Rain lashed Oxford, seeming to bear a grudge. It slid down centuries of stone, pooling between cobblestones, turning spires into faint grey ghosts behind a curtain of water.
Inside the cafeteria, life went on: the hum of conversation, the clatter of trays, laughter that didn't quite match the weather.
Mike Warren sat in his usual corner — coffee mug, half-eaten sandwich, notebook open but blank. His sleeves were rolled up to show ink-stained arms and an old burn scar across the wrist, a mark that said he'd tried something stupid once and got away with it.
A pair of rubber gloves dangled from his back pocket. Everyone joked he probably slept with them under his pillow.
He stirred his coffee, his eyes fixed on the glass. "Classic Oxford," he muttered. "Miserable with a side of damp existential dread."
Across the room, two undergrads debated whether to skip their afternoon lecture. Another group by the vending machine was filming a TikTok dance — offbeat and soaked in irony. It was all noise, all routine.
Until the TV in the corner switched to Breaking News. The sound was low, but the red ticker glared across the bottom of the screen:
UNIDENTIFIED VIOLENT INCIDENTS NEAR JOHN RADCLIFFE HOSPITAL. AUTHORITIES ADVISING CAUTION.
Mike frowned. Hospitals were always having "incidents." Still, something in the room shifted. The noise didn't die — it thinned.
"Wait," said a girl at the next table, phone in hand. "My sister's on night shift at Radcliffe. She just texted — they've locked down the wards."
"What? Like… security issue?"
"Dunno. She said patients were—" The girl stopped, eyes wide. "She said someone bit a nurse."
That did it. Heads turned. Voices dropped.
Mike leaned back, listening. The word bit didn't sit right. Too feral. Too old-fashioned.
He drained his coffee, muttered "Alright. Not your circus, Mike." He packed his bag and slung it over one shoulder.
A security guard entered then, radio crackling. "Everyone, please stay calm. We've got reports of disturbances in the city. Just stay inside until—"
His radio flared with static. Then a voice - tinny, panicked - "They're attacking— Jesus, get it off—"
The guard turned pale.
The cafeteria fell silent. The only sound was the rain, hammering harder now, as if the world was picking up pace.
Mike's heart thudded once. Then again. Too loud.
He moved, past the frozen students, through the door, out into the storm.
The Courtyard
Oxford was emptying itself. Students ran across the quad, their heads down under umbrellas doing nothing. Bicycles clattered as people abandoned them mid-path. Somewhere a car alarm wailed, its voice echoing between old stone walls.
Mike was jogging toward the chemistry building, head low. The air smelled strange — rain and iron. Like blood diluted in stormwater.
He passed two first-years huddled under an archway, arguing.
"Mate, it's on Twitter — people tear into each other near Cowley!"
"That's fake. It's gotta be fake."
"Then why's the hospital on fire?"
Mike didn't stop. He checked his phone.
[Group Chat — 2:43 PM]
[Ben: People are attacking nurses. Biting them??]
[Lila: Yeah right. Zombies next, huh.]
[Ben: I can see smoke from my dorm window.]
[Mike: Perhaps someone failed their med exam spectacularly.]
No response.
He pocketed his phone — then heard it.
A scream.
Far off at first. Then closer. Sharp. Human. Cut off mid-breath.
Mike froze, pulse spiking.
Another scream followed - a different voice. Then a crash. Shattering glass.
He turned toward the sound.
A figure stumbled into the courtyard - a student, soaked, one arm bent wrong. His hoody was soaked dark red. He fell to his knees, gasping. Another student rushed to him, slipping on the stones.
"Hey, hey, you're okay—"
The injured one lunged.
The sound was wet, savage, wrong.
Mike's stomach dropped. "Jesus Christ."
He looked up — clouded eyes, blood smeared around his mouth, teeth red.
Then he moved - jerky, too fast.
Mike ran.
The Chase
Rain had turned stones to glass. Shoes slipped as he tore through the passage by the library. Behind him — shouts, screams, and that sound of footsteps hitting puddles too hard, too fast.
He cut through a side path and passed two people wrestling on the ground — one screaming, the other silent except for a guttural, animal noise.
Mike didn't look back.
He reached the chemistry building. Swiped his card — red light.
"Come on—" He slammed it again. Green. Click.
He stumbled inside, slammed the door, chest heaving.
Overhead, fluorescent lights hummed the sound of electricity loud in the quiet. He pressed his back against the wall, listened — nothing but his own ragged breath.
His reflection in the glass panel was ghostly: pale skin, wet hair, eyes wide with adrenaline.
He started down the hall, slow.
One open door — lab benches overturned, a beaker dripping something that hissed on the tiles. Another was locked; another was smeared with blood on the handle.
Something moved.
A dragging sound.
Mike turned.
A man in a lab coat limped into view. One arm hung useless, the other clutching the wall. His identification tag swung from his collar — Dr. Holt. Organic Chemistry.
"Professor?" Mike called, chancy. "You need help?"
Dr. Holt looked up, his eyes cloudy. His mouth opened and a low hiss leaked out of it.
Then he charged.
Mike barely had time to grab the fire extinguisher. He swung.
THUD.
The sound echoed through the hall. Holt dropped. His head hit tile with a crack that made Mike flinch.
He stood there, the extinguisher trembling in his hands.
"Oh, God…" He looked down then away. "Guess you won't be marking papers anymore."
The laugh that escaped him sounded wrong — too high, too sharp.
He stepped over the body, still breathing hard, and pushed into Lab 3B.
The Improviser
He had locked the door and put a table in front of it.
The lab was empty — sterile and humming. A faint scent of ethanol and ammonia clung to the air.
Mike stood still. Rain drummed against the windows. Somewhere down the corridor, a door slammed; then footsteps.
He forced his hands steady. Looked around.
Flasks. Burners. Compressed gas. Acids. Solvents.
His world.
"Alright," he whispered. "Let's make ourselves useful."
He started gathering materials. His mind moved faster than his fear — measuring, mixing, testing.
He taped a flask to a broken metal rod, filled it with a viscous gel improvised from ethanol and detergent. When he lit it, the flame burned blue and steady.
A crude weapon. A controlled burn. A scientist's solution to chaos.
Outside, something slammed into the door. Once. Twice. Then again.
Mike didn't flinch. He just smiled, tired and tight.
"If we're going down," he muttered, rolling up his sleeves, "we're taking the scenic route."
He turned back to the bench, the blue flame flickering in his reflection. The pounding grew louder.