The apartment was a second-floor unit in a crumbling brownstone—one bedroom, a galley kitchen, a narrow hallway that led to the bathroom and the bedroom beyond. The front door opened directly into the living room, which barely fit the sagging couch and a scarred coffee table cluttered with beer bottles. Across from the door, a wide street-facing window let in slashes of dim sodium light from a nearby lamp post. The TV sat low in the far-left corner, humming faintly, its screen a flickering portal to late-night commercials and static.
The glass clinked against the edge of the coffee table, wobbling before it stilled. Vodka sloshed to the rim.
Quinn Calloway stared at it like it was a riddle he'd never solve.
The room stank—sour liquor, stale sweat, takeout containers left too long. The couch had collapsed in on itself, draped in unwashed blankets. A crusted fork poked out from under a menu, next to an empty soy sauce packet.
He reached for the bottle with a hand that shook more than it should. The label was peeling. So was he.
Three months since his kid was kidnapped. Three months of police reports, courtroom platitudes, cold leads—and colder whiskey.
"Three months," he muttered. The words cracked in his throat and fell into the silence like a stone dropped down a dry well.
Then—creak.
The front door opened.
Elena stepped in, framed by the hallway's amber light. She carried two paper grocery bags, one wedged awkwardly against her hip as she nudged the door closed with her foot.
She paused just inside the threshold, her eyes scanning the room. Her nose wrinkled. She caught the stink, caught the bottles, caught Quinn.
"We talked about this," she said—soft, but stern. "No drinking."
He didn't look at her. Just reached for another bottle.
She crossed the living room in three strides and snatched it off the table before he could. "You can't keep doing this."
Quinn exhaled through his nose—half-grunt, half-sigh. His stubble was overgrown, a wash of gray along his jaw. "Give a man his peace, woman."
"Your peace is killing you."
He let his head fall back into the groove worn into the couch. The ceiling above him was a grid of water stains and cracked plaster. It spun.
"Good."
The couch sagged under his weight. So did his life.
Later, Elena was in the galley kitchen, putting groceries away. The fridge opened with a soft vacuum-pop, and cans clanged into cabinets. Quinn sat alone, back hunched, staring at the black glass of the television. The screen had gone dark. His reflection floated in it, warped and hollow, like a ghost that hadn't realized it was already dead.
He reached over to the end table and picked up a small photo frame. Mia. Age six. Missing her front teeth. Grinning like the world hadn't learned to hurt her yet.
His thumb brushed the glass. "Mia… forgive me."
Tears came. He didn't wipe them.
A sound—barely a sound—tugged at the corner of his mind. A giggle. Light footsteps. A warm hand on his shoulder. He turned, heart in his throat.
Nothing there.
Just the hallway leading to the back bedroom, the dark gap of the bathroom door ajar.
Just shadows and silence.
On the coffee table sat a stack of flyers with Mia's face. The word MISSING screamed in bold, capital type. Underneath, a folded divorce decree. Her mother had lasted four months after the disappearance. Grief hollowed them differently. For Quinn, it made a cave. For her, it lit the exit sign.
He had medals. Headlines. Served two tours in the Marine Corps. Spent years protecting people overseas.
But he hadn't been there when it counted.
He stood, knees cracking, and shuffled past the narrow hallway toward the kitchenette. The tiles were cold under his feet. A drying rack leaned against the sink like it had given up. He drank straight from the tap, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Over the sink, taped to the upper cabinet, a drawing fluttered in the breeze from the cracked window above. Crayon lines. Blue sky. A stick-figure plane. A girl waving from the window.
She'd wanted to fly.
He couldn't protect her.
In the kitchen, Elena stood still for a moment, a can of soup in her hand. Her fingers lingered on the label, unmoving. She remembered Mia's laugh. That high, bright trill.
Gone now, like it had never been real.
She hadn't forgiven herself.
That night, the night Mia vanished, she'd fallen asleep on the couch. The girl had begged for one more bedtime story.
When she woke up, the door was open.
And the silence was wrong.
Elena had promised to stay until Quinn was back on his feet. That promise had roots now, tangled through this ruin of a home. A man who barely spoke. A memory that wouldn't leave.
She didn't tell him about the clinics. About the leads that turned up nothing. He had enough ghosts. He didn't need hers, too.
The low hum of the TV grew louder.
Quinn turned from the sink, walked back into the living room. The screen blinked to life with static, then a shaky live feed. The glow cast shadows across the window blinds.
"Something's happening in Manhattan," said a voice on the TV.
The camera panned over emergency crews in hazmat suits, floodlights painting white halos on the street. Helicopters buzzed overhead. Sirens yowled like wounded animals.
BREAKING NEWS: QUARANTINE ORDERED IN LOWER MANHATTAN.
A reporter stood in the chaos, hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. Her mic trembled.
"We advise all residents to stay indoors. Authorities are responding to violent outbreaks of—"
A scream cut her off.
The camera jerked. The feed dipped. In the background, a man staggered out of an alley. His skin was slick with black veins. Joints bent in impossible ways. He pounced on an EMT.
Teeth—long, needle-sharp—dug into the medic's throat.
Blood hit the lens. The camera jolted. Black screen.
"Jesus," Quinn whispered. He sat upright, the haze burning off in a flash.
"What the hell is he?"
Elena returned from the kitchen, a steaming bowl in her hands. She froze, eyes locked on the screen.
An emergency tone blared.
They watched in silence. The TV glowed like a wound in the center of the room.
Then—the broadcast died.
And the world fell quiet.
No sirens. No traffic. Just wind through the old window frame, whispering against the blinds.
Outside, a child's toy rolled down the sidewalk, bumped the curb, and stopped. A doll's voice warbled a lullaby—then cut off mid-note.
Quinn moved fast now. He scanned the apartment—front door deadbolt. Hallway. Bedroom. Kitchen window leading to the fire escape. Rear stairwell past the bathroom. Only one real way out if things went bad.
He opened a drawer, tested a few kitchen knives. Picked one. Heavy. Balanced.
He flicked off the porch light. Locked the deadbolt. Drew the blinds.
Then paused.
Outside, somewhere in the dark, a dog barked.
Then whimpered.
Then—nothing.
A new scream erupted.
Closer. Too close.
Quinn crouched low behind the couch and peeled back the edge of a blind. From here, he had a narrow sightline to the street below, framed by the rusted bars of the fire escape.
A woman in a blood-streaked nightgown ran barefoot down the sidewalk. Behind her, three figures followed—lurching, arms too long, heads cocked at off angles. They moved with a terrifying silence, fluid and wrong.
One stopped, head tilting like a puppet on loose strings. It sniffed the air.
Then smiled.
Not a snarl. A smile. Human-shaped. Stretched too far. Teeth like glass needles behind lips that forgot how to form words.
Quinn held his breath.
The thing turned—toward the house.
Not random.
Deliberate.
He stepped back from the window. "Pack food. Now. We're leaving."
Elena vanished into the kitchen.
Outside, one of them climbed a chain-link fence like it wasn't even there—graceful, fluid, inhuman. Its fingers splayed wide and held like suction cups.
Across the street, a man burst from his front door. Screaming into his phone. "Help! Someone's inside—"
He didn't finish.
An infected dropped from a rooftop. Landed on his back. They rolled across the lawn. The man clawed at the grass, screaming.
The infected shrieked.
But the sound wasn't rage.
It mimicked a woman's voice. High. Terrified.
A trap.
A neighbor opened her door to help.
Too late.
Three more shot forward—one limping, one dragging a broken arm, another whispering for help.
Until it smiled.
Quinn crouched by the front door. Listened.
Shuffling footsteps.
Wet breath.
Then—stillness.
Stillness so thick it rang in his ears.
Then—
The phone rang.
Classic rock. Loud. Wrong. The ringtone he'd set for Mia. "Don't Stop Believin'."
He hadn't changed it.
The sound sliced through the quiet like a knife.
Outside, everything stopped.
Through the blinds, Quinn saw them turn.
Their black eyes gleamed like oil.
Elena appeared in the hallway, eyes wide. "No. No, no, no…"
He dove for the phone.
Unknown Caller.
He hovered.
No one called this number except—
His thumb twitched.
A glance at the call history: Unknown – 2:14 a.m. Unknown – 2:16 a.m.
He moved to silence it.
Outside, the infected reacted all at once.
Heads snapped toward the house.
Then—
They sprinted.
One vaulted the fence like a wolf. Another ran on all fours.
They hit the porch.
The windows shook.
The front door groaned in its frame.
Then—
Glass shattered.
And the screaming began.