The first breath of morning came slow and colorless, like the world was still deciding whether to wake up or not. Shivansh hadn't slept. He'd sat beside the balcony door for hours, staring into a night that no longer felt like his own. Now, faint light crept through the blackout curtain, brushing across the wall where the map of Tower A was taped beside a list of names, resources, and plans scratched in pencil.
He stood, quietly, as Ankita and Vedant slept on the floor nearby, curled in opposite directions beneath the last clean bedsheet. He didn't wake them. There was no need. Today would come crashing in soon enough.
He geared up fast heavy jeans, two shirts, his thick jacket, and both arms wrapped in cloth and books. The cricket bat rested by the door, cleaned but still stained. His phone was charged, group chat open, last message still unread by a few:
"We begin clearing at first light. Tower A moves first. Floor by floor."
He unlocked the door and stepped into the corridor.
A-603.
It smelled like steel and old sweat, but no rot. That was good. Shivansh scanned the hallway doors mostly shut, a few half-open-like mouths frozen mid-scream. Scattered shoes, a child's plastic cricket bat broken near 605, and a red streak on the tile that turned into nothing.
He moved quietly, stopping at each flat, listening. No groaning. No movement. Just the hum of stillness that came after the fall of everything.
He reached A-501 and knocked three times, then paused. A muffled click followed. The door opened just enough for Imran Qureshi's face to appear rough, dark-eyed, alert.
"You sure?" the ex-army man asked.
"We wait any longer, we lose momentum," Shivansh said.
Imran nodded once. "Shahida's locked in the bathroom. If I don't check in every hour, she runs to the terrace."
Shivansh nodded, then moved on.
By the time he reached the second floor, Parth was already at his door, iron bar in hand, sleeves rolled up, sweat beading across his forehead.
"You're late," he muttered.
"We start from six. Sweep to one," Shivansh said. "We check each flat, close or clear. Then regroup at A-302. Nakul and Roshni are prepping it as command base."
Parth nodded. "I'll handle anything that moves."
They began moving upward together, clearing their way back to the top with swift, silent steps. Each hallway felt heavier. The building was quiet, but not empty. Shivansh could feel the weight of every door they passed, every flat they had to eventually open.
No screams. Not yet. But soon. A-302 was already cleared when Shivansh and Parth arrived. Nakul and Roshni had turned the flat into a makeshift command post furniture pushed back, curtains double-layered with towels, and a rough chalk map on the living room floor. Shivansh dropped his bat against the wall and knelt beside the drawing. It wasn't much six floors of Tower A, a few markings, and taped-on notes about food and water but it was something.
"Any movement since morning?" he asked.
"Nothing on this floor," Nakul replied, his voice low. "But Roshni saw something on the fourth. Might've been a shadow."
Shivansh glanced at Parth. "We sweep five next. Together."
Parth nodded, adjusting the grip on his iron bar. "I'll take left, you take right. Keep it tight."
Turning back to the twins, Shivansh pointed to the main door. "If anyone knocks without the code don't open. One knock. Two short. One long. Got it?"
They stepped into the hallway of the fifth floor. The corridor smelled faintly of kerosene and stale bread. Shoes lay scattered outside doors, some in pairs, some single and lost. The air felt warmer here still, but heavier.
The first two flats were clear. Silent. Just abandoned lives frozen in place family photos crooked on the walls, kitchen taps still dripping, calendars that had stopped three days ago.
Then came the sound.
A scrape. Low. Dry. Steel on concrete. Followed by a stairwell groan. And then the howl. It wasn't human. Not even close. It echoed up through the stairwell like something woken too soon.
Parth spun first, bar raised, as the first infected surged up the stairwell landing its jaw twisted, eyes sunken, one arm flopping like a dead fish. Parth didn't hesitate. The bar came down with a crack, smashing its head sideways into the wall. Blood splattered. It collapsed in a heap of limbs.
Before it hit the ground, two more came faster.
Shivansh rammed one into the wall with his shoulder and swung the bat up into its face. Bone cracked. Teeth scattered. The infected shrieked once, then dropped.
Behind them, Nakul's voice shouted from 302.
"They're coming up ten! Maybe more!"
More flooded into the hallway barefoot, snarling, dragging broken limbs and frothing red at the mouth. One tackled Parth into a door. He grunted, rolled, then shoved it off with a knee and smashed its skull with three quick strikes, each louder than the last. Shivansh saw another rush the end of the hall, limbs flailing. A woman in a bloodstained sari, her mouth opens wide, face torn from a fall or a fight. He brought the bat down on her head with a grunt. She collapsed in a single, horrible thud.
They were everywhere now.
One leapt toward Shivansh and clamped its fingers onto his sleeve. He jerked free, swung hard, the bat smashing across its cheek, tearing the skin as it flew backward. Parth slipped but recovered, landing a final crushing blow to the temple of one that had nearly grabbed his ankle.
In the chaos, blood covered the tiles. Hands clawed from under fallen bodies. One infected, still moving, tried to crawl toward the hallway, mouth open and teeth scraping tile. Shivansh stepped in hard and drove the bat straight down, twice, until everything was still.
For a moment, there was only the sound of breath ragged, fast, human. Parth leaned against the wall; blood streaked across his hoodie. "That was more than ten," he said.
Shivansh didn't respond immediately. He looked around at the hallway torn shirts, crushed faces, twitching hands finally still.
"Block the stairwell," he said. "They can't come back up."
The door to 302 creaked open behind them. Roshni's face peeked through, pale, scared.
"Is it over?"
Shivansh didn't answer. He picked his bat up from the floor, wiped it with the edge of his jacket, and stepped toward the staircase again. It wasn't over. Not even close. The blood was still warm beneath Shivansh's shoes as he stepped toward the staircase. Behind him, Parth was breathing heavily, sweat mixing with dried crimson on his forehead. The hallway stank now of rot, piss, and something acid-like that lingered after too much fear.
They barricaded the stairwell door with a shoe rack and an overturned almirah from one of the empty flats. It wouldn't hold forever, but it would buy them time.
"Fourth floor next," Shivansh said. Parth didn't argue. Neither did Nakul, who had rejoined them with Roshni holding a steel lamp in shaking hands.
They moved as a team now. Shivansh led with the bat, Parth behind with the bar. Nakul guarded the rear, eyes flicking nervously from every closed door to every dark corridor. Roshni stayed at the middle landing, ready to run if they had to fall back.
Flat 401 was clear door open, furniture smashed. A TV lay cracked across the floor. Someone had already fought here. No bodies. Just drag marks, a streak of dark blood pulled all the way to the bedroom, and nothing else. Shivansh didn't want to think about what had happened.
402 was worse.
The door had been locked from the inside. Parth forced it open with a kick, and the smell hit them like a hammer. Inside lay a man mid-30s, his chest half-missing, a broken pipe clutched in his left hand. On the wall was a smear of blood that had dried into writing.
"I held them off. I tried."
Then came the noise from 403. Not footsteps. Not groans. Just a low, gurgled moan. Followed by scratching. Shivansh raised his hand. Parth moved ahead.
They pushed the door open carefully. The room inside was dark, curtains drawn. Something moved by the bathroom small, crouched, twitching.
A woman. Pale, hair falling over her face. Biting her own wrist. Blood trickled down her elbow to the floor. She turned at the sound. Her eyes were gone milky, fully turned. She screamed and lunged.
Parth intercepted. His bar caught her under the chin and threw her back. Shivansh moved in fast, swinging the bat down hard across the top of her skull. Bone cracked. She fell against the bathroom door, limbs twitching. A final, wet breath escaped her lips.
Behind her, something thudded. Another body. A man. Still alive.
Bleeding heavily from the stomach, barely conscious. He looked up at them, blinked once, and whispered, "She was my wife…"
Shivansh crouched. "You're bitten?" The man nodded. "Ten minutes ago." He pointed to his thigh. The bite was deep, already blackening.
Parth looked away. Nakul was frozen. The man coughed, smiled faintly. "Just… don't let me turn. Please." Parth stood up slowly, jaw tight. "We can't take him with us."
Shivansh wiped his face. "I know." No one said it, but it was clear what had to be done. The man leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.
A moment later, the hallway echoed with one clean strike. Shivansh stepped out first, eyes blank. "Next flat," he said.
No one answered. They moved on in silence, deeper into the fourth floor, as the flies began to buzz behind them. The lobby reeked of sweat, metal, and something older death that hadn't yet settled. Shivansh stood near the stairwell, his bat resting against his shoulder, muscles aching from hours of sweeping flats, mind dulled from the repetition of violence. Behind him, Parth checked the door locks for the third time, while Imran adjusted the length of duct tape binding his butcher's knife to a bamboo pole. Nakul stood near the cracked reception desk, wiping his palms on his jeans, trying to steady his breathing.
They'd cleared six floors. Dozens of flats. Burned through half their water and most of their energy. All that remained was the front entrance the weak point.
That's when the noise started.
First a soft thump, then heavier. Not a knock. A pounding.
Shivansh moved toward the front glass door, careful not to show his silhouette. Shadows passed behind the frosted pane fast, jerking. Then another. Then more.
Twelve of them.
They hit the doors like a wave. Glass cracked. Frames rattled. One of the hinges groaned.
"Positions!" Shivansh barked.
The doors gave in seconds later, bursting inward with a shriek of metal. The herd poured in limbs twisted, faces slack, but mouths open wide and moving fast. One still had a wedding Mangal sutra tangled around her neck. Another wore a child's schoolbag.
Parth met the first one with a clean swing to the side of the head. The infected dropped with a sickening crunch. Imran lunged with his spear, stabbing low into an attacker's ribs before sweeping it out with a sharp pull. Shivansh blocked a strike from the side, ducked, and brought his bat down square on a temple. Blood hit the floor. Nakul froze for a second.
The infected were everywhere. One slipped in through a side gap and grabbed his shoulder, mouth already snapping toward his throat. Nakul screamed, shoved it back, swung a floor lamp but it wasn't enough.
A second one tackled him from behind. He went down hard. "Nakul!" Shivansh shouted.
He fought to reach him, but two more infected cut him off. Parth was already sprinting, yelling something Shivansh couldn't hear.
By the time they reached Nakul, he was already bleeding. A bite mark tore through the side of his neck. His eyes locked on Shivansh.
"Get her out," he gasped, blood foaming at the corner of his mouth. "Get Roshni out."
Then his head rolled to the side.
Imran put him down quickly. It wasn't clean. But it was necessary.
The rest was a blur.
Parth and Shivansh drove the remaining infected back toward the entry, one strike at a time. Bone cracked. Jaws shattered. Imran guarded the rear, kicking down the last crawler as it tried to bite into his ankle.
When it was over, twelve bodies twitched on the tiles. Blood pooled in broken patterns across the marble. And Nakul lay among them still, quiet, his hand half-curled as if reaching for the radio he never had time to use.
They didn't speak as they worked.
One by one, they dragged furniture from abandoned flats. Sofas, desks, metal bed frames. Then they found a hatchback car still parked just inside the ground floor ramp. Together, they pushed it to the main entrance, wedging it against the doors and locking it with bricks, rods, and whatever they could jam into the gaps.
By the time it was done, Tower A was sealed. Not safe. But sealed. Shivansh stood alone by the barricade as the others retreated up the stairwell. He looked down at the blood on his sleeves, the bat in his hand, and then toward the door where Nakul had fallen.
Six floors cleared. One tower reclaimed. But it had cost them. He turned and climbed the stairs without a word.