"He's a survivor, just like us."
"So are the people who start eating each other when the food runs out," Samir said quietly. "We need to be careful, Reyan. About him. About everything."
Reyan wanted to argue, wanted to defend Vikram, but he couldn't. Because Samir was right. They didn't know this man. Didn't know what he'd done to survive, what lines he'd crossed.
"Fine," Reyan said finally. "We watch him. But we don't alienate him. We need every person we can get."
"Agreed." Samir nodded. "Speaking of which—my sister. I know it's not your problem, but—"
"Stop," Reyan cut him off. "It is my problem. You came back for me, risked your lives for me. We're finding your sister. End of discussion."
Reyan opened the door and went out.
"The south side is a warzone," Samir pointed out, stepping out of the room. "We barely made it three kilometres. That's—what, eight or nine kilometres to the industrial district?"
"Then we plan and prepare. We go tomorrow morning — early, while they're less active," Reyan said looking between them.
Something passed between the three of them—an understanding, a commitment. They'd survive this together or die trying.
"Tomorrow, then," Samir said, clasping Reyan's shoulder
"Thank you, brother."
"We're going out tomorrow," Reyan announced. "To find Samir's sister. Anyone who wants to come is welcome. Anyone who wants to stay and fortify this place, that's fine too."
"I'll come," Vikram said immediately. "Sitting here waiting to die isn't much of a life."
Reyan nodded. "Then we should rest. We have a long day ahead."
Reyan watched the city from the window. Smoke rose from many small fires. Sirens weakened, then fell silent. Niraya was dying; they were fighting to stay alive inside its death rattle.
VAISHALI DISTRICT
Ahmed sat in his stolen house, a bowl of instant noodles in his lap, watching a rerun of some comedy show on the television. The volume was turned down to barely a whisper, but he could still hear the laugh track, tinny and hollow.
He laughed along with it.
On screen, a man slipped on a banana peel. Ahmed laughed harder, tears streaming down his face.
This was it. This was all that was left. The world was ending, and he was watching slapstick comedy in a dead man's house, eating food that would run out in a week, pretending everything was fine.
The laughter died in his throat. He set down the bowl, no longer hungry.
His mobile sat on the coffee table, red light blinking. Recording.
"Day Second… and… half," he said to the lens. "The outbreak is spreading exponentially."
He picked up the bowl again, took another bite of noodles. "You're probably wondering why I'm eating. Why I'm watching TV. Why I'm not frantically working on a cure."
He smiled at the camera. It wasn't a happy smile.
"Because there is no cure. The virus was designed to be irreversible. Neural regeneration doesn't work backward. You can't un-rewrite a brain." He chewed thoughtfully. "Every scientist at Nexus knew this. We knew from day one that if anything went wrong, there would be no fixing it. We did it anyway. For the funding. For the prestige. For the chance to make history."
He laughed again, but this time it sounded broken.
"Well, we made history. Just not the way we planned." He gestured at the TV, where the comedy was still playing. "So, I'm doing what any rational person would do. I'm accepting it. They're all dead. Everyone. Your family, my family, everyone we knew. Dead or infected, which is the same thing. And we—" he pointed at the camera, "—we who are left? We're just waiting for our turn."
He set down the bowl and leaned closer to the camera.
"But here's the thing. Even if I can't cure them, I can stop them. The best way to stop a virus is to eliminate the host. Kill them all. Every single infected. Burn this city to the ground if that's what it takes. Scorched earth. It's the only way to be sure."
His smile widened, and there was something manic in his eyes now.
"So that's the plan. Document. Observe. Learn their patterns. Find their weaknesses. And then..." He drew a finger across his throat. "Extinction. Theirs, not ours. Because if we're going down, we're taking them with us."
He reached forward and clicked off the camera.
Then he turned back to the TV, picked up his noodles, and laughed along with the laugh track like nothing was wrong.
Like the world wasn't ending just outside his barricaded door.