Day 1: Outbreak
8:17 AM, Midtown Grocery Mart
The first cough was a shotgun crack in the silence.
Jack Harper had been debating between canned beans and stale bread, his combat boots scuffing the linoleum as he knelt to check expiration dates. Retired Marines didn't trust expired rations—even during a routine grocery run. The cough came from aisle three, a wet, gurgling hack that made his spine stiffen. Then a scream. High-pitched, jagged, like someone had torn the air itself.
He stood, hand instinctively hovering over the empty holster on his hip. Civvie life had forced him to ditch the Glock, but old habits clung tighter than the sweat on his neck. Across the store, a middle-aged woman stumbled into a display of cereal boxes, her hands clawing at her throat. Blood trickled from her tear ducts, staining her cheeks like crimson mascara. Jack's eyes locked on her pupils—milky, clouded, as if someone had poured bleach into her irises.
"Sir, please remain calm—" The store manager, a kid in a polyester vest, fumbled for his walkie-talkie. His voice broke when the woman lunged, teeth bared, and sank her teeth into his forearm. The crack of bone was audible. Shoppers froze, then chaos detonated.
8:22 AM
Jack vaulted over a checkout counter, adrenaline flooding his system. He'd seen combat, but this was different—no enemy uniform, no rules of engagement. Just people turning into animals. A teenager with a bleeding nose slammed into a freezer door, snarling, before charging at a mother clutching a toddler. Jack shoulder-checked him into a rack of chips, grabbing a can of tuna as he went. Improvised weapon. Useful.
"Help! Somebody—" A brunette in scrubs crashed into him, her stethoscope flailing. Lily Carter, he'd later learn, had just clocked out from St. Luke's, her nurse's ID still clipped to her scrub top. Her hands were steady, but her eyes were wild, flicking between the growing horde of感染者 (infected). "What the fuck is happening?" she yelled, her voice steady despite the profanity.
"Virus. Contagious." Jack didn't have more answers. He spotted a fallen security guard near the entrance, his shotgun lying beside a pool of blood. "Grab that first-aid kit," he ordered, nodding to a shelf labeled EMERGENCY SUPPLIES. "Move."
They moved. Lily snatched the kit, shoving it into her backpack as Jack shouldered the shotgun. The stock still smelled like gunpowder—someone had fired it recently. Smart. He chambered a round, the sound loud enough to turn a few infected heads. Their movements were jerky, uncoordinated, but their focus was predatory, zeroing in on warm bodies.
8:30 AM, 34th Street
The streets were a symphony of sirens and shattering glass. A police cruiser had crashed into a hot dog cart, its lights still spinning. Infected clawed at the doors, smearing blood on the windshield. Jack pulled Lily into an alley, pressing her against a graffiti-stained wall as a horde stumbled past. Their growls were animalistic, more feral than human, like rabies on steroids.
"Where are we going?" Lily hissed, peeking around his shoulder. Her scrubs were splattered with someone else's blood—she didn't seem to notice.
"Subway. Underground's safer." Jack lied. He had no idea, but staying above ground with no cover was suicide. The military would roll in soon, he hoped—though the absence of choppers in the sky worried him. This wasn't a drill. The city was burning, and the cavalry was late.
They emerged onto Broadway to find a pickup truck barreling toward them, horn blaring. The driver was screaming, "Get the fuck out of the way!" Infected clung to the truck bed,撕扯 (tearing) at the passengers. Jack dragged Lily into a doorway as the truck careened into a lamppost, erupting in a fireball. The blast wave knocked them to the ground, Lily's head cracking against the marble steps.
"Shit—you okay?" Jack knelt, pressing a hand to her scalp. Blood seeped through his fingers, but the wound was shallow. Lily gritted her teeth, pulling a roll of gauze from her kit.
"Peachy." She bandaged herself roughly, eyes fixed on the burning truck. "Those people… they were eating each other."
"Yeah." Jack helped her to her feet, scanning the street for a clear path. "And we're next if we don't move."
9:00 AM, 30th Street Subway Station
The stairwell reeked of urine and fear. Below, survivors huddled near the turnstiles—families, office workers, a homeless man clutching a mangy dog. No uniforms, no authority figures. Just civilians. Jack hated it. Chaos needed structure, leadership. Old habits died hard.
A teenage boy sobbed into his mother's shoulder, his arm bleeding from a scratch. Jack tensed. "Did something bite you?"
The mother glared. "He tripped. It's a scrape."
Lily knelt, gentle but firm. "Let me check." She peeled back the boy's sleeve, frowning at the angry red mark. "It's deep. You should clean it—"
"Stay away from us!" The mother yanked the boy back, eyes wild. Jack saw it then—the paranoia, the first cracks in civility. This wasn't a rescue mission. It was a powder keg.
He turned to Lily, voice low. "We need weapons, supplies. This place isn't secure."
"You're kidding, right? It's a goddamn warzone up there." Lily gestured to the stairs, where distant screams echoed. But her voice lacked conviction. She knew as well as he did: the subway was a tomb waiting for a lid.
Jack gripped the shotgun, eyeing a maintenance closet. "We'll fortify the entrance. Find anything that can block the stairs." He paused, noticing a flickering TV behind the ticket counter. A news anchor's face filled the screen, her voice distorted by static:
"—government urges citizens to remain indoors as the outbreak spreads. Martial law is being considered—"
The screen went black. Lily swore. "Martial law? That'll fix everything." Sarcasm, but Jack heard the hope underneath. They both knew martial law meant soldiers, order—maybe a chance to survive the night.
11:00 AM
They'd barricaded the stairwell with vending machines and metal carts, but Jack didn't trust it. He sat on a concrete bench, cleaning the shotgun with a rag he'd torn from his shirt. Lily had set up a makeshift triage station, using water from a ruptured pipe to rinse minor wounds. The homeless man's dog kept growling at the shadows, hackles raised.
"Hey." Lily dropped beside him, offering a protein bar—过期的 (expired), but he took it anyway. "You're ex-military, right? The way you moved back there…"
"Marines." Jack bit into the bar, ignoring the stale chocolate flavor. "You're a nurse."
"ICU. I've seen dying. Not… this." She nodded to a group huddled in the corner, whispering prayers. "What do we do when the food runs out? When the infected figure out how to break through that barricade?"
"We don't stay here." Jack's voice was flat, decisive. "We move. Find a safer location. Maybe a hospital, or—"
A crash upstairs cut him off. Metal screeched, followed by a chorus of guttural growls. The dog started barking, shrill and panicked. Jack stood, shotgun ready, as the barricade shuddered. A vending machine toppled, revealing a gaping hole. Infected poured through, their movements faster now, as if the virus had hit a second gear.
"Get everyone to the tunnels!" Jack shouted, pushing Lily toward the survivors. He fired at the nearest infected, the blast echoing in the confined space. The round took the creature in the chest, but it kept coming. Aim for the head, he realized too late. Second shot, center mass—no effect. Third shot, between the eyes. It dropped.
Lily was already herding people into the dark subway tunnels, flashlight in hand. "This way! Move, move!" The homeless man fell, and she hauled him up, ignoring the infected clawing at his coat. Jack fired again, buying time. The shotgun clicked empty.
"Jack!" Lily's voice was urgent. He grabbed a fire extinguisher, swinging it like a club, smashing in an infected's skull. Blood splattered his face, warm and sticky. He didn't pause.
They ran, the tunnel's darkness swallowing them as the infected's growls faded. Somewhere ahead, a faint red light blinked—the emergency exit sign of a distant station. Jack counted the survivors: twelve, including Lily. The boy with the scrape was shaking, his mother whispering reassurances that sounded like lies.
Lily fell into step beside him, her breath ragged. "Now what?"
Jack didn't answer. He stared at the blood on his hands, the same hands that had once held a rifle in Fallujah, now clutching a fire extinguisher in a godforsaken subway tunnel. The world had ended in nine hours, and the worst part?
The government was just starting to notice.
Midnight, Abandoned Maintenance Shed (Somewhere in Hell's Kitchen)
They'd lost two survivors in the tunnel—a businessman and the homeless man. The dog had vanished, too. Jack sat watch, back against a rusted generator, listening to the distant rumble of tanks on 10th Avenue. Martial law, the news had said. Too little, too late.
Lily stirred in her sleep, muttering something about a patient. Jack checked his watch. 00:15. Tomorrow would be day two. He wondered if the tanks were here to help or contain—to quarantine the infected… and the uninfected along with them.
A radio crackled to life in someone's backpack, words cutting through the static:
"—all non-military personnel to avoid contact with government vehicles. Repeat, the National Guard has been ordered to—"
The signal died. Jack frowned. Orders to avoid the military? That meant the government had lost control. Meant the survivors were on their own.
Lily sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Heard that?"
"Yeah." Jack stood, stretching his sore shoulder. "We need a plan. Supplies, weapons, a place to hole up."
"And if we can't find one?"
"We make one." Jack stared through a cracked window at the flickering streetlights, at the shadows that might've been infected—or worse, something human. "Day two's gonna be worse. Martial law's a euphemism for chaos. They'll lock down the city, but the infected aren't the only threat anymore."
Lily nodded, grim. "Scavengers. Raiders. People who see a chance to take what they want."
"Exactly." Jack gripped the shotgun, newly reloaded with shells he'd stripped from a dead guard's belt. "We stay sharp. Stick together. And hope the next group of survivors we meet isn't the kind that shoots first."
Somewhere in the distance, a tank fired, the boom shaking the shed's walls. Jack didn't flinch. He'd seen war. This was just the opening act.
Day 2: Martial Law
Would dawn find them safe—or hunted? Jack didn't know. But as he watched Lily check on the sleeping survivors, her hands steady now, he knew one thing: they weren't just surviving.
They were adapting.
And in a world that had forgotten how to live, that might just be the deadliest weapon of all.