The floor felt colder that morning, or maybe Shivansh was just noticing it for the first time in days. He sat cross-legged near the corner window, the blackout curtain drawn just enough to let in a slice of grey light. It outlined his face in pale streaks, catching the dried blood under his nails, the cracked skin near his knuckles. He hadn't changed his jacket in two days. He wasn't sure he wanted to. It still smelled like Nakul.
Parth paced behind him, arms folded, the iron bar tapping softly against the wall with each pass. His face was drawn tighter today less fire, more stone. They'd swept Tower A, held its stairwells, buried one of their own. Now came the hard part: letting others step into the same fire.
"You sure about the wording?" Parth asked finally.
Shivansh nodded. His thumbs hovered over the keypad one last time. He read it silently again before hitting send:
We've secured Tower A. Starting today, Towers B, C, and D begin coordinated floor sweeps. Start from the top. Silent kills only. No guns. No shouting. Head strikes. Work in pairs or threes. If you freeze, fall back. We clear one flat at a time. One tower at a time. Then we take the campus back.
The message left the screen with a soft click. Within seconds, read receipts lit up like fireflies. Green dots. One by one. All across the surviving towers.
"Too optimistic?" Parth asked, lowering himself onto the floor beside Shivansh.
"Maybe," Shivansh replied. "But no one follows fear."
They didn't speak for a while. The silence wasn't comforting it never was anymore but it was necessary. Above them, Vedant was helping his mother sort supplies in the stairwell alcove. Somewhere below, Imran was sharpening knives. And across the society, people were reading those words, clutching tools they never meant to use, and preparing to step into blood.
The first reply came from Rekha.
Understood. We begin from B-603. God help us.
Then Shradha from Tower C.
Zoya's scared. But we're moving. Will update once floor is clear.
Then Mukul.
Drone up in 10. Tower D starting now. We've got seven people. Pray for us.
Shivansh stared at the screen, then locked it and slid it into his back pocket. The chat didn't need more words from him now. They knew the plan. Now they had to live it.
He stood slowly, picked up the bat from beside the wall, and gave Parth a look. Parth returned it with a single nod. Outside, the infected moved somewhere behind the gym. They hadn't noticed anything yet. But they would. The elevator lobby of the sixth floor in Tower B was quiet but it was the wrong kind of quiet. Not peace, but paralysis. Like the building itself was holding its breath, waiting to see who would break first.
Rekha Sethi stood at the center of the hallway, her old shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, one hand clutching a long-handled broomstick sharpened with a butter knife taped to the end. Her granddaughter Niharika was beside her, holding a kitchen tawa in both hands, knuckles white, the edge trembling slightly. Behind them, Gurleen Kaur checked the straps on her jute bag full of biscuits and Haldi water, as if she was preparing for a different kind of war.
Ashok Tripathi peeked out of his flat door with a scowl. "This is madness," he said, loud enough to make someone flinch. "You want old women and schoolgirls to fight these things? I'm not dying for your plans."
"We're not asking you to," Rekha said, not even looking at him. "But if you scream like that again, you'll be the reason someone else does."
Ashok muttered something and slammed his door shut.
They moved as a trio. Anil, Rekha's husband, stayed behind with Shahida and the heavily pregnant Neetu Jain, who was already sweating despite the fan's slow whirr. She had nearly fainted just walking down to the corridor.
Rekha led the sweep, her breathing steady but shallow. Niharika stayed at her side, eyes darting to every dark corner. Gurleen followed close, clutching her rolling pin like it was divine.
Flat 603 was empty rummaged, but no blood. 602 was different. The moment the door opened, a wave of rot hit them like steam from an open sewer. Inside, a figure hunched over the kitchen slab. Back turned. Arms twitching unnaturally.
Rekha raised her weapon.
Niharika gasped.
The thing turned at the sound. A man. What was left of one. His lips were gone, teeth chattering, eyes rolled up like eggs. He charged.
Niharika didn't move. She froze completely, dropping the tawa with a loud clang. The infected reached for her.
Rekha stepped forward with a speed that betrayed her age. One thrust. Then another. The makeshift spear hit the jaw, missed the temple, but still drove the thing back. It shrieked wet, animalistic. Gurleen shouted and swung the pin from the side, cracking the head again.
Rekha stabbed once more, this time deep into the side of its skull. It collapsed against the fridge, twitching.
Niharika dropped to her knees and vomited into the corner.
Rekha didn't scold her. She just stood over the corpse, panting, shaking slightly. "Look away if you have to," she said. "But don't drop your weapon again."
Flat 601 held two more this time inside a bathroom. They were clawing at the walls, faces bruised from slamming into tile. The sound had been muffled until the door creaked open.
Gurleen dropped the rolling pin.
Rekha stepped forward again. She looked at Niharika, who was now pale but focused, gripping the tawa again with both hands. "We go in together," Rekha said. "We don't scream. We strike the head."
They did. It wasn't clean. It wasn't fast. But they did it.
By the time they reached the fourth floor, they had already seen blood, bone, and two corpses that looked like they used to smile in the same morning elevator. Neetu was breathing heavily upstairs. Anil said she might faint. Ashok still refused to come out, but now they were glad he hadn't. His voice was the last thing they needed when the weight of survival felt this heavy. Tower B was almost cleared. The message came in just as Zoya was tightening the knot on her makeshift elbow guard an old dupatta wrapped around her left arm three times over.
Tower B cleared. All floors. Barricaded main door with steel rods and cupboards from 102 and 104. Neetu resting. No further casualties. – Rekha
Zoya read the words three times, trying to feel relieved. She didn't. The knot in her stomach tightened instead.
She glanced over at Shradha, who was quietly finishing a small prayer with her eyes closed. Across the room, Aalia Ansari cleaned the blunt end of her kitchen handle-turned-weapon with surgical focus. Kavita sat on the floor, her baby asleep on her lap, face pale, lips pressed tight together. Pooja Bansal was pacing barefoot, restless, muttering things under her breath that didn't make sense.
"We start from the fifth floor," Shradha said, opening her eyes. "Work our way down."
"I'll take point," Aalia offered immediately.
Zoya didn't speak. She didn't feel ready. But she nodded and stood up.
They opened the flat door slowly, the hallway already humid with trapped summer air and old rot. They had no Imran. No Parth. No Shivansh. This was the quietest tower no fighters here. Just women holding kitchen tools and wearing fear in their eyes.
Flat 503 was empty. Dust thick on the dining table. Wall fan still turning slowly.
504 was not. The moment they stepped inside, Kavita froze.
"It's... him," she whispered. "That's Mr. Maheshwari."
The infected man shuffled toward them, dragging a broken foot, his kurta still tucked in, eyes blank but lips twitching in motionless snarls. He had been a retired professor, always complaining about water bills. Now he was foaming at the mouth and closing in fast.
Kavita couldn't move.
Zoya raised her arm but her fingers slipped. Aalia didn't wait.
One clean strike right across the side of the head. The old man fell sideways, hit the dining table, collapsed in a mess of twitching limbs.
Zoya dropped her weapon anyway. The tawa clanged on the floor and rolled.
She stumbled out to the hallway and vomited against the wall.
Inside, Shradha closed Mr. Maheshwari's eyes with two fingers and whispered something under her breath.
They cleared the next flat in silence. Then another.
Pooja didn't enter a single one she stayed outside, holding a flashlight with shaking hands and flinching at every sound. At one point, when a cupboard door creaked open by itself, she screamed and nearly bolted down the stairs.
Kavita grabbed her. "If you leave now, they'll smell you. Do you want to die outside?"
Pooja didn't answer. She sat down right there on the floor and cried into her palms.
Zoya kept wiping her eyes. Not from tears, but sweat, and dust, and something else she couldn't name. The fifth floor was clear. But she didn't feel clean.
In 401, they heard something.
A scratching behind a bedroom door. Light. Repetitive. Like nails tapping wood. Kavita reached for the handle.
"Don't," Aalia said sharply. "Listen." The sound was too small. They all knew what it was. A child. Turned. Alone. Still in there.
They didn't open it. They cleared the rest in silence. By noon, they had reclaimed Tower C. Aalia texted the group:
C is clear. Barricaded front with bedframes and temple benches. No losses. But… we're not okay.
No one replied for a long time. The chat stayed open. But everyone knew they were waiting for Tower D. The stairwell in Tower D stank of sweat, piss, and layered dread. It wasn't the smell of death not yet but the smell of fear piling up on steel handrails and old walls like moss. Seven of them stood at the third-floor landing, each holding whatever could pass for a weapon. There were no prayers here. No speeches. Just nods, a few half-lies about being fine, and the understanding that this was going to be nothing like Tower A, B, or C.
Mukul tightened the strap on his shoulder bag; drone remote clipped to the side. He wouldn't use it now not indoors. But soon. Mitali stood beside him, pipe wrench in hand, her face unreadable. Aarav was quiet as always, blade from a ceiling fan bolted to a cricket stump.
Dinesh Chauhan crouched by the railing, wiping dirt off a crowbar like it was a family heirloom. Samarjeet Rana didn't move his back to the wall, eyes closed, mouth whispering something only ghosts could hear. Tanmay Mehra, old but wired on resolve, checked the tape around the blade lashed to his walking stick. Deepak Kohli stood last, already breathing too fast.
Fourth floor first. They hit 403 together.
It was loud two infected insides. One crashed out of the washroom with blood around its mouth. Deepak screamed, stumbled, nearly fell into it. Tanmay stepped in front of him and took the blow cane first to the jaw, a pivot, then a kick that knocked the creature sideways.
But the second one jumped.
It took three of them to bring it down. Dinesh cracked its skull with the crowbar after Mukul tripped it with a chair leg. Blood painted the floor in long, angry strokes.
"You freeze again," Samarjeet growled at Deepak, "I'll leave you as bait."
Deepak didn't answer.
They moved down fast 402, 401, both cleared. But the second floor wasn't quiet.
The second they opened 204, four infected bursts out at once someone had been keeping them locked in. Mitali swung hard and cracked one's knee. It dropped, shrieking like a goat. Aarav cut another across the face with his rigged blade, but it didn't go down. It lunged. Bit at the air. Samarjeet snapped.
He grabbed it with one arm, locked it under the shoulder, and flipped it clean over the railing. It dropped two floors with a meaty crunch.
Another came for Tanmay old, quick, teeth bared. Dinesh reached it first and crushed its head against the wall. The plaster cracked. But Tanmay fell anyway. He clutched his shoulder, gasping. Not bitten. Just bruised.
"We pull out?" Mukul asked, glancing at Samarjeet. "No," the ex-CRPF man said flatly. "We draw them out." He opened the door to the service shaft and yanked something from his vest a flare.
They barely had time to process it before he struck it and tossed it down the shaft. Red light filled the building like a heartbeat. A long shriek followed from the basement.
And then the noise came. A wave. Seven more infected, dragging themselves up the shaft, drawn to the flare's hiss. Samarjeet grinned. "Stupid, hungry, and predictable. We take them here. One point. Cornered." They set up fast. Flanked the stairwell. Turned furniture and crates into a funnel.
The first one lunged and Mukul dropped it with a bat to the face. The second went down under Aarav's blade. Third made it through and bit the edge of Deepak's coat missed skin by inches. Samarjeet spun and shattered its jaw with the butt of a pipe. It dropped screaming, throat exposed. He ended it without blinking.
By the time the last two crawled in, everyone was panting. Mitali's shirt was soaked. Tanmay sat on the floor, wounded but smiling.
"You idiots actually did it," he whispered. They had. By dusk, Tower D was clear.
Dinesh and Mukul dragged a rusted Alto from the lot, jammed it against the stairwell door with sofas and bricks. Aarav bolted a flat door sideways with a gas pipe.
Samarjeet finally sat down, hands shaking. Not from fear. But because, for once, the noise had stopped.