Emily Miller had always relied on her older brother, Ethan, since they were children.
Not just relied on him—needed him.
Their story wasn't one of a typical suburban family with loving parents and Sunday dinners. No, their story was one written in abandonment, loss, and survival.
Their parents had left them when Emily was barely five years old and Ethan was seven. Just… left. Dropped them off at their grandparents' house one afternoon with two small suitcases and promises of "we'll be back soon" that never materialized. No explanation. No goodbye that mattered. Just two children left behind like unwanted furniture.
Emily had cried for weeks, asking every day when Mommy and Daddy would return.
Ethan had stopped asking after the first month.
Their grandparents—kind, elderly people with limited means—had done their best to raise them. They had provided food, shelter, and a semblance of stability in an otherwise chaotic situation. But poverty was a constant companion. Their grandfather worked as a janitor until his back gave out. Their grandmother took in sewing work, her fingers growing gnarled and arthritic from the endless hours bent over a needle and thread.
And then, when Emily was fourteen and Ethan was sixteen, their grandparents had passed away from illness within six months of each other.
First their grandfather, taken by a stroke that left him paralyzed and unable to speak.
Then their grandmother, who seemed to simply lose the will to live after her husband was gone, wasting away from grief and untreated diabetes.
The two siblings had been left alone once again.
Forced to live in an orphanage—a cold, institutional building that smelled of disinfectant and despair—where they were just two more faces among dozens of abandoned children.
From that moment on, they had depended entirely on each other.
Ethan had taken on odd jobs—delivering newspapers before dawn, washing dishes at restaurants until midnight, anything that would bring in money for their future. He had sacrificed his own education, his own dreams, to ensure Emily could continue attending school.
And Emily, brilliant beyond her years, had thrown herself into her studies with a ferocity born of desperation. She would not let her brother's sacrifices be in vain. She studied until her eyes burned, until her head ached, until she collapsed from exhaustion.
By sixteen, she had already skipped two grades.
By eighteen, she had earned a full scholarship to Stanford University.
By twenty-two, she held double doctorates in psychology and computer science—achievements that typically took others well into their thirties to accomplish.
Now, at twenty-four, she had been invited to Oxford as an honorary fellow, one of the youngest in the institution's history.
But none of those achievements mattered as much to her as the fact that Ethan had been there, every step of the way, supporting her.
Their bond was stronger than most siblings could ever comprehend.
It was a bond forged in fire and loss, tempered by years of shared struggle, unbreakable and profound.
Ethan's personality had been hardened by years of abandonment and betrayal—cold, calculating, always expecting the worst from people and the world. He trusted no one. He let no one close. His heart had frozen over like a lake in winter, impenetrable and isolated.
Except when it came to Emily.
With her, the ice melted. With her, he smiled genuinely. With her, he could be vulnerable and human again.
Likewise, Emily—usually reserved and sharp-edged, maintaining that cool, untouchable demeanor that kept the world at arm's length—became gentle and warm only around her brother.
With Ethan, she didn't have to be the genius prodigy.
She didn't have to be the ice queen who intimidated everyone around her.
She could just be Emily. His little sister. The girl who still sometimes had nightmares about being abandoned and needed her big brother to tell her everything would be okay.
Theirs was a trust built in fire and loss, something most people would never understand.
They were each other's entire world.
Now, sitting on a bench in the arrivals hall at O'Hare International Airport, Emily's delicate brow furrowed as she glanced at her phone for what felt like the hundredth time.
The screen showed no new messages. No missed calls.
Why was Ethan's voice so urgent earlier?
She replayed the phone conversation in her mind, analyzing his tone the way she had been trained to do during her psychology studies. There had been genuine panic in his voice—fear, even. Desperation.
That wasn't like him at all.
Ethan was usually calm to the point of appearing lazy. He took life as it came, rarely getting worked up about anything. For him to sound that frightened…
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Emily's sharp mind raced through possibilities. Had something happened at home? Was he in some kind of trouble? Was he—
Her thoughts were interrupted by a sound.
A scream.
High-pitched, terrified, echoing across the vast arrivals hall.
Emily's head snapped up, her dark eyes immediately scanning the crowd for the source of the disturbance.
And then chaos erupted around her like a dam bursting.
More screams pierced the air—dozens of them, coming from every direction. People collided with each other as panic swept through the hall like wildfire. Luggage toppled over. A coffee cart crashed to the ground, spilling hot liquid across the polished floor. Parents grabbed their children and ran, not knowing where they were running to, just knowing they had to move.
The orderly flow of travelers shattered into complete pandemonium.
Emily rose to her feet, her body tensing instinctively.
What's happening?
Her usually stoic face showed genuine confusion as she tried to make sense of the chaos. And then she saw it.
A man at a nearby self-service drink station was convulsing violently, his body jerking like a puppet with cut strings. His skin had taken on a grayish hue, his eyes rolling back in his head until only the whites showed.
And then he lunged.
His wife—a middle-aged woman who had been standing next to him, concern written across her features—barely had time to scream before his teeth sank into her neck.
CRUNCH.
The sound of flesh tearing was audible even over the screaming.
Blood sprayed across the shiny airport floor in an arterial arc, painting the white tiles crimson. The woman's scream cut off into a wet gurgle as her husband—or what had been her husband—tore into her throat like a rabid animal.
Emily's icy composure faltered.
Her mouth opened slightly in shock, her dark eyes widening.
No… this can't be real…
But it was happening. Right before her eyes.
Similar incidents were flaring up across the terminal like spot fires. A businessman in a crisp suit suddenly tackled a teenager to the ground, biting into his shoulder. A flight attendant lurched toward a group of passengers, her jaw snapping with mindless aggression. An elderly man turned on his own grandson, attacking with a feral hunger that defied explanation.
People were attacking one another with mindless, animalistic aggression—biting, clawing, tearing.
The smell hit Emily a moment later.
Rot. Decay. The unmistakable stench of death.
Her stomach turned, but her sharp intellect immediately kicked into overdrive, pushing past the initial shock and horror.
At twenty-four, she already held double doctorates from Stanford University in psychology and computer science. She had studied human behavior extensively—both normal and abnormal. She had researched viral outbreaks, epidemic psychology, mass hysteria.
This… this wasn't any of those things.
This was something far worse.
Her mind raced through possibilities with frightening speed.
Rapid onset. Aggressive behavior. Loss of higher cognitive function. Cannibalistic tendencies. The distinctive gray pallor of the skin. The smell of decomposition on living bodies…
One conclusion rose above all others, as impossible as it seemed.
Zombie virus…?
The word felt ridiculous even thinking it. Zombies were fiction. Horror movies. Video games. They weren't real.
But what else could explain what she was witnessing?
Emily's heart raced in her chest, adrenaline flooding her system.
Think, Emily. Think!
Survival instincts—honed by years of living on the edge, of never knowing when the next disaster would strike—kicked in immediately.
She needed to get to higher ground. Away from the main crowd. Somewhere defensible where she could observe the situation and plan her next move.
Her eyes swept the terminal with practiced efficiency, cataloging exits, potential weapons, safe routes.
The third floor.
There was a restaurant up there—she'd passed it on her way down. Less crowded. Better vantage points. Fewer entry points to defend.
Making her decision in a fraction of a second, Emily darted toward the escalators.
Her designer heels clicked rapidly against the floor as she ran, her red dress flowing behind her like a crimson banner. She dodged around panicking travelers, her athletic body moving with surprising grace despite the impractical footwear.
An infected businessman lurched toward her from the left.
Emily didn't hesitate. She grabbed a fallen luggage cart and shoved it into his path, using his own momentum against him. He tumbled over it, buying her precious seconds.
She reached the escalator and took the moving steps two at a time, her breath coming in short, controlled bursts.
Behind her, the screaming intensified.