The massive screen mounted on the wall of the Los Angeles International Airport terminal—one of those huge LED displays normally used for flight information and advertisements—suddenly flickered to life.
The piercing emergency alert tone cut through the ambient chaos of the third floor like a knife, immediately drawing everyone's attention.
Survivors who'd been huddled in corners, whispering fearfully or crying quietly, looked up with startled expressions.
The screen showed the distinctive pattern of an Emergency Alert System broadcast—red and white stripes, the seal of the United States government prominently displayed.
And then a voice came through the speakers—every speaker in the terminal, broadcasting simultaneously.
It was a reporter's voice, female, professional despite the obvious strain and fear beneath her carefully controlled tone.
"This is an emergency broadcast from the Emergency Alert System. Please do not adjust your device. The following message is being transmitted on all available frequencies."
A brief pause, filled only with the sound of papers rustling and distant chaos in whatever broadcast center she was speaking from.
"Roughly one hour ago, a highly infectious viral outbreak began spreading across multiple major population centers worldwide."
Worldwide, Emily thought, her stomach dropping. Not just Chicago. Not just the United States. The entire world.
The reporter's voice continued, growing shakier despite her obvious attempts to maintain composure.
"Initial reports indicate the infection rate is near one hundred percent. Transmission occurs through direct contact with infected bodily fluids—primarily blood and saliva. Once infected, the incubation period appears to be extremely short, ranging from minutes to less than an hour."
The camera angle shifted, and suddenly the screen showed a different scene—a military briefing room, stark and utilitarian.
A gray-haired man in a military uniform stood behind a podium bearing the seal of the Department of Defense. His face was lined with age and experience, his jaw set in a grim expression that spoke of a lifetime of hard decisions.
His name flashed across the bottom of the screen in white text: Colonel Thomas Blake – U.S. Army Biohazard Division.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Colonel Blake began, his voice carrying the weight of authority and terrible knowledge. "I'm going to be direct with you because we don't have time for sugarcoating."
He paused, his eyes seeming to look directly through the camera at every person watching.
"This outbreak is not local. It's not regional. It's global. Within the last hour, we've received confirmed reports from over forty countries across six continents. Communication is already breaking down in many areas, but from what we can determine, this infection is spreading faster than anything we've ever encountered in human history."
Murmurs rippled through the survivors on the third floor. Some people gasped. Others began crying harder.
Emily sat perfectly still, her mind racing through the implications.
Global. Forty countries. One hour.
That's not possible with normal transmission vectors. Even the fastest-spreading diseases—influenza, measles—take days or weeks to achieve global distribution. This is… this is something else entirely.
Colonel Blake continued, his voice growing harder, more commanding.
"These infected individuals—now being referred to in official communications as 'infected hostiles' or, in common parlance, zombies—display characteristics that defy conventional medical understanding."
The screen split, showing footage that must have been captured by security cameras or news crews in the early stages of the outbreak. Zombies attacking people in what looked like a shopping mall. A woman being dragged down by three infected. A man trying to fight back with a baseball bat.
"They are hostile and uncontrollable," Blake said, his words clipped and precise. "They will attack any uninfected human on sight with extreme aggression. They appear to be unresponsive to pain, capable of continuing to function despite injuries that would incapacitate or kill a normal human. For all intents and purposes, they are functionally dead—their higher brain functions have ceased, leaving only the most primitive survival instincts."
The footage on the screen was brutal, unfiltered. The censors had apparently decided that people needed to see the truth.
Emily watched with clinical detachment, her psychologist's brain automatically analyzing the behavior patterns of the infected.
No self-preservation instinct. Single-minded focus on attacking living targets. Persistence despite injury. This isn't just a disease—it's a complete rewriting of human neurology.
"Avoid them at all costs," Blake commanded, his tone brooking no argument. "Do not attempt to help infected individuals. Do not attempt to restrain or contain them unless you have proper training and equipment."
He leaned forward, his hands gripping the edges of the podium.
"If someone you know has been bitten or scratched by an infected individual, I know this is difficult, but you must maintain strict distance. The infection spreads through blood and saliva contact. One bite, one scratch that breaks the skin, and transmission is nearly certain."
The colonel paused, his jaw working as if he was forcing himself to say the next words.
"There is currently no known cure. No vaccine. No treatment. Once infected, the transformation appears to be irreversible."
The silence in the terminal was absolute.
Even the sounds of distant chaos from the floors below seemed to fade as that terrible truth sank in.
No cure, Emily thought, her chest tightening. No treatment. Once you're bitten, you're gone.
"Here's what you need to do," Blake continued, shifting into practical survival instructions. "Remain calm. I know that seems impossible right now, but panic will get you killed faster than any infected."
He began counting off points on his fingers.
"One: Stay indoors. Find a secure location—preferably with only one entrance that can be barricaded. Lock your doors and windows. Reinforce them if possible."
"Two: Stay quiet. Early observations suggest the infected are drawn to sound and movement. Loud noises will attract them from significant distances. Keep your voice down. Turn off any devices that might make noise."
"Three: Stay hidden. The infected appear to have limited problem-solving abilities. If they can't see you or hear you, they may lose interest and move on. Don't draw attention to yourself."
"Four: Stay put and await military rescue. The National Guard has been mobilized in all fifty states. Active duty military personnel are being deployed to major population centers. We will establish safe zones and begin evacuating civilians as soon as it's feasible."
He straightened, his expression softening just slightly.
"We will overcome this. But we need everyone to cooperate. Follow these instructions. Protect yourself and those around you. And wait for us to come get you."
The screen flickered, showing the Department of Defense seal again.
"This message will repeat on all available frequencies. May God have mercy on us all."
And then the broadcast ended, the screen going dark.
As the screen went black, the terminal fell into an eerie silence.
Nobody spoke.
Nobody moved.
The survivors—huddled in corners of the third-floor cafeteria and lounge areas—just sat there with hollow, terrified eyes, processing what they'd just heard.
Global outbreak. No cure. Wait for rescue.
Some people began weeping quietly, the reality of their situation finally breaking through whatever psychological defenses they'd constructed. Others just stared blankly at nothing, their minds shutting down under the weight of too much horror.
A few—a very few—began talking quietly among themselves, making plans, discussing options.
Emily Miller sat on one of the uncomfortable airport benches near the windows, her phone gripped tightly in her hand. Her knuckles were white from the pressure, her fingers aching.
She looked down at the screen and, for what felt like the hundredth time, dialed her brother's number.
Ethan Miller.
The first name in her contacts list. The first person she called in any crisis. The only person who truly mattered.
Ring… Ring…
Nothing.
"Your call cannot be completed as dialed."
Emily's jaw clenched, her eyes burning with frustrated tears she refused to let fall.
It's been over an hour since this started, she thought, fighting to stay composed. Over an hour since I last spoke to him. Is he alive? Is he safe? Did he make it somewhere secure, or is he out there in the streets with those things?
Please, Ethan, pick up. Please be okay.
But the phone remained silent, mocking her with its uselessness.
In desperation—needing to do something, anything—Emily scrolled through her contacts list and began trying other numbers.
Friends from her time studying abroad. Professors she'd worked with at Stanford. Classmates she'd collaborated with on research projects. People scattered across different states, different time zones, different parts of the country.
She tried them all.
Most calls simply wouldn't connect—the network too overloaded, too many people trying to reach loved ones simultaneously.
A few rang endlessly without answer, which was somehow worse than getting a busy signal.
And then, miraculously, one call went through.
Dr. Sarah Chen, a fellow psychology researcher she'd worked with in New York. The phone actually rang, and then—
"Hello? Emily? Oh my God, Emily, is that you?"
The voice was panicked, breathless, nearly hysterical with fear.
"Sarah!" Emily's voice cracked with relief. "Are you okay? What's happening there?"
"Emily, listen—" Sarah was shouting to be heard over background noise. Wind rushing. Sirens blaring. Screams. The unmistakable sounds of chaos. "It's not just Chicago! It's not just California! It's everywhere! New York's gone completely crazy—the streets are—"
CRACK! The sound of something breaking, glass shattering.
"Sarah? Sarah!"
"—running, we're trying to get to—" More noise, confused shouting, and then what might have been gunshots.
Click.
The line went dead.
Emily sat frozen, the phone pressed against her ear, listening to silence.
She slowly lowered the device, staring at the blank screen.
New York. Chicago. Los Angeles. All falling simultaneously.
Sarah was right. This isn't going to end soon. There won't be a fast rescue. The military can't mobilize quickly enough to save everyone—not when the infection spreads this fast, not when it's hitting every major city at once.
The phone slipped from her hand, clattering onto the bench beside her.
No cavalry is coming.
We're on our own.
Across the third-floor hall, Jack Reynolds stood near the barricaded stairwell with a grim expression etched deeply into his weathered features.
He'd been listening to the emergency broadcast with half his attention while the other half remained focused on monitoring their defenses, watching for any signs of breach.
The TV broadcast had confirmed what he'd already feared deep in his gut—what his years of military experience had been screaming at him since the first zombie had appeared.
This wasn't an isolated outbreak that could be contained with quarantine and rapid response.
This wasn't something that could be solved with antibiotics and vaccines.
The entire planet was falling apart.
Global simultaneous outbreak, Jack thought, his jaw tight. That doesn't happen naturally. Diseases spread along transportation routes—airports, highways, shipping lanes. They take time. Even the worst pandemics in history took weeks or months to go global.
This? This hit everywhere at once. Which means…
He didn't let himself finish that thought. Speculation about causes wouldn't help right now. Survival was what mattered.
Jack moved to the glass barrier that overlooked the lower levels of the terminal, his boots silent despite his size. Years of military discipline had taught him to move quietly when necessary.
He looked down through the reinforced glass toward the second floor.
What he saw made his stomach turn.
Dozens of zombies staggered aimlessly around the food court below, their movements jerky and uncoordinated. They bumped into kiosks and tables, occasionally tripping over corpses—some of which had been partially consumed, others simply trampled in the initial panic.
The floor was a nightmare landscape of overturned chairs, spilled food, and dark stains that could only be blood.
But what caught Jack's attention—what made him release a breath he didn't know he'd been holding—was that none of the infected seemed aware of the survivors above.
Not yet, anyway.