The sound that woke Michael wasn't the usual neighbor's dog or the distant hum of late-night traffic. It was a sharp chime in his head cold, mechanical, almost impatient.
[System Alert: Stage One Outbreak Confirmed. Global Containment Failure in Progress.]
His eyes snapped open. The digital text glowed faintly across his vision, a haunting confirmation of what he'd been dreading for years.
"No…" Michael whispered, rubbing his face, heart pounding. "Not tonight. Not already."
He swung his legs out of bed, feet hitting the wooden floor. The house was silent except for the faint echo of sirens outside. His preparations the years of whispered paranoia, of saving, training, waiting all came rushing back. He opened his closet, grabbed the backpack he'd kept ready for this exact moment. Inside were bottled water, canned food, ammunition, and a battered pistol he'd learned to clean until it shone.
[System Update: Local infection radius expanding.]
Michael shoved on his jacket and boots, grabbed his keys, and bolted down the stairs. The quiet of his house felt unnatural, almost mocking. He forced himself to keep moving, pushing through the front door into the night.
The street was chaos. Neighbors shouted at each other, some loading cars, others frozen on their porches in disbelief. A woman screamed as something dragged her into the dark. Another man her husband maybe swung wildly with a bat, missing, his cries echoing into the night.
Michael's gut twisted. It was already here. Too fast.
He sprinted to his car, throwing his bag onto the passenger seat and starting the engine with shaking hands. His phone buzzed uselessly, no signal.
"Highway. Out of town," he muttered to himself, pulling out onto the street. "Stick to the plan."
But plans crumble in fire.
Within two blocks he saw it: a pickup truck tearing through an intersection, headlights glaring through smoke. Michael's breath caught he knew that truck. Joel's. He'd seen the man around enough times, quiet but strong, raising Sarah after everything they'd been through.
Michael barely had time to register it before another car careened into the road. The crash was deafening. Metal screamed. Joel's truck spun out, smashing against a pole. Flames roared from the other vehicle.
Michael swore and slammed on the brakes, his tires skidding across broken glass. He threw the door open and sprinted toward the wreck.
"Joel!" he shouted, not even sure why the name came so naturally.
The driver's side burst open. Tommy stumbled out, clutching a rifle, eyes wide when he recognized Michael.
"Jesus Michael?! What the hell are you doing here?!"
"No time!" Michael barked, already moving to the passenger side.
The door groaned as Joel shoved it open. He emerged, cradling Sarah in his arms. Her face was pale, twisted in pain, one hand clinging to her father's shirt.
"It's her leg," Joel said, his voice raw, heavy with panic. "She can't walk."
Michael's mind raced. The air was thick with smoke, the sound of infected shrieks closing in. His hands were already moving, pulling at the bent frame to clear space.
"Then we move," Michael snapped, pointing toward a narrow alley cutting through the block. "Follow me!"
Joel didn't hesitate. With Sarah in his arms, he ran, Tommy covering the rear with his rifle. Michael led, pistol raised, firing twice when an infected lunged out of a doorway. The gunshots cracked like thunder, echoing off the walls.
Sarah whimpered, her voice muffled against Joel's chest. "Dad… it hurts…"
Joel's jaw tightened. His eyes burned with desperation. "I know, baby. I know. Just hold on."
Michael forced his voice steady, trying to mask the fear in his chest. "You're okay, Sarah. You'll make it out. Just keep breathing."
The four of them sprinted through the burning streets. Houses Michael had known for years were ablaze, their windows glowing orange, shadows moving inside. Bodies littered the pavement some still, some twitching. The air reeked of smoke, blood, and something sour that clung to the back of his throat.
Everywhere he looked, the world was unraveling.
At the corner, they stopped, chest heaving. Tommy fired again, dropping another infected that stumbled too close. Joel adjusted Sarah, murmuring to calm her, but Michael could see the strain on his face.
His system flickered again.
[System Notice: Survival Probability 37%.]
Michael swallowed hard. For the first time in his life, the numbers weren't a comfort. They were a countdown.
He looked at Joel and Sarah, at Tommy's blood-smeared face as he reloaded. For years he'd prepared for this, but preparation never looked like this. Not fire in the streets. Not children crying in their father's arms. Not a world collapsing in real time.
And yet here they were. Running anyway.
Michael tightened his grip on his pistol, exhaled through his teeth, and forced his feet to keep moving.
"Let's go," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "We can't stop here."
They disappeared into the burning night, four shadows swallowed by firelight, each step dragging them deeper into the nightmare.