The sun was barely over the horizon in downtown Manhattan. A cool breeze blew overhead, holding the chill of the last bites of winter. Not many people tread below where a man stood on his balcony, but if they had noticed him, it was none of their business.

The said man took a deep breath, filling his lungs with whatever fresh air he could get; a steaming cup of coffee in hand and barely touched. Damp, blonde hair hung limply and nearly fell into his eyes as he lowered his head in defeat, another sigh escaping his lips.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed the contact of a familiar number.

"Jericho?" he heard a woman speak from the line.

"Good morning, Director," he replied, a rueful smile on his lips. "I'm sorry to call you so early."

"No worries. It must be something important if you're calling me out of office hours." A pause. "Is something the matter?"

"Well..." He leaned back against the glass door behind him, reveling in the minuscule relief the cold gave his aching head. "As ironic as it sounds, I'm afraid I'll be taking a sick day. I just can't seem to get rid of his headache and have been getting bouts of nausea."

There was another pause at the phone. "Have you been drinking—"

"I can assure you, Director, if I was hungover, I would drag my ass to work regardless," Jericho chuckled. "No, I think I caught something this time."

"I was just teasing. You're not the only one who's called sick today, though."

"Oh?"

"Unfortunately. It's been most prominent in your department."

"If I'm not mistaken, are you saying virology has caught a virus?" he joked.

"If the shoe fits," the director laughed. "But don't worry about it. You and your team have been working hard and deserve a break. So rest up and take the time you need within reason."

"You don't need to worry about that. I want this gone as much as you do." Jericho heard the sound of a door shutting and what must've been an answering machine in the background. "Did you just get into your office?"

"Yes."

"Has the investigation team finally turned in their report on what happened to the samples?"

"Oh, thank you for reminding me of that. I got them last night, actually, but you've already left for the day. Would you like me to get one of the secretaries to send it to you or to leave it on your desk for when you come in next?"

"Ah, just leave it on my desk. But I'm curious, who do they think did it?"

"They're suspecting either maintenance or one of the residents. They're the only ones who still have access to the building outside hours who aren't someone higher up. That, and they're the ones more likely to make the mistake of leaving samples out of the freezer."

Jericho huffed. "If it was one of the residents, one, they need to be kicked out, and two, they need to earn their degree again. It's plain negligence to just leave samples out."

"You would know more than I do," the director said mildly.

"I guess I should let you work, now."

"Mhm. I love talking to you, but I'm a busy woman, Dr. Sagan."

He held a hand up in surrender despite it being a phone call, coffee cup and all. "Alright, alright. You don't need to start pulling titles to tell me to keep things professional. I'll see you in a day or two."

"Get well soon."

He pulled the phone away from his ear, expecting to hear the traces of the line hanging up, but paused when he heard something else.

Perhaps it was something he was never meant to hear, or perhaps it was the moment that saved the world.

"Ethan?"

Jericho put the phone back to his ear when he heard the name. A newer resident who arrived a few months ago. He knew this was eavesdropping, but something told him something was wrong. The director's tone didn't sound right.

"I didn't expect you to be here this early," the call continued, and Jericho heard the tell-tale click of the phone being set on the desk. There was no response from Ethan, however. "Ethan? Is something the matter—"

That was when a sound so awful reached his ears. A sound that would never leave him for years to come.

An animalistic snarl rang through the line, one that sounded vaguely human, yet something so nonhuman at the same time. Something was knocked out of the way—or someone to the ground—and he heard the director scream.

"Cadence?!"

Jericho could only listen in horror as her screams died down into gurgles and the sounds of clothes and flesh being torn. The growls didn't cease. They only increased.

It was when another scream echoed through the line did he finally hang up, staring at his phone in shock and barely able to comprehend what he had just heard. Sirens rang in the distance, and the wind began to howl. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

He burst back inside his two-bedroom apartment, his roommate already had left for an early morning shift hours earlier. Setting his now-cool coffee on some flat surface, he dialed 9-1-1 with shaky hands.

No one answered.

"What the hell—"

He grabbed his coat and keys, barely managing to not slam the door behind him as he flew down the apartment complex's stairs two at a time. In the back of his mind, he was grateful he was at least somewhat dressed. A sturdy pair of jeans and a common white t-shirt, but he would've gone out with only boxers on if he needed to.

The street was quiet when he got there, only the sounds of his beating footsteps and the occasional car that sped past. Sometimes he passed a blissfully unaware pedestrian with their clicking heels or pounding tennis shoes. He halfheartedly waved an apology when he cut a driver off as he crossed the road. Why was it so quiet? Where was everyone?

He jumped when he heard gunshots accompanied by shouts. Whatever was going on over there, he wanted nothing of it and turned down another street. It wasn't as direct as his previous route, but none of that mattered in the end.

It only took him a few minutes to reach the Zriker Research Facility. He made sure to get an apartment close by when he completed his residency. But he stopped dead in his tracks as the entrance came into view.

The street was filled with bodies. All torn and bloodied. Men, women, children, police officers, EMTs, everyone and everything. He barely registered the screams and people running away as others lunged and lumbered after them. One caught hold of a woman, immediately sinking their teeth into her shoulder as she screamed and tried to beat it away with her purse.

But Jericho did nothing. He stood frozen, and his stomach lurched.

His stomach didn't lurch out of disgust, however. It was hunger.

It was as if something clicked in his mind as the stench of blood filled his nostrils. He was vaguely aware of the gunshots coming closer in his direction, but it meant nothing to him as he stumbled forward, wanting to get a taste of the last bit of life as the woman's screams quickly died down as she bled out.

He got close enough to touch her as three others feasted on her. He saw the pure, unbridled fear pass through her eyes as they became dull, and she fell limp.

Jericho frowned at that. Something wasn't making sense, and it was like a rubber band snapping back did he break out of his reverie. He stumbled back in shock, his chest heaving, barely having a few seconds to collect his thoughts before he vomited his breakfast onto the ground. Tears streamed down his face as he could only watch. The woman continued to be dismembered by the others as her stomach and intestines spilled out. The rest of her organs soon followed.

What the hell was he doing?!

He ran into the building, realizing he was on a timer before he completely turned into whatever...those things were. More bile gathered in his throat as he slowly put the pieces together.

Nearly a year ago, a mammoth had been discovered with odd patterns of necrotic decay and bites littering its body in the Siberian Arctic. It was researchers there who discovered a virus that laid dormant, and they had sent it to Zriker for further analysis. Jericho was nearing the end of his residency when he was put in charge of it, the director seeing his potential as did the owner of Zriker himself.

More tears welled in his eyes, and he ran up the stairs, not trusting the elevator, as he continued to try beating the time. It was his sample that was tampered with. His project, and his responsibility.

This was his fault.

He staggered through the halls towards his assigned laboratory, hoping desperately that nothing was destroyed in the chaos. His nails dug into his skin to keep himself focused as more blood and growls surrounded him.

When he finally burst through the laboratory doors, he made a b-line to where he knew a certain liquid was kept. There was a syringe in his hand that he had grabbed earlier. He was glad his body still knew what needed to be done while his mind did not. He didn't remember getting the syringe in the first place. Why was he here? He was so hungry...

His thoughts were a blur as he continued to work. Grabbing something to his left, his hand entering something cold, drawing something into the syringe. His mind was deteriorating fast, but it was through a single moment of clarity did he raise the syringe, his jacket having long since been abandoned.

He felt nothing as the needle pierced through his skin, and all he could do was pray that the clear liquid did what he designed it to do.

And so the apocalypse begins...

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Word count: 1783