THEN
By 5:30 p.m., the apartment had settled into its routine.
Priya's daughter lay on the sofa, legs swinging off the edge, watching cartoons. The volume was too loud, but Priya didn't have the heart to turn it down. The girl had been good all day — patient while Priya cleaned, helpful when asked. She deserved this.
Priya finished wiping down the kitchen counter and finally allowed herself to collapse onto the other end of the sofa. Her feet ached. Her back ached. But the apartment was clean, dinner was planned, and for once, everything felt manageable.
She reached for the remote, flipping to a news channel out of habit.
The TV screen flickered. The news anchor's face appeared, but something was off. Her makeup was smudged. Her eyes were too wide.
Her phone buzzed.
Kavya's name lit up the screen. Priya smiled and answered.
"Hey, Kavi, are you on your way?"
Kavya's breath came quick and thin. "Priya, I'm almost home—I mean, I'm almost at your apartment block. I just got out of the taxi."
"Wait," Priya said, frowning at the TV, which had just cut to a frantic news alert. "Hey, don't come down. Please. Did you see the news?"
"What news? I was on the phone until two minutes ago—oh my God." Kavya's voice went small.
"—reports of violent incidents across the city. We urge citizens to stay indoors and avoid—"
The broadcast cut to shaky phone footage. A street Priya recognized — near the market. People running. Screaming. Someone on the ground, surrounded by others who weren't helping. They were—
Priya's blood turned to ice.
"Kavya, don't come out of the taxi!" she said, voice rising. "Get back in! Tell the driver to—"
"I already paid him!" Kavya's voice cracked. "I'm out. He's gone.
Her voice trembled as she saw people attacking each other; her eyes widened in horror at the chaos erupting around her.
"Priya, people are running. There's—"
A blood-curdling scream snapped through the line. Something tearing. Then a wet, sickening sound.
"Kavya! Are you okay?!" Priya shouted.
Silence. The call dropped.
Priya stared at her phone, hands shaking. She hit redial. It rang once. Switch Off.
She tried again. Same thing.
On the TV, the footage continued. More shaky clips. More screaming. A reporter's voice, strained and professional, describing "mass hysteria" and "possible chemical leak."
But Priya saw what the cameras showed. She saw the way people moved after they stopped screaming. The way they stood back up.
Her mind seized.
Kavya had said she was at the building. Right downstairs. That scream—
Priya pinged to reyan: Are you okay? News says there's some kind of attack downtown. Please call me.
She moved to her daughter's room.
"Mama?"
Her daughter stood in the doorway, clutching her stuffed rabbit. Her eyes were wide. Confused. What happened?"
Priya crouched down, forcing her face into something that might pass for a smile. It felt brittle. Wrong. But she held it.
"Nothing, beta. Mama just needs your help with something very important. Can you do that?"
"What help?"
Priya softened her voice, making each word sound like a promise. A game. Not the terror clawing at her throat.
"You know how to play hide and seek, right?"
"Yes!"
"Good. This is the hardest game we've ever played. I need you to hide here in the house and pretend I'm seeking you. But here's the special rule—" She cupped her daughter's face gently. "When I leave, you lock the door behind me. Right away. And you don't open it for anyone except Papa or me. Understand?"
Her daughter's smile faded. She looked into Priya's eyes and saw something there that made her serious.
"Okay, Mama."
"Good girl." Priya kissed her forehead, breathing in the smell of her shampoo. Strawberry. "I love you so much. Now hide. And remember — lock the door."
"I will."
Priya stood. Her daughter ran to the door, small hands already reaching for the lock.
Priya stepped out into the hallway. Heard the lock click behind her. Heard the chain slide into place.
Then she ran.
She took the stairs two at a time, gripping the railing so hard her knuckles went white.
Fifth floor. Fourth floor. Third.
By the second-floor landing, she stopped.
A sound drifted up from below. Wet. Tearing. A scream that choked off into nothing.
Priya peered over the railing.
The courtyard garden — her refuge every morning, where she drank chai and watched the sunrise — was a slaughterhouse.
Near the main gate, a woman stumbled backward, hands raised. A man lunged. His teeth found her shoulder. Blood sprayed across the pavement in an arc.
The woman's scream cut off into wet choking.
Then she stopped moving.
Then she stood up.
Her eyes were white. Black veins webbed across her skin like cracks in porcelain. Her mouth opened, and the sound that came out was wrong. Inhuman.
More figures stumbled out of the building. Some Priya recognized. Mr. Joshi from 2A. The college student from the ground floor who always wore headphones.
And Ramesh. The security guard who hid candy for the children and always asked about her daughter's day.
His uniform was torn. Blood soaked through the front. But he was standing. Moving.
Then Priya saw her.
Kavya.
Purple cardigan stuck to her with blood. Hair matted and hanging in her face. Movements jerky, puppet-like, wrong.
The bright smile from this morning's video call was gone. The laugh. The teasing. Everything that made Kavya Kavya was just... gone.
Kavya's head snapped toward the stairwell.
Toward Priya.
Her mouth opened in that terrible groan.
Priya's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a sob.
The main gate was a death trap. There was nothing left to save down there. Nothing left of her sister.
She had a promise to keep upstairs.
Priya wiped her face with the heel of her hand and turned around.
She had to get back to her daughter.
She made it three steps before she heard them behind her.
Groans. Footsteps. Too many.
Priya ran.
She burst back into the stairwell and dodged between two infected. They were slow, but there were so many. She cut toward the shadows near the mailboxes, searching desperately for a way through.
One lunged.
She ducked, catching the railing, pulling herself up.
First floor. Second floor. Her lungs burned. Behind her, the groans echoed, multiplying.
Third floor.
She burst through the hallway door and stopped dead.
An infected crouched over a body. Mrs. Desai from 3C. The woman who made samosas every Sunday. Who watched the children sometimes.
The infected was feeding.
Priya's stomach heaved. She pressed her hand over her mouth, trying not to make a sound.
Too late.
The infected's head snapped up. Looked directly at her.
Priya ran.
She barreled through the fire door — fourth floor, almost there, almost home—
Something grabbed her from behind.
Cold fingers. Impossible strength.
She tried to scream, but no sound came out.
Then the pain hit.
Teeth sank into her shoulder.
White-hot agony flared through her nerves, then dulled into something worse — an icy spread that crawled through her veins like poison. Her thoughts shattered. The world tilted.
No. No, please. My daughter. I have to—
Her vision sharpened, but wrong. Colors washed out to grey except for one thing that blazed bright and urgent:
Movement.
Life.
Warmth.
Prey.
She tried to fight it. Tried to hold onto herself. But the hunger was too strong. It drowned everything else.
Her last real thought — the one that cut through the blur before everything went dark — was for her daughter.
I'm sorry, baby. Mama's so sorry.
Then Priya was gone.
And something else stood up in her place.