Manuela had lived in the old apartment on Oak Street for a long time. She moved in when she started working as a streetwalker, and that was six years ago. Yes, she had been in the business since she was sixteen. This neighborhood offered her more clients, and it was where she could make a living.

  Vincent had moved in two years ago. In that time, Manuela usually only saw him in the mornings or evenings, coming and going from work. Their interactions were minimal—mostly just passing greetings. A year ago, when her lights went out, Vincent had helped her fix them. That was their longest conversation, a casual chat about nothing in particular. Vincent had never been a client, even when she jokingly offered him a discount. He always politely declined.

  In Manuela’s eyes, Vincent was just another ordinary office worker in the big city of New York. He worked long hours, probably didn’t earn much, or else he wouldn’t be living in this rundown apartment. Aside from his striking mixed-race features, Manuela had never noticed anything extraordinary about him. To her, Vincent was just another face in the crowd, a reflection of the city’s working-class struggle.

  But today, her perception of Vincent changed. He was too calm. When they first ran back to the apartment, she had seen the tension on his face. That was normal—anyone would be scared in the face of such incomprehensible horror. But after that, Vincent became eerily composed. Despite knowing that the streets were filled with those terrifying “lunatics” who could burst in at any moment, he acted methodically. He turned on the TV to check the news, called his loved ones, and only then did he retrieve his gun. Everything was done in a calculated, deliberate manner.

  What did that mean?

  A person with a gun, faced with imminent danger, would typically grab the weapon first, guard the door, maybe light a cigarette, or frantically dial 911. That’s how most people would react. But Vincent had waited to get his gun, as if he knew the “lunatics” couldn’t break in. It wasn’t wishful thinking—he genuinely believed they were safe for the moment. That’s why he prioritized gathering information before arming himself.

  Manuela, despite her less-than-respectable profession, was a sharp woman. When a woman finds herself in danger and there’s a man willing to help, she naturally focuses her attention on him. Men are generally stronger and braver, and Manuela had seen enough men in her line of work to know how to read them. Sometimes, she could even tell which clients would try to skip out on paying or become violent afterward, and she’d refuse their business.

  Since Vincent had pulled out the gun, Manuela had been watching him from the window.

  “What are you looking at?” Vincent noticed her gaze and turned to ask casually, his voice low.

  “Oh…” Manuela looked down, hiding her slight embarrassment. She tugged at the oversized T-shirt she was wearing and asked, “Do you have a cigarette?”

  “Sorry, I don’t smoke.” Vincent sat on the bed facing the window, his phone in hand. He gestured toward the fridge on the other side of the room. “You can grab something to eat. There’s bread, milk, and probably some cereal in there.” After speaking, he lowered his head and scrolled through his phone contacts.

  To Vincent, Manuela was a neighbor, not quite a friend, but certainly more than a stranger.

  “Thanks,” Manuela said, walking barefoot to the fridge. She opened it, glanced inside, and then leaned back slightly to look at Vincent. “Vincent, do you want anything?”

  Vincent waved her off without turning around. He put the phone to his ear, waited for about ten seconds, and then set it down. In the quiet room, Manuela could faintly hear the voicemail prompt from the other end.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  **Two Hours Later**

  It was around 10:00 AM. Vincent lay on the left side of the bed near the window, his left arm behind his head and his right hand resting on his chest, absently twirling a sharp scalpel. The blade moved so fast it became a blur of silver, only pausing occasionally to reveal its true form. Vincent was watching TV, the volume turned low, flipping through channels. Most stations showed either “No Signal” or static.

  Outside, occasional gunshots echoed. In a country where firearms were commonplace, this wasn’t unusual. Some survivors were fighting back against the “lunatics,” but the outcome was often grim. There were just too many of them.

  At first, Vincent had been curious, even glancing out the window to see what was happening. But now, he had lost interest. He lay on the bed, waiting. Something this big had to provoke a response from the government. So far, Vincent had no idea what was really going on. All he could do was wait and stay put.

  Manuela sat at the foot of the bed, having just hung up the phone. She turned to Vincent and said, “No one’s answering.”

  “Same here,” Vincent replied, still focused on the TV, the scalpel still spinning in his hand.

  Vincent didn’t know many people—mostly coworkers and a few underworld figures. He had already called everyone he could think of, but no one picked up.

  **Breaking News**

  Suddenly, the TV screen flickered to life. A Black military officer, around 36 or 37 years old, appeared. His uniform was wrinkled and stained with blood. This was a military broadcast, the kind usually reserved for wartime.

  Vincent sat up straight, setting the scalpel on the bedside table. Manuela also turned her attention to the TV.

  “This is Captain Tracy May from the Everett Naval Base in Washington State. Unfortunately… I must inform you that an unknown virus has spread globally. Satellite imagery shows that the outbreak began simultaneously worldwide at 6:58 AM on May 20, 2025. Those infected by the virus will first die, then reanimate, losing all cognitive function and becoming highly aggressive. They will attack all living creatures, driven by an insatiable hunger for flesh…”

  “The virus is highly contagious, spreading through saliva and blood. Those bitten by the infected will turn within ten minutes to six hours. Preliminary estimates suggest that 70% of the global population has already been infected through airborne transmission. These individuals are no longer human. For lack of a better term… we can call them zombies. If you encounter them, avoid them if possible. If not, aim for the head. They are no longer your friends, family, or mentors. They are zombies. Do not hesitate to kill them.” The captain looked exhausted. It had only been three hours since the outbreak, but those three hours had clearly taken their toll.

  The screen then shifted to a woman in her forties wearing a lab coat. She adjusted her glasses and addressed the camera. “Virus analysis indicates that the pathogen spreads similarly to snake venom. If bitten, immediately excising the affected tissue may prevent the virus from spreading. Once the virus reaches the central nervous system, the infected will die within ten minutes to six hours, after which the CNS mutates, reanimating the body into a zombie state.”

  “Initial analysis suggests the virus may be linked to the explosion at the Johns Hopkins University biolab in Maryland fifteen days ago. Those who have not turned into zombies appear to have developed antibodies, making them immune to airborne transmission.”

  “As of now, all government institutions have collapsed. This pandemic has affected all of humanity. Half an hour ago, we received word that the President died in the Oval Office at 9:00 AM. The United States is now in a state of anarchy. Survivors, do not wait for government or military aid. Fend for yourselves. The apocalypse has arrived. Television broadcasts will cease shortly. If we survive, we will relay further updates via radio. God bless America!”

  “God bless America!” echoed several voices before the screen went black, replaced by the words “No Signal.”

  Vincent stared at the blank screen, his mind reeling. He had thought this was a large-scale terrorist attack, a bioweapon. Even when his calls went unanswered, he clung to that belief. He had never considered the possibility of the end of the world. To him, that was impossible—unless it was nuclear war.

  But he was wrong. Some things are more terrifying than nukes. They can push humanity to the brink of extinction. Without government coordination or military support, no one’s pre-apocalypse status mattered anymore. Those still alive had only one title now—survivors.

  Vincent quietly got out of bed and walked to the window, pulling back the curtain slightly to look outside.

  “I am a survivor,” he murmured to himself.