The morning mist draped over the mountain peaks like a sheer veil.
Doleia stood before the newly completed base entrance, her fingertips lightly tracing the cold metal doorframe. Sunlight filtered through the clouds, casting scattered golden flecks across the silver-gray blast-resistant coating.
James brushed cement dust off his work pants with a proud expression as he approached Doleia.
"Ms. Doleia," he said, presenting a thick inspection report, "all construction is complete." His calloused fingers tapped the document's edge.
"Water and electrical systems, sensor equipment, self-sustaining farm, storage, infrared sensors, automated disinfection units, emergency lighting, medical bay equipment, communication tower..." He took a breath, "All operational with zero safety hazards."
Doleia accepted the report, her eyes scanning the dense technical data. In the morning light, her long lashes cast delicate shadows that concealed the complex emotions flickering in her gaze.
Darryn emerged from the power room wiping sweat from his brow. "Solar panel conversion efficiency reached ninety-two percent," he reported hoarsely from days of overwork. "Backup generators tested and ready." He adjusted his cracked safety goggles. "We've installed three redundant systems—solar, wind, and diesel—just as you specified."
Nearby, Alan rapped his knuckles against the concrete wall, producing a solid thunk. "Triple-layer steel reinforcement mesh," he announced, grinning to reveal teeth dusted white with concrete powder. "Withstands magnitude seven earthquakes. All walls and foundations passed overload testing—quake and blast resistant beyond spec."
Lena turned from inspecting the final wall's waterproof coating, her delicate fingers gliding across the surface like an artist evaluating a masterpiece. "Fireproof wallpaper throughout," she confirmed, tucking a stray auburn lock behind her ear. "All seams sealed. Interior and exterior treated with waterproof and anti-mold coatings."
Connor leapt down from the ladder after adjusting the last surveillance camera. "Security systems fully operational," he said, patting his tool belt with a metallic clink. "Including your special vibration sensors." A proud smirk appeared. "Even a mouse sneaking in would trigger alarms."
Doleia gave a slight nod and withdrew a kraft envelope from her suit's inner pocket.
When James accepted it, his fingertips registered the substantial thickness of the check inside. He discreetly tested the weight between his fingers, the corner of his eye twitching—the figure far exceeded expectations.
His voice softened unexpectedly. "Ms. Doleia... thank you." He swallowed.
"In twenty years, no client has ever invested in a project of this scale. You weren't just an employer—you let us all build something extraordinary."
"Your team's expertise is appreciated," Doleia replied, her voice calm as still waters. "You may head back to the city now."
James signaled the thirty-four other crew members to board the waiting bus back to the city. The remaining four—Darryn, Alan, Lena, and Connor—lingered out of professional habit, instinctively performing their final site inspections despite the completed work.
The mountain air filled with clamor as workers packed tools. Someone whistled while loading the last construction materials onto the bus, the metallic clanging startling birds from nearby trees.
"Boss! Drinks on you!" a young worker shouted from the bus window, prompting raucous laughter.
James watched the bus descend the winding road before turning to his four remaining teammates. Darryn double-checked circuit diagrams, Alan crouched to inspect foundation seams, Lena polished fingerprint smudges from the doorframe, and Connor fine-tuned the hydraulic gate system.
Only when the others were absorbed in their tasks did James finally approach Doleia alone.
He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling lazily in the morning light. "Truthfully," he began, squinting at her through the haze, "this is the most extraordinary project of my career."
The cigarette tip glowed as he inhaled. "Blast walls that stop direct artillery, air filtration rivaling nuclear bunkers..." His voice dropped. "You didn't build this just for fun, did you?"
Doleia's lips parted slightly as she considered her response—
A deafening explosion suddenly ripped through the mountain's silence.
Every head snapped toward the source.
An inky plume of smoke clawed its way into the pristine sky, tearing a jagged wound across the azure canvas.
-----
Deep in the forest, a wisp of smoke curled upward.
Benedict poked at the campfire with a branch, the iron pot's soup bubbling vigorously.
"Five more minutes," Sasha murmured, leaning in to sniff the aroma, her chestnut hair spilling over the edge of the pot.
She turned toward Eric, who was fiddling with his phone. "Hey, quit messing around and come to help."
Eric rolled his eyes and started to stand—then froze after he saw Benedict siting in an akwardly weird position.
"Hey… you okay?"
Benedict's fork slipped from his fingers, landing on the grass with a soft thud.
His body lurched forward like a marionette with its strings cut, his forehead smashing against a rock at the edge of the picnic blanket.
Blood immediately welled from the wound.
"Ben!" Sasha gasped, lunging toward him. The moment her fingers brushed his skin, a bone-deep chill shot up her arm—his flesh was as cold as ice.
Eric yanked out his phone. "Should I call an ambulance? There's gotta be signal—" His voice died in his throat.
Benedict's eyes suddenly snapped open.
But those once-warm brown irises were now shrouded in a sickly gray haze. His neck twisted with an unnatural crack, slowly turning toward Sasha.
"C-Can you… see me?" Her hand trembled as she waved it in front of his unblinking stare, her heart hammering against her ribs.
His answer came in a sudden, violent lunge.
Agony exploded through Sasha's right shoulder as his teeth sank deep into her flesh. The pain was so sharp, so real—she could feel the vibration of his jaw grinding into her flesh, hot blood cascading down her collarbone, soaking into her shirt.
A distant memory flickered—Benedict complaining of dizziness this morning. However, she'd just laughed it off.
"Let her go! She's your girlfriend, you bastard!" Eric snatched up a wooden branch and charged—then froze mid-step, the weapon slipping from his grip.
Benedict's face tilted up, Sasha's blood still dripping from his lips. His eyes—pale, milky, and wrong—rolled grotesquely in their sockets.
Behind them, the forgotten soup boiled over, hissing as it spilled onto the fire.
No one noticed.
No one saw the sickly gray pallor spreading beneath Sasha's blood-soaked collar.
-----
The construction bus lurched violently as the driver slammed on the brakes, sending tools clattering to the floor.
"Goddammit! Some warning next time!" A burly worker in the back row nearly toppled into the aisle, his coffee splashing across his overalls. His face flushed red with anger as he wiped at the stain.
The man shuffling toward the exit raised his hands in apology. "Sorry, guys! When nature calls..." He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, his face pale from holding it in too long.
"Just hurry up," groaned another worker, rubbing bloodshot eyes. "Haven't slept properly in three days thanks to this damn overtime." His head thumped against the window as he closed his eyes, the dark circles beneath them almost purple with exhaustion.
The driver tapped the "10-minute break" sign above his head. "Make it quick. We've got 30 more minutes to the city." His voice carried the weariness of someone who'd made this trip too many times.
A lanky worker in orange coveralls staggered down the steps, yawning so wide his jaw cracked. The morning air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth as he wobbled toward the bushes, humming an off-key tune from last night's playlist while working. His fingers fumbled with the belt buckle—
Something cold and clammy closed around his ankle.
"What the hell..." He looked down to see a grayish face emerging from the undergrowth, lips peeled back in a grotesque rictus.
Some distant part of his brain registered the torn clothing, the unnatural pallor, but years of construction site first-aid training kicked in. "Do you need hel—"
The words turned to a scream as jagged teeth sank through denim and into flesh. Pain like white-hot electricity shot up his leg as the thing worried at his calf like a dog with a bone. His shriek sent birds exploding from the treetops.
Inside the bus, all conversation died. Thirty men froze in their seats, eyes wide as dinner plates. Coffee cups hovered halfway to lips.
Then chaos erupted.
"Jesus Christ!"
"Someone help him!"
Three figures burst from the paralyzed crowd—the site's usual troublemakers, the ones who started bar fights and laughed off broken bones. Their boots pounded the asphalt as they charged toward the struggle.
The scene that greeted them was surreal: Their teammates writhing on the ground, his pants leg shredded and dark with blood. The wound's edges were already turning an ominous purple-black, veins spiderwebbing outward beneath the skin.
And the attacker—
"You fxcking lunatic!" The lead man hefted a steel pipe, his biceps straining against his shirt sleeves. Spittle flew from his lips as he screamed, "That's Wronne, you piece of shxt!"
His companions grabbed his arms. "Wait! Look at his eyes—"
They didn't notice the injured man behind them rising with jerky, marionette-like movements. His head lolled at an impossible angle, vertebrae popping like firecrackers as it righted itself.
Inside the bus, the first spatter of blood hit the windshield with a wet smack. The driver's hands tightened on the wheel, his mind struggling to process the nightmare unfolding in his mirrors.
A voice cut through the panicked shouts: "Drive! Now!"
The driver's foot hovered over the gas. His eyes darted between the two men still outside—one being mauled, the other swinging wildly with a pipe. Then he saw it.
The thing that had been Wronne was standing.
Not standing.
Twitching upright like a broken toy pulled by invisible strings.
The bus roared to life, tires screeching as it peeled onto the road. In the rearview mirror, a face smeared against the glass—yesterday's lunch companion, now with milky, unseeing eyes that tracked the driver's every move.
"One... two... three..." The driver counted frantically, sweat dripping into his eyes. "Six... where's the seventh?"
The answer came in a wet thud against the windshield.
A ruined face pressed against the glass, jaw unhinged, tongue lolling over shattered teeth. One eyeball hung by a thread of tendon, bouncing against the glass with each bump in the road.
The scream that tore from the driver's throat was primal, unhinged. The wheel spun wildly as the bus careened toward the guardrail—
In that final moment, a snippet from this morning's news flashed through his mind: "...new virus outbreak in Sector 7..."
Then the world turned upside down.
The last thing he heard was the fuel tank igniting, the explosion swallowing his crew's screams whole.
-----
Doleia's fingernails bit deep into her palms, drawing crescent moons of blood.
She couldn't believe it. The apocalypse should come only after 15 days...
Below the mountain, the bus carcass burned relentlessly, its inky smoke coiling into the sky like a serpent unleashed. The acrid stench of melting metal and charred flesh carried on the wind.
Connor's voice cracked with misplaced hope. "Look! Survivors!" His trembling finger pointed toward six figures shambling in perfect unison along the highway. Their movements were all wrong—jerky, mechanized, like puppets with tangled strings. One man's arm twisted backward at an impossible angle, the bone protruding through torn flesh.
Lena's voice trembling a bit: "Are they... Okay?"
James replied with confusion while squeezing his eyes to take a closer look: "Since when do people walk like—"
A symphony of car horns erupted from the city, followed by the deafening crunch of colliding metal. In the distance, an orange fireball mushroomed over the financial district, swallowing skyscrapers whole.
Doleia pressed a finger to her lips. The manicured nail gleamed like a knife in the firelight. "Ever seen a zombie movie?" Her whisper carried the weight of a death sentence.
The team exchanged glances—first confusion, then dawning horror. Lena's hands flew to her mouth as the truth clicked into place.
"Listen carefully." Doleia's hair whipped around her face like a dark banner as she turned. "If you have family out there, go now." Her gaze swept over the orphaned crew.
"But if you stay..." She paused, letting the crackle of distant flames fill the silence.
"Lock the doors. For everyone. Even me." The steel in her voice brooked no argument. "If I come back safe, I'll let myself in."
As one, the five retreated toward the vault-like entrance.
James' cigarette tumbled from numb fingers, its dying ember hissing against damp soil. The answer he'd sought for months now tasted like ashes.
-----
Doleia was already moving.
The jeep's alarm chirped as she wrenched open the door. Her practiced hand found the hidden compartment behind the handbrake, retrieving a custom pistol—its brushed steel slide engraved with a single alphabet 'D'. She racked the slide with a satisfying clack before tossing it onto the passenger seat.
Tires screamed against asphalt as the armored jeep fishtailed down the mountain road. In the rearview mirror, Doleia caught a final glimpse of James and his team scrambling into the compound—their sanctuary, their gilded cage.
Her left hand white-knuckled the wheel while the right stabbed at her phone. Each unanswered call to her father and grandfather twisted the knife deeper.
"Sorry, the number you have dialed—"
On the seventh attempt, she played the last voicemail.
Gunfire. Shattering glass. Her father's ragged breathing barely audible beneath the chaos: "Doleia... back home..." A woman's scream cut through—"Hold the stairwell!"—before the line went dead.
The phone slipped from her sweat-slicked grip.
Dark spots bloomed across her vision—two days without proper meals, three without sleep. The neon sign for Astronas Petrol Station blurred into streaks of red as her world tunneled. Home was still twenty minutes away through hell's antechamber.
She had to go look for her family, but not now, not like this. She must at least make sure that she can live. She wrenched the wheel toward the station.
Beside the station, the convenience store's fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps. Doleia's combat boots kicked aside the twitching remains of two bisected zombies, their clawed fingers still scrabbling at her ankles. The gunshots still echoed in her ears as she slammed the door shut, engaging all three deadbolts with practiced efficiency.
She tore into a chocolate pastry with teeth that wanted to rattle, the sugar hitting her bloodstream like a defibrillator. As the fog lifted, a new sound cut through her ragged breathing—the soft scuff of sneakers on linoleum.
Behind the cash register, a shadow shifted towards her.