MAN?
The only sound was a soft, steady thump in his head—like a jackhammer pounding his skull. He forced his eyes open, but everything was pitch black. The air felt sharp and cold, each breath cutting like a knife.
Panic hit him. His arms and legs felt heavy, like he was stuck in mud. His hand groped around until it touched cold metal. A button. He pressed it, and machines roared to life. Blinding light filled the room, and he squinted at the bare walls and a floor slick with something dark and sticky.
In the middle of the room stood a man, perfectly still, facing away. His mind was blank—no name, no memories—just fear.
He took a shaky step. The floor groaned. "Who the fuck are you?" he yelled.
No answer. He stepped again. Then—bang—a gunshot.
The sound froze him in place. His breath hitched, heart slamming in his chest as blood sprayed across the floor. The man dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, collapsing in a heap.
For a moment, he couldn't move. His hands trembled, knees weak. He stared at the body, mind racing to catch up. What the hell just happened? His stomach turned, a wave of nausea rising, but he forced it down. Fear gripped him, but so did something else—shock, disbelief, like the world had cracked open.
He staggered back a step, nearly slipping. Then, slowly, he made himself move forward, each step heavy with dread.
His eyes drifted to the gun on the ground—the one the man had used. Slowly, he crouched down, hand reaching for it.
"Don't fucking move!"
The voice snapped like a whip.
He froze.
A woman stood in the doorway, shotgun raised, eyes locked on him. Her hair was messy, her face smudged with dirt and dried blood. She looked ready to pull the trigger.
"Back away from the gun," she ordered.
He lifted his hands and stood slowly. "It's not what it looks like."
"Really?" she said. "Because it looks like you just murdered someone and were about to grab the weapon."
"No, he—he shot himself. I just woke up. I swear, I don't even know who I am."
Her eyes narrowed. "You don't know your name?"
He shook his head. "Nothing. I just wanted the gun. In case something worse showed up."
"Or in case I did," she said flatly.
He swallowed hard. "I'm not a threat."
She stared at him a long moment. Then, finally, she lowered the shotgun slightly. "One wrong move and you'll be just as dead as he is."
"I get it."
Outside, faint moans drifted in through the broken window—low, hollow sounds that made his blood run cold.
"I don't know what those things are," he said, voice low. "They're not human."
She glanced toward the noise. "No. They're not. And if we don't move, they'll be here fast."
He looked at her, panic rising again. "What are they?"
"You really don't know?" she asked, studying him. "Damn. You're more fucked than I thought."
She motioned for him to follow. "Stick close. Don't slow me down."
And with that, she turned and moved toward the hallway, shotgun in hand, while the world outside groaned with death.