"What's happening? Why am I lying on the floor?"
Every muscle in his body ached. "God… everything hurts." It took him a moment to sit up, his arms trembling. "How long have I been here?"
"What time is it?" Lucas muttered as he reached for his phone on the floor. "One in the afternoon? Did I really sleep that long?"
"What's going on, God? I'd better take a shower and make some tea. Still no signal… something must've happened." He sighed. "Maybe I'll reheat the pizza for lunch. Where did I put it?"
He opened the fridge, froze. "What? Why does it have mold? I bought it yesterday! What the hell?"
"Did they sell it spoiled? No… that restaurant's too good for that. God, I just wanted pizza." He rubbed his face. "I'm so tired of everything."
He stopped, remembering the night before. "But what really happened to me last night? Why did I have that fever and that pounding headache? A virus doesn't work that fast... what's happening to me?"
He dragged himself toward the bathroom. "I need a shower."
---
The water was freezing.
Lucas let it run down his back, hoping it would clear his mind, but the heaviness didn't fade. There was something strange in his muscles, a warmth pulsing under his skin, like something was beating inside him.
"Weird…" he whispered, staring at his reflection. "No fever… but something's not right."
His eyes looked different—brighter somehow, reflecting the light in a way they never had before. He told himself it was just exhaustion, maybe the lighting, and looked away.
He dressed quickly and went to the window.
The silence hit him like a slap.
Chicago was never this quiet.
No honking, no engines, no voices. Only the wind dragging plastic bags and dead leaves along empty streets.
"What the hell…" he muttered.
He checked his phone again—no signal.
The television was dead too. Just static, a low hum, and a gray screen.
On the floor, near the couch, the remote was covered in dust—too much dust for a single night.
"This can't be right…"
He opened the apartment door. The hallway was dim and still.
At the far end, a door swung open and shut, creaking with the cold wind that blew through a broken window. The air smelled of rust and something worse—something rotten.
Lucas swallowed hard.
For the first time, he felt real fear.
"Why is it so quiet?" he whispered. "I should get out… slowly. Something's not normal."
As he moved down the corridor toward the stairs, the smell grew stronger—thick, sickly, unbearable.
"Oh, God. What is that smell?" He covered his nose with his sleeve. "It's like… something dead. And it's coming from the stairs."
He crept closer, step by step.
"What is that?" His brow furrowed. "Is that a rat? But… why is it so big? It's the size of a dog. What the hell…"
He crouched carefully beside it.
"Yeah… it's a rat. But why is it dead?" He examined the bloated body. "There's a wound in its stomach, like something attacked it."
He spotted a newspaper nearby. "A paper? Maybe there's some info. I should grab it—and head back before the cold sets in."
As Lucas walked back, he unfolded the paper.
The Chicago Herald
Date: October 16, 2025
---
Fever Virus Reaches America: Chaos on the East Coast
The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention confirmed Friday night that the so-called Fever Virus has officially reached U.S. soil. The first cases appeared in Boston, New York, and Washington D.C., where hospitals have collapsed under thousands of infections.
Authorities say the virus spreads through the air, though its origin remains unknown. Symptoms begin with high fever, intense migraines, and nosebleeds, followed by aggression and loss of motor control.
Local governments have declared a national emergency while the army attempts to contain the outbreaks.
Unofficial sources claim the situation "is completely out of control."
---
Scientists Report Alarming Mutations
Experts at the National Institute of Biotechnology revealed that the virus appears to alter both human and animal DNA.
«"Lab rats exposed to the virus show abnormal growth and predatory behavior," said Dr. Karen Méndez before broadcasts were cut off.»
There are also reports of mutations in local flora—plants secreting corrosive fluids or reacting to heat.
---
Silence Across the Cities
Communications are down in several regions. In Chicago, the mayor urges citizens to stay indoors after dark.
At press time, no further reports have come from the East Coast.
---
The paper was stained and smelled of damp.
In the corner, someone had scrawled a message in black marker, the letters uneven:
«"THEY'RE NOT HUMAN. LOCK YOUR DOORS AT DUSK."»
Lucas froze. "What the fuck? This can't be real!"
"This isn't true…" he muttered, trembling, clutching the paper tight. "Mom… I need to find Mom… but she's so far away. She's in South America, and it says here everything's closed off. What do I do, God?"
He scanned the page again. "'They're not human'? Don't open doors at night? What happened?" His voice broke. "And José… how's he doing? Is he okay?"
He checked the date.
"October sixteenth… I passed out on Friday the thirteenth. That means today's Monday…" His breathing quickened. "Two days on the floor and nobody came?"
"This isn't normal," he whispered. "What do I do? No power, no phone. God, I'm terrified. I need to calm down. Maybe meditate and think this through."
He read the paper again.
"It says the country's under quarantine. The virus is deadly. I'd better stay here and wait."
He laughed nervously. "It also mentions people developing powers. Ridiculous. Must be a sick joke."
Then his smile faded. "Although… after that fever, maybe not."
He sighed. "I'll cook. Yeah. Spaghetti and meatballs. That'll help me think."
He smirked faintly. "Nothing beats a good meal… well, except sex."
"Time to face reality," he muttered. "Like they say—grab the bull by the horns."
"José lives twenty minutes away by car… an hour, maybe more, walking. I'll figure that out tomorrow."
He looked at the clock. "Two p.m. The paper says not to open the doors after dark. Better safe than sorry."
He shoved the couch against the door, testing it until it felt secure.
"That's better," he murmured. "Tomorrow morning, I'll head to José's, see if he's okay. Then I'll decide what comes next."
The sun was already sinking, painting the sky a sickly orange. From the window, Lucas watched the long shadows stretch across the streets.
The silence deepened—no cars, no voices, not even a dog barking.
Only the wind dragging trash along the pavement and the creak of a sign in the distance.
"It's getting dark," he whispered. "Better close the curtains."
He pulled them shut with trembling hands. The apartment dimmed, lit only by a sliver of fading light.
He sat in front of the door, gripping a kitchen knife, unsure why—but something inside him insisted he shouldn't sleep.
The clock read 7:18 p.m.
Outside, the wind changed. It no longer whistled—it breathed.
A dull thud made him jump. "What was that?" he whispered.
Another knock. Louder.
It came from the hallway.
Lucas held his breath.
Thok… thok… thok…
It wasn't a solid knock—it was wet, sticky, like something soft hitting wood.
He crept closer, the knife trembling in his hand.
Something dragged across the floor outside.
A low moan—guttural, almost human—slipped through the crack beneath the door.
"God…" he breathed. "No way…"
The banging grew harder.
BANG. BANG.
The couch rattled.
Lucas's blood turned to ice. The TV flickered once—then died.
The last flash of light caught the wall ahead. For a moment, a shadow appeared—thin, hunched, twitching unnaturally.
Then came a voice.
Broken. Distorted. Barely human.
"Lu…cas…"
The knife slipped from his hand.
His heart pounded so loud it drowned everything else.
The voice came again, closer this time.
"Lu…cas… open up… I'm cold…"
It was José's voice. He'd know it anywhere.
"No… it can't be," he whispered. "José… is that you?"
He took a hesitant step forward. The air reeked of iron, damp, and decay.
"Lucas… I'm hungry…" The voice cracked into a moan. "Open up, my friend…"
Lucas swallowed hard.
Every instinct screamed don't, but his heart wanted to believe.
He pushed the couch aside just enough to look through the peephole.
And then he saw him.
José stood there—or what was left of him.
His skin was pale, white as milk, his hair gone. His eyes were bloodshot and darting. His lips trembled, dripping dark saliva, revealing a row of needle-like teeth.
"Open up… I'm hungry, Lucas…"
Terror crawled up Lucas's spine like electricity.
He stepped back. José lifted his head, sniffing the air like a wild animal.
BANG!
He slammed against the door with brutal force.
Lucas fell backward, the knife skidding across the floor.
The pounding grew frantic.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"José, stop! Please, stop!" he screamed.
From the other side came a shriek—high, piercing, inhuman. The windows rattled.
The couch began to slide. The door bulged with each blow.
Lucas bolted to the kitchen, gasping, searching drawers with trembling hands.
The next impact cracked the frame.
A hand burst through the wood.
José—or whatever he'd become—was breaking in.
Lucas grabbed the knife and braced himself.
When the door flew open, instinct took over.
José lunged, eyes empty, mouth open, teeth blackened.
Lucas screamed and drove the knife into his chest.
Once. Twice. Three times.
The creature convulsed, letting out a wet, choking cry—and collapsed.
Silence returned.
Only Lucas's ragged breathing filled the room.
He looked down at his hands, slick with blood.
"Oh my God… José…" he whispered, voice cracking.
He stumbled back against the wall. The knife slipped from his fingers.
Then he felt it.
A tingling—deep, violent—spreading through his body.
Something moving beneath his skin.
His breath caught. "What… what's happening to me?"
He turned, shoved the couch back against what remained of the door.
"God… José… what happened to you?" he muttered, staring at the body.
He examined it—pale skin, no blood, no hair, eyes crimson, mouth lined with sharp teeth. "What the hell happened?"
Lucas stared at the thing that had once been his friend with horror and disgust.
"What do I do now? I was supposed to go to José's place, but he came here. Was he trying to kill me… or eat me?"
Then something hit him. "Wait. José wasn't thin. He was fat. Then why does this one look so skinny?"
He leaned closer. "His skin… it's hard as stone. How did I even stab him? A regular knife shouldn't have done that. What the hell is happening to me… and to this world?"
He froze. "Wait—this isn't José!" he shouted. "He doesn't have the tattoo—Sandra's name, his daughter's. So… who the hell is this?"
He backed away, his heartbeat racing.
"How did it know my name? Did it trick me? Can those things imitate voices?" His breathing quickened. "But how could it sound exactly like him? It makes no sense!"
He pressed his hands to his face. "Dear God… the best thing I can do is hide, stay quiet, and pray for daylight."
The world felt unreal—no sounds, only the wind.
And that creature… that thing that could mimic a human voice.
But how had it known which voice to use? Could it read his mind?
"God… so many questions, no answers."
He stared at his trembling hands. "And how did I kill it? Its skin was like armor. With that strength—enough to break a door—a knife shouldn't have stopped it."
The memory of the burning in his arms made him shiver. "And that heat… what was it?"
He sank to the floor, exhausted.
"I have to find out what's happening inside me. If that's what helped me kill it, I need to understand it."
He looked toward the dark hallway, trembling.
"Could it be a power? Like in the paper? If it awakened in me… God, what do I do now?"
He pressed a hand to his forehead, breathing hard.
"Tomorrow… I'll figure it out tomorrow. For now, stay quiet. Stay still. Rest."
He curled up against the wall, the bloody knife within reach.
"Yeah… that's what I'll do," he whispered. "Just rest… a little."