. Vincent lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to process what was happening.

  After half an hour, the chaos outside began to subside. Those who could run had fled, and those who couldn’t were dead. Only the growls of the “lunatics” remained.

  “What happened back there?” Vincent asked suddenly, turning to Manuela.

  She looked up, her eyes red from crying. “This morning, I was showering when I heard Bianca scream. I ran out and saw those two men biting her. I panicked, grabbed something, and hit them. I tried to pull Bianca away, but they caught her… and then…” She broke down again.

  “I get it,” Vincent said, cutting her off. He’d seen enough.

  Vincent got up and glanced at Manuela. She was naked, and as a man, he couldn’t help but notice her figure. She was young, attractive, and had a mature, alluring presence—likely a side effect of her profession. But now wasn’t the time for distractions.

  He grabbed a large T-shirt and shorts from his closet and tossed them to her. “Put these on.”

  After she dressed, Vincent pulled on jeans, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket. He reached under his bed and pulled out a small black case. Inside was a silver Beretta 92F—a 9mm handgun commonly known as the M9. In a country where guns were everywhere, Vincent had bought it for protection, given his underground work. He’d never had to use it, but he’d practiced at the range.

  The case also held two extra magazines, a box of bullets, and a set of surgical tools—scalpels, forceps, sutures, and disinfectants. Vincent checked the gun, loaded it, and tucked it into the back of his waistband.

  Manuela watched him, her eyes lingering on the gun. “What are you going to do?” she asked quietly.

  Vincent didn’t answer right away. He locked the case and slid it back under the bed. “Survive,” he said finally. “And figure out what the hell is going on.”