01 .ᐟ
teeth bite, gore screams.

THEY SAID IT WAS SOME SORT OF VIRUS AT FIRST.

A disease.

Some kind of sickness, some claimed, as if slapping a name on it could make it less terrifying. But beyond that, they knew next to nothing, and for someone like Selma—who worked in the healthcare system—this was infuriating. What were they supposed to do with such little information? A virus wasn't enough. What kind of virus? How was it transmitted? Was it airborne? Bloodborne? There were no answers, just speculation and reassurances that felt increasingly hollow.

"It's mostly in Europe and Asia," the talking heads on the news would say. "It's not here yet, so there's no need to panic. It might not even make it to the U.S."

Selma had scoffed the first time she'd heard that. Viruses didn't care about borders. If it was spreading in Europe, it was only a matter of time before it reached them. She'd learned enough in her years as a nurse to know that downplaying a threat like this never ended well.

But the people around her weren't concerned. In fact, they seemed almost dismissive.

"Oh, it's just some weird European thing," one of her coworkers had said in the break room, popping open a can of soda.

Some weird European thing? Selma had bit her tongue, resisting the urge to argue. She was still the new girl, after all—a British citizen with a Scottish father and an Egyptian mother who had spent her entire life in London. Cynthiana was as foreign to her as she was to it, and she hadn't quite figured out how to navigate the social politics of small-town America.

She had come to the US through an exchange program, working as an ER nurse for over five years in London. Craving a change of scenery, she had decided to apply, thinking, Why not? The position at Harrison Memorial Hospital was the perfect opportunity to step out of her comfort zone and try something completely new. She could still recall her first impression of the town: rows of modest homes, tree-lined streets, and neighbors who waved from their porches, as if they'd stepped straight out of a movie.

It had been... different. Simpler. And if Selma was honest, she'd liked it. The hustle and chaos of London felt like a distant memory in this quiet little corner of Kentucky. She liked the predictability of it, the way the days seemed to blend together in a comforting routine.

Even so, she'd kept to herself. She wasn't unfriendly, but she was careful—discreet. She didn't want to give the wrong impression or become the subject of gossip. Cynthiana was the kind of town where everyone knew everyone else's business, and Selma wasn't ready to be a part of that yet. So, she stayed busy with her work, calling her parents and siblings back home whenever she felt too homesick, and telling herself she'd made the right choice.

It was fine. Boring, but normal.

She could get used to this, she'd thought.

And then, almost overnight, everything changed.

The virus that wasn't supposed to reach the U.S. suddenly became the only thing anyone could talk about. Hospitals started filling up with patients showing strange symptoms—fevers, violent coughing, and an unrelenting hunger. News reports grew increasingly frantic, and the reassurances from officials started to sound more like desperate lies.

It had finally reached the so-called Land of the Free, the place where so many believed themselves invincible, untouchable by the horrors unfolding elsewhere. Not anymore. Selma felt the bitter irony settle deep in her chest every time she turned on the news, watching as fresh stories emerged—more chaos, more outbreaks, more death. The weight of reality pressed down on her, heavy and inescapable. The illusion of safety was gone, and with it, the comfort of ignorance.

Panic consumed the world as viral videos flooded every screen, showing people committing unthinkable acts—biting, tearing, and attacking others with a rabid frenzy. The footage was raw and horrifying, spreading faster than anyone could contain it. It came from every corner of the globe: families torn apart in crowded markets, chaos erupting on city streets, and even footage of emergency rooms overwhelmed with screaming, bloodied patients.

Yet the government and media denied it all, downplaying the crisis. "Hoaxes," they said. "Sensationalist propaganda. There's no need to panic."

No need to panic? Selma's blood boiled at their blatant dismissal. How could they be so blind? Hospitals were filling to capacity with patients exhibiting strange symptoms—high fevers, convulsions, violent outbursts.

And yet, the official narrative remained the same: It's just a flu. That's all they called it—a harmless flu.

In an attempt to restore calm, the government hastily announced a nationwide vaccination campaign. Flu shots were to be distributed immediately, they said, to protect everyone and stop the so-called virus from spreading. The message was clear: line up, get vaccinated, and everything would return to normal.

But it didn't work. The announcement only fueled the growing unrest. People were terrified, confused, and mistrustful of every move the government made. Crowds swarmed vaccination centers, some desperate for the cure, others determined to protest. Rumors spread like fire—whispers that the vaccine was a cover-up, or worse, part of the sickness itself.

Riots erupted, turning city streets into war zones. Police clashed with protestors in violent skirmishes that only stoked the chaos further. Smoke and tear gas filled the air as neighborhoods burned, while hospitals overflowed with patients who weren't just sick anymore—they were changing.

Her cousin in LA, also a nurse, had told her it was far worse in the big cities. The hospitals there were war zones, overcrowded with the sick and dying, and chaos spilled onto the streets. In Kentucky, they hadn't yet seen the same overwhelming wave of illness, but Selma knew it was only a matter of time. She couldn't ignore what was unfolding before her eyes.

The symptoms were changing, growing more horrifying with each passing day. This wasn't just a flu—it was something far more sinister, something the world wasn't ready to face. Denial wouldn't stop it. Hope wouldn't cure it. And every day, it crept closer.

The government's lies had done nothing but delay the inevitable. The world wasn't sick. It was dying. And no one seemed ready to admit it.

By the time the first cases reached Kentucky, it was already too late. The world Selma had known—the world she'd thought she could settle into—was gone.

Never in a million years would she have imagined that the town she'd grown to love would become a battleground, or that she would spend her days trying to survive instead of saving lives. But the virus didn't care about her plans, or her routine, or the quiet little life she'd built.

But before that, before the world fell apart, Cynthiana had its share of accidents and tragedies, as small towns do. Yet nothing compared to the day Sheriff Rick Grimes was brought into the hospital, bleeding out from a gunshot wound.

It was the kind of event that lingered in people's minds—the talk of the town for weeks, even in a place where everyone already knew everyone else's business.

Selma remembered it vividly. Rick Grimes wasn't a stranger to her, though they'd never had a proper conversation. In a town like Cynthiana, nobody stayed a stranger for long. He was the kind of man who commanded respect, not just because of the badge he wore but because of the calm, steadfast way he carried himself.

She'd seen him once at the grocery store, his young son trailing after him with a bag of candy clutched in his small hands. Rick had been joking with the cashier about his wife's endless shopping lists, his warm laugh echoing through the small store. Selma had smiled at the scene, even if she stayed on the periphery of the town's social web.

The other nurses at Harrison Memorial Hospital talked about him more than she cared to hear. "Married young," her colleague Naomi had whispered once, leaning in conspiratorially. "Word is there's trouble at home." Selma had chided her, proper Brit fashion, for gossiping about things that weren't her business, but that never stopped the chatter.

Selma didn't engage.

She liked her quiet, her routines. Her interactions with Sheriff Grimes were polite, professional. A simple good morning or good night as their paths crossed in the hospital corridors. Sometimes, their gazes would linger, just for a moment, before he'd nod and she'd nod back. Nothing more, nothing less.

But that day, the Rick Grimes who arrived at the hospital was a shadow of himself. Pale and lifeless, his body lay limp on the stretcher as medics hurried inside, flanked by his fellow deputies, their voices panicked.

"Gunshot wound to the back, left shoulder. He's losing a lot of blood!" one of the medics shouted.

The metallic scent of blood lingered in the air, mingling with the sterile sharpness of antiseptic and the chaos of shouted instructions. Time itself seemed to slow, each second stretching unbearably, as the fragile line between life and death grew thinner with every hurried step.

Selma barely had time to process the scene before she was in motion, the adrenaline sharpening her focus. She'd seen gunshot wounds before, but this... this was different. The bullet had missed his heart by a miracle, but the damage was extensive. Blood soaked his uniform, pooling beneath him as they worked to stabilize him.

"Massive blood loss," one of the paramedics confirmed, his voice strained. "He's already down two liters. We're hanging units, but—"

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

For hours, the trauma team fought to save him. Selma's hands moved on instinct, steady even as exhaustion tugged at her muscles. The surgeon barked orders, and she responded without hesitation, assisting with precision. Somehow, against all odds, Rick Grimes held on.

"Man's got the devil's luck," another nurse muttered as they wheeled him out of surgery, his vitals finally stabilizing.

That night, after the surgery, Selma stood by his bedside, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. The machines beeped rhythmically, a comforting sound in the chaos of the ER. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel relief. He was alive. That was what matters.

Rick Grimes was her last normal patient.

After that, the world changed.

People didn't just bleed and heal anymore; they died and came back, and nothing made sense. The hospital, once a sanctuary of order and routine, became a place of confusion and fear. Patients weren't just sick—they were something else entirely.

Harrison Hospital grew more overcrowded with each passing hour, day and night. At first, the patients were mostly those with flu-like symptoms—fevers, chills, fatigue. But soon, they began arriving with something far worse. People stumbled in bearing bite marks and deep scratches, and those were the ones in the direst condition. They looked ghastly—worse than anyone had imagined possible.

And the worst part? The healthcare staff had no idea what to do.

Every treatment, every injection, every desperate attempt to ease their suffering failed miserably. Nothing worked. It was as if they were fighting something beyond their comprehension—a sickness that defied all medical knowledge. It wasn't just a crisis; it was a horrifying, unsolvable mystery, and it was spreading fast. Really, really fast.

But the day the soldiers arrived marked a breaking point.

The hospital descended into chaos, the once-orderly halls filled with screams, crashing equipment, and the sound of locked doors straining under violent assaults.

It blurred into a storm of chaos and dread—a cacophony of shouting, gunfire, and the ever-present wails of the sick. Whatever thin veneer of control had existed was gone, leaving only fear in its wake.

Selma sat in the break room, cradling a cup of lukewarm coffee, the bitter taste doing little to mask her exhaustion. Another relentless shift blurred into the next, each one more draining than the last. The hospital was bursting at the seams, more patients arriving by the hour. Many bore bite marks or deep scratches, their stories bizarre and fragmented: attacked by neighbors, by strangers, even by family.

But what could Selma and her coworkers do? They stitched up the wounds, handed out painkillers, and asked the dreaded question: "Have you gotten your injection yet?" If the answer was no, they administered the vaccine on the spot. If yes, the instructions were always the same: "Go home and wait it out. It'll pass."

It'll pass. Selma wanted to laugh every time those words left her mouth, a bitter, humorless laugh that burned in her chest. What do you mean, pass?  People didn't come to the hospital for empty reassurances—they came for answers, for solutions, but all they got were hollow platitudes.

The truth was, Selma didn't know what to tell them. None of them did. Not the doctors. Not the nurses. Not the government. Only the rising tide of sickness, and the stories growing darker with every shift.

Then it came—a sound that cut through the hospital like a knife.

Crack.

Gunfire.

It was sharp and unmistakable, the sound of a gunshot ringing through the sterile halls, so loud it felt like it had pierced Selma's chest. Her body froze, the air in her lungs trapped as if her breath had been stolen. Her heart pounded in her ears, but it was drowned out by the terrifying sound that followed: the screams.

Screams that weren't just echoing through the halls—they were screaming at her, piercing her very soul. And then there was the pounding—footsteps, frantic, too many of them. People running, running from something.

Her coffee sat forgotten on the table, steam long gone, as Selma's wide eyes flicked toward the main entrance. She peered through the break room's glass window, watching the chaos unfold.

It started at the front entrance. Dr. Bryan was there, face twisted in anger, voice rising as he argued with the soldiers—too many soldiers, masked and silent, standing like an unmovable wall. Their rifles gleamed in the harsh light, each one pointing down the hospital hallway, cold and indifferent. There was something off about them, something wrong in the way they stood—like they weren't human anymore, just... machines.

Selma couldn't catch all of Dr. Bryan's words, but she could see the desperation in his gestures, the frantic way his arms moved. Then, as if everything had gone still in that one breath, the crack of a rifle split the air. A split second of nothing, and then...

Dr. Bryan fell.

It happened so fast, so violently, that Selma's mind couldn't comprehend it at first. His body jerked in a way no human should, crumpling to the floor in an unnatural heap. Blood bloomed from the neat, almost surgical wound in his forehead, a spiral of crimson unfurling like a grotesque flower. It was too clean, too perfect, and it made her stomach turn.

That kill... it didn't feel human. It felt wrong—like a machine had done it, cold, without a second thought.

She couldn't look away, unable to process what she was seeing.

The glass felt too thick, the distance between her and the madness too vast. The room around her seemed to shrink, the walls pressing in as the weight of what was happening outside—the violence, the chaos—sank in.

And in that moment, the world outside her break room became a nightmare she couldn't escape.

She wanted to scream, but the sound was trapped in her throat, leaving her with only a strangled gasp. Her lungs burned with the effort to breathe, but the air around her felt thick, suffocating. The world outside the break room was collapsing into chaos, each second louder and more frantic than the last. People surged in every direction—some running, others stumbling, colliding as they fought to escape the unknown terror sweeping through the hospital.

"Protocol," a soldier barked, his voice flat and chillingly detached, like a word he had said over and over, drilled into him until it became nothing more than a command—no emotion, no hesitation, just cold, mechanical obedience.

Selma's body went rigid. She couldn't move. Her hands, trembling violently, nearly dropped the coffee cup she had forgotten she was holding. Protocol? Her mind raced, tumbling through fragmented thoughts, desperate to make sense of it all. Protocol for what? For this? What was this? She couldn't wrap her mind around it. The soldiers, the gunshots, the screams—none of it made sense.

It was like the world around her was coming apart at the seams, and she was too paralyzed to do anything but watch as the chaos consumed everything in its path.

Something was wrong.

Something deeply wrong.

But she couldn't find the words, couldn't make sense of the fear that clawed at her insides. Every instinct screamed for her to run, to escape, but her legs refused to move, as if the weight of the situation had anchored her in place, her entire body frozen by the creeping dread that something far worse than just a virus was lurking just beyond the doors.

Naomie, one of Selma's closest colleagues, was next.

She had sprinted toward the commotion, her hands raised in a desperate gesture of surrender, her voice breaking as she shouted something, but the panic and noise swallowed her words whole.

It didn't matter.

The soldiers didn't even flinch, didn't pause. The cold, calculated response came quickly—one shot, then another—each one a final, unforgiving punctuation mark.

Selma's body moved before her mind could catch up, driven by an instinct she didn't fully understand. She stumbled into a nearby supply closet, her breath ragged as the door slammed shut behind her. The harsh, sterile scent of bleach stung her nose, but it was the overwhelming smell of fear that hit her hardest. She pressed herself into the corner, crammed between shelves lined with medical supplies, as her heart pounded so loud it threatened to drown out the chaos outside.

Through the thin walls, she could hear the soldiers moving through the hospital, their boots heavy and methodical, echoing off the cold, tiled floors. The sound was like a countdown, each step drawing closer, a reminder of how small and powerless she was in this moment.

Then, a voice—low, stern, and unforgiving—cut through the tension.

"All healthcare personnel," the soldier said, the words muffled but unmistakable. "No exceptions."

Selma's stomach twisted into a knot, the words repeating over and over in her mind. No exceptions.

She clamped a trembling hand over her mouth, her breath shallow and frantic as she fought to keep silent. Every inhale felt like it could be her last, every sound a risk. Her chest tightened with the effort, each breath a battle against the suffocating air in the closet, thick with chemicals and panic.

Outside, the world was unraveling. The muffled screams echoed through the halls, indistinct and terrified, followed by the sporadic crack of gunfire. The noise bled together into a sickening symphony, one that made Selma's skin crawl. The sound was haunting, and every moment that passed in the cramped, dark closet felt like an eternity.

"Oh, fuck—!" A soldier's voice pierced through the agonized screams, raw with panic. "They're here, the dead—they fucking entered the hospital!"

The words hit Selma like a slap, cold and jarring, a chill spreading through her body as her mind tried to grasp what she had just heard. The dead? What did he mean? Her heart thudded loudly in her chest, the sound of her pulse deafening in her ears as the reality of the situation began to sink in.

The air outside the supply closet was alive with the deafening crack of gunfire, its harsh rhythm becoming a backdrop to the shrieks of terror that followed. The soldiers' shots rang out in rapid succession, each one more urgent than the last, and the screams—those desperate, gut-wrenching cries—were almost drowned out by the violence of it all.

The chaos had become an unholy symphony of pain and panic.

Her thoughts spun, disjointed and frantic, unable to piece together what was happening.

The dead? What the hell was going on? Had the virus mutated, had people started—what? Rising from the dead? Her stomach churned, and she pressed her hands to her ears, but it didn't help. The terror outside was impossible to block out.

What was she supposed to do?

She couldn't answer. She only knew one thing now: silence.

Stay quiet.

Stay hidden.

The storm outside was relentless, and she was trapped in its eye.

Time stretched, each second dragging like hours, a slow, suffocating crawl. Selma's muscles burned from holding herself so still, her pulse throbbing in her ears, a constant drumbeat of terror. Every nerve screamed at her to run, but her body refused to obey, paralyzed by the crushing fear of what lurked just outside the closet door.

Yet, deep down, she knew she couldn't stay hidden forever. The longer she waited, the smaller her window of escape would become. The instinct to survive surged through her, burning away the paralysis. Move now or never, her mind whispered. Her body responded before her resolve fully formed.

With trembling hands, Selma eased the door open, just a crack, her breath caught in her throat. The hallway beyond was a nightmare—a dim, flickering corridor littered with overturned gurneys and scattered medical supplies. Pools of dark blood shone eerily in the pale, flickering light, the telltale signs of a massacre. Everywhere she looked, bodies lay in twisted heaps, some still, some twitching.

It was a fucking graveyard.

The silence was broken only by the faint, echoing sound of heavy boots stomping across the floor, and something else—groaning, wet and ragged, like a thing not quite alive.

She shuddered, refusing to look too closely at the shadows creeping along the walls. I can't think about it, she told herself. Just keep moving.

Selma slipped out, keeping low, her movements quiet, almost animalistic. Each breath was shallow, measured—too loud. Her skin prickled with every sound, her senses stretched to their breaking point.

Every step was a gamble, every turn a risk.

The further she went, the less she knew where she was or what waited for her around the next corner.

Her thoughts were a jumbled mess, a rapid-fire loop of fear and desperation. Where do I go? The main exits? No. She'd seen them, seen the soldiers, seen the bodies piled in the streets outside. The stairwell? The service elevators?

Her legs moved on autopilot, her mind scrambling to catch up, the labyrinth of familiar hallways now feeling like an endless maze. But she couldn't stop. Not now. Not when the whole world outside had turned into this... this living nightmare.

A sharp clatter echoed nearby—a metal tray hitting the floor. Selma froze, pressing herself against the wall, her pulse spiking. The sound was close. Too close. She held her breath, the silence deafening, until she heard the low murmur of voices.

"Clear this floor. Move to the next," one soldier ordered, his tone devoid of emotion.

The footsteps receded, but Selma knew better than to trust the temporary reprieve. She darted toward the stairwell, her sneakers barely making a sound against the tile. Her fingers fumbled with the door, but she managed to slip inside, letting it close softly behind her.

The stairs spiraled upward and downward, a path to either freedom or more danger. She hesitated for only a second before deciding—down, to the basement. If she could find the service tunnels, she might have a chance.

With adrenaline coursing through her veins, Selma descended, each step feeling heavier than the last, grip tightening on the cold steel railing. She didn't dare to look back, not one little glance.

The stairwell was eerily silent, the usual hum of a busy hospital replaced by an oppressive stillness. Selma's breaths came in short bursts as she reached the basement landing. She paused, pressing her ear to the door. The hallway beyond was quiet, save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights.

She pushed the door open slowly, the hinges creaking louder than she liked. The basement smelled damp, a mixture of mildew and something metallic she couldn't place. The service tunnels were just ahead—a maze of maintenance hallways that might lead to an escape route.

The lights above flickered erratically, casting fractured shadows across the walls, each one more menacing than the last.

She gripped the railing tightly, palms clammy, and took a cautious step forward.

Every noise—her sneakers brushing against the floor, the soft creak of her movements—felt amplified in the suffocating silence.

Then she heard it.

A faint shuffling noise, irregular and labored, echoed down the corridor. Selma froze, her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and throat. It wasn't footsteps, not exactly. It was uneven, a dragging sound, punctuated by wet, gurgling breaths that didn't sound human.

Her heart pounded furiously as she pressed her back against the cold concrete wall, gripping the mop she'd taken as if it were a lifeline. She didn't want to look. Whatever was making that sound, she knew instinctively it was nothing good. But her body betrayed her, tilting her head just enough to peek around the corner.

What she saw made her blood run cold.

The figure was unmistakably human—or at least, it had been.

A man in a shredded hospital gown stood in the hallway, his skin ashen and gray, streaked with blackened veins like spilled ink. His mouth hung slack, revealing teeth that gnashed aimlessly, as if his body hadn't yet decided what to do with her. His head twitched unnaturally, his milky, unseeing eyes locked onto hers with a primal hunger.

Selma's breath hitched audibly, and the thing responded instantly, releasing a low, guttural groan that sent a shiver down her spine. It stumbled toward her, dragging one leg behind, its movements disjointed and erratic.

"No, no, no," she whispered, her voice trembling as she backed away.

The mop handle felt flimsy in her hands, and her mind screamed at her to run, to move, to do anything other than stand there frozen in terror. But her legs were rooted to the floor, as if disbelief and fear had fused them in place.

"Sir? Are you—" The words slipped out before she could stop them, as if part of her still clung to the hope that this... thing could be reasoned with. But it groaned again, louder this time, and lunged forward with surprising speed.

Selma screamed, adrenaline finally breaking her paralysis. She swung the mop with every ounce of strength she had, the wooden handle connecting with the side of its head in a sharp crack. The force knocked it sideways, but it barely staggered, its rotted flesh absorbing the blow like wet clay.

"My God," she gasped, scrambling backward. The thing came at her again, its mouth snapping open and shut, fingers clawing the air.

In her panic, Selma's hand flailed desperately, brushing against the utility cart she had passed moments earlier. Her fingers slid over cold metal, and she gripped it without thinking—her heart racing, adrenaline coursing through her veins. It was a wrench, heavy and solid, its rusted surface slick with years of use. She yanked it free from the cart just as the creature lunged again, its gnarled hands reaching for her with an unnatural speed.

Her body acted before her mind could catch up, the wrench feeling foreign and awkward in her grasp. She swung it with all the force her body could muster, her arms trembling from the exertion. The metal collided with the walker's skull with a sickening, wet crunch, the sound vibrating through her bones. For a brief moment, everything seemed to pause—the walker's body recoiling from the impact, its head jerking violently to the side.

But it wasn't enough.

The thing didn't fall. Its skull, cracked and split, seemed to absorb the blow like soft, rotten fruit. Then, with a low groan, it twisted its grotesque, bloodied face toward her, its vacant, milky eyes locking onto hers, its mouth hanging open in a slack, horrid grimace. The stench of decay and blood filled the air, mingling with the metallic tang of her own fear.

The creature twitched once, its limbs jerking in a strange, disjointed dance, before collapsing to the floor in a heap of rotting flesh. The wrench fell from Selma's hands, slipping from her numb fingers and clattering loudly against the cold concrete. She watched as the creature's body lay still, its head at an unnatural angle, and for a brief moment, she thought it might rise again.

But then, its limbs finally stilled, the twitching ceased, and all that was left was silence—the kind of silence that seemed to stretch on forever, heavy and suffocating. The walker's face remained fixed, its eyes unblinking, blood still pooling beneath it in a sickly puddle. Selma stood frozen, chest heaving, every inch of her body trembling, the image of that bloody, contorted face burned into her mind.

She had just killed something that had once been human. Something that, only hours before, had likely been walking these halls just like her. The reality of what she had just done crashed down on her like a tidal wave, threatening to drown her in the horror of it all.

Selma stood over the crumpled body, her chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths. Her eyes remained locked on the creature, her body frozen in place, the wrench slipping from her trembling fingers and clattering to the cold floor with a sharp, metallic clang that seemed to reverberate through the entire basement. The sound was loud in the silence, a cruel reminder of the violence she'd just committed.

Her fist instinctively shot up to her mouth, pressing hard to stifle the sob that was building deep in her throat. The taste of bile was bitter in the back of her throat, and she fought to keep it down, but the weight of what she'd just done threatened to consume her. Her body trembled with the effort to hold herself together.

This thing, this... body had once been a person. A man, a woman, she didn't know. A human being who had once lived, laughed, loved, had hopes and dreams—just like her. They had been part of the world she knew, their heart beating with the same rhythm as hers, their blood running warm and alive, just like hers had been hours ago. She had just killed someone, hadn't she? Or something that had once been someone.

Was this the world they were living in now? Was this the cost of survival?

She couldn't afford to cry, not now. The tears burned in her eyes, but she shoved them down, fighting to maintain some semblance of control.

But the weight of that realization was too much, too consuming, and Selma quickly wiped her hands on her scrubs, trying to rid herself of the dark, sticky blood that clung to her skin. She couldn't afford to think about what it all meant. There was no time.

Her eyes flicked down the hallway, heart pounding in her ears. The service tunnels were just ahead, dark, shadowy path that promised both safety and danger. They were a way out—maybe her only way out—but that also meant more walkers, more death, more fear.

She swallowed hard, the taste of blood—her own, the creature's—lingering in her mouth.

She had to move. She couldn't stand here, frozen in the horror of what she'd just done. If she did, if she hesitated for even a second, she knew it wouldn't be the last thing that came for her.

Her legs trembled beneath her, but Selma forced herself forward, step by shaky step. Every part of her screamed to stop, to curl up and hide, but there was no time for that. Whatever was happening here, whatever nightmare the world had descended into, she knew one thing for sure—if she didn't keep moving, if she didn't find a way out, she wouldn't make it.

And she wasn't ready to die. Not like this. Not without a fight.

Selma's footsteps were nearly silent against the cold, cracked tiles as she made her way through the darkened halls. Every creak of the building, every gust of wind that slipped in from a cracked window, felt like a warning. Her mind raced, the weight of each moment settling heavily on her shoulders. She couldn't stop now. There was no turning back.

The hallway opened into a small, grimy vestibule, the last barrier between the interior of the hospital and the outside world. Selma hesitated at the door, her hand on the metal handle, the chill from outside seeping through the cracks. It felt unreal. A moment ago, she was in the safety of the hospital, surrounded by chaos, but with a sense of control—however tenuous. Now, she was standing on the edge of something far worse.

With a sharp breath, Selma pushed the door open, and the sudden rush of cold air hit her face like a slap. The world outside was drowning in darkness, the sky a deep, suffocating grey, clouds swirling ominously above, as if the heavens themselves were closing in. The air was thick with panic, with chaos that churned like a storm.

The parking lot outside the hospital was filled with frantic people running in all directions, some trying to escape, others looking for something, anything to hold on to. Cars darted past, tires screeching, engines roaring in a frenzy. She didn't hesitate. She plunged into the madness, her feet carrying her toward the chaos, the mass of panicked bodies surging all around her.

Her breath hitched as her eyes darted to the lot—her car wasn't there. Of course it wasn't. The last thing she had thought about before everything spiraled out of control was getting a damn ride. But there was no time for that now.

Fine. She would run. To her little house.

She had no other choice.

The noise around her was deafening—the screams, the screech of tires, the rapid-fire crackle of gunshots from inside the hospital, followed by the unmistakable sound of military helicopters buzzing overhead. She cranked her neck upward and saw them, black and menacing against the dark sky.

Army helicopters.

There was no mistaking it now—whatever was happening, it was far bigger than just the hospital.

She reached out for someone, a middle-aged man stumbling past her, his face ashen with fear.

"Sir, what's going on?" Her voice was barely audible over the cacophony, but he heard her.

The man's eyes flicked to hers, wide with terror. His mouth trembled as he spoke, barely above a rasp. "It's the end! The end, my girl! Lord have mercy on us!" He didn't wait for her to reply, already spinning on his heel and running back into the crowd, swallowed up by the madness.

Selma froze, the words echoing in her head.

She couldn't even question him.

She couldn't even react.

The panic was so raw, so real, that it locked her in place. The crowd surged around her, their voices shrill, full of fear, and for a brief moment, she thought it might swallow her whole.

But then came a sound that shattered the already fractured silence. A low, guttural groan—a sound she couldn't place at first. The scream of a man filled the air.

Her heart skipped a beat.

She turned just in time to see a man—no, something—lunging at another man who had been standing near the truck of his car. There was a sickening, crunching sound as the attacker sank his teeth into the other man's neck, tearing at flesh with an inhuman ferocity. The man screamed, clawing at his assailant, but it was no use.

The bite was deep.

Too deep.

She stared, frozen, as the—the thing, that cannibal, buried its teeth into the tortured man's flesh once more. Blood poured from the wound, pooling on the floor, but the thing didn't stop. It tore through muscle and sinew as if it were biting into a piece of ripe fruit. Around them, the air was filled with the sound of screams—raw, terrified, and desperate. She could barely process what she was seeing. Were human teeth really capable of this? Could they be this strong? This sharp?

She'd studied human anatomy, of course—she was a nurse. She'd seen the aftermath of men's brutality before. She'd patched up faces broken in bar fights, treated someone who'd lost half an ear after an opponent bit it off during a rugby match. Human teeth were a tool of desperation, of primal survival. But this?

This was something else entirely.

The thing wasn't biting out of desperation or anger. It was savoring it, gnawing at flesh with a sickening enthusiasm. Its jaw moved methodically, chewing, tearing, consuming as though this was a feast. It wasn't just violence—it was indulgence, and the gleam in its bloodstained eyes sent a shiver down her spine. It wasn't human anymore, if it ever had been. This wasn't just hunger. It was something darker, something twisted.

Selma's hand flew to her mouth, stifling the scream that threatened to escape. Her stomach churned, bile rising in her throat. What was happening? The world she had known—her reality—was slipping away, crumbling faster than she could process. This wasn't just some riot or war zone; this was something else.

She couldn't think about it. Not now. She had to move. She needed to get out of here, to get to her house. That was the plan. That was the one thing she could control in the midst of this.

Her eyes darted around her, looking for a way out, looking for anything she could use. The panic around her was growing, a swelling wave of terror, but she focused, blocking out the madness, clinging to the only thing that made sense right now. Her feet began moving again, faster this time, her heart pounding in her chest. She wasn't going to stop. Not until she was home.

Find a radio, she told herself. Find a way to figure this out. Get answers. That's what you need to do.

That thought, that goal, was the only thing keeping her grounded.

But even as she ran, the world around her seemed to spin out of control, the nightmare unfurling in real-time, and she knew in her gut that whatever happened next, there was no going back.

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By the time Selma finally reached her house, she had narrowly avoided being hit by cars at least twice. Her heart was still pounding from the frantic sprint, her feet aching, but it didn't matter. She was here, at least.

She pulled out her phone for what felt like the hundredth time, dialing her parents, her brother, her cousins, anyone she could reach, only to be met with the same robotic voice each time.

"We're sorry, the lines have been cut."

The words echoed in her ears, an unrelenting reminder of how quickly the world had fallen apart.

Was it the same everywhere? she wondered, her mind racing. England? The rest of the world? Probably. The thought hit her like a cold wave. This wasn't just a local catastrophe—it was global.

The houses surrounding her were in chaos. People were frantically rushing in and out, faces masked with fear, some carrying bags, others just staring, unsure of what to do next. The normally quiet neighborhood had turned into a war zone, and the panic was palpable in the air.

She fumbled with her keys on the porch, her hands shaking with exhaustion and nerves, when she saw the Jones family—her neighbors—coming out of their house. Mr. Jones, holding his young son, his wife Nancy trailing behind with their daughter in tow.

"Mr. Jones!" Selma called, waving her arms at them.

The man froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Selma! God, you're alive!" His voice cracked with relief, but it was short-lived as his gaze swept over her. She was still in her blue scrubs, and the unmistakable stains of blood—the blood of the walker she'd killed in the basement—clung to her, dark and smeared across her clothes.

His expression shifted to one of concern.

"Yes," she breathed out, chest still tight from running. "It's been hell out there. Do you know what's going on?"

Mr. Jones opened the trunk of his car, his wife hurriedly loading it with bags and other necessities.

"We don't know much," he said, his voice low. "But they say it's bad. Washington's been hit too, and the president—well, no one's seen him. Not a word." He ushered his kids into the car, his face grim, the weight of everything settling in.

Nancy, her eyes wide with fear, added, "They're telling people to go to Atlanta. There's some sort of refugee center there, with military protection, food, heating... That's what the broadcasters have been saying, anyway." She slipped into the car, movements quick and sharp, as if the very air around them might collapse at any moment.

"Are you guys going?" Selma asked, her gaze sweeping across the streets, now teeming with people, all scrambling to pack up and leave. The once peaceful neighborhood was gone, replaced by chaos and confusion.

"Yeah," Mr. Jones said, his voice tired but resolute. He opened the car door, preparing to get in. "Everybody's heading there. It's the only option."

Selma nodded, swallowing hard.

She wasn't sure why she felt so hollow, but the world around her seemed to be disintegrating faster than she could keep up. "Alright. Good luck, then. Hopefully, I'll see you there."

She tried to muster a smile, but it felt weak, forced.

Mr. Jones only nodded, his face set in an expression of grim resignation.

"May God be with ya'," he said softly, before slipping into his car. The engine roared to life, the sound harsh against the backdrop of distant sirens and screams.

Selma stood there for a moment, watching the car drive off. The streets were so different now—full of frantic energy, fear, and confusion. She turned back to her porch, her steps dragging as she made her way to the door of her house.

She finally managed to open it, the familiar scent of her home feeling strangely out of place in the current chaos. The weight of what was happening pressed heavily on her chest, but for a moment, it was just the silence inside, a quiet before the storm.

She didn't know what tomorrow would bring. She didn't even know what tonight would bring. But she had to hold on to something, even if it was just the last shred of normalcy she had left.

She rushed into her living room, her hands trembling as she fumbled to turn on the TV. The screen flickered to life, showing footage of streets filled with frantic people, chaos unfolding everywhere. Fires raged in the distance, and crowds ran in every direction, desperate and disoriented.

It looked like the world was unraveling in real-time, the final act of a nightmare she never thought would come true. Then, without warning, the screen went black. The sickly green hue of static filled the room, followed by a jarring beep. A red message flashed across the screen:

Find refuge and shelter. This is a global emergency.

She stood frozen for a moment, the weight of it all crashing down on her, before she turned toward the kitchen, mind racing. She switched on the radio, hoping for some guidance. The crackling voice that came through was sharp, urgent.

"I repeat, this is an urgent broadcast. If you are listening to this, you need to go to the refugee center in Atlanta. Shelter is provided there, protection... I repeat—"

Selma didn't need to hear more. The decision was clear. She grabbed her bag and rushed out the door, no hesitation left in her bones. The clock was ticking, and whatever was left of the world was slipping away fast.

She started by grabbing a backpack and a suitcase from her closet, shoving them onto her bed. Practicality was key now. It was summer, but if this crisis dragged on, she would need clothes for all seasons.

First, she changed out of her scrubs into something practical for the journey ahead. She opted for a sleek black outfit: form-fitting black leggings that moved easily with her body and a matching black zip-up jacket with a high collar. Underneath, she wore a snug white tank top, visible at the neckline.

On her feet were a pair of worn, comfortable white sneakers—perfect for running, if it came to that. And let's be real, who was she kidding? She would probably run.

Around her neck, a delicate gold necklace swayed with each step. Her name was etched into the pendant, a sentimental keepsake her mother had gifted her years ago. It glinted faintly in the light, a small, comforting reminder of home—of a time before fear and survival consumed her every thought.

Now that she was dressed for mobility, Selma turned back to her packing, mind running through the essentials she'd need for the journey ahead.

She grabbed two pairs of jeans, a second pair of leggings, and a set of shorts. She added three t-shirts, a grey hoodie, underwear, socks, gloves, pajamas, and a khaki military coat. Her vanity came next—small elastics and clips for her hair, a few pieces of jewelry she couldn't leave behind, and sunglasses.

Everything went into her suitcase with methodical haste.

Next stop: the bathroom. She moved quickly but deliberately, grabbing the essentials—a toothbrush, a small towel, and women's necessities. Then her gaze fell on the medicine cabinet, and her nurse's instinct kicked in. She couldn't leave without stocking up on anything that might be needed.

Her hands moved automatically, almost like muscle memory. Tylenol, antiseptics, and bandages went into the pile, followed by a small bottle of alcohol, adhesive tape, and a handful of gauze pads. She scanned the shelves one last time, grabbing a few other practical supplies—scissors, a tube of antibiotic ointment, and a roll of cling wrap. Anything could prove useful in a pinch.

She stuffed it all into a small pouch, her mind already racing with worst-case scenarios. She couldn't afford to be caught unprepared. Not now. Not ever.

Then came food—this was urgent. She scoured her cupboards for anything that would last, grabbing cans, protein bars, biscuits, fruits—anything she could take for the road. She pulled out three bottles of water and added them to the mix.

Her papers were crucial too.

She gathered her ID, passport, diplomas, and any other important documents. Her phone charger, cash, and credit card followed, as well as the small photos from her home—ones she couldn't leave behind. They were the last tangible piece of her family and friends. All of it went into her backpack.

For a moment, she paused, her hands trembling slightly.

Selma needed something to defend herself. The events at the hospital replayed in her mind. Taking a steadying breath, she walked to the kitchen, pulled out the largest knife she owned, and tucked it into her bag. Then, just for extra measure, she grabbed a Swiss army knife from a drawer.

he didn't have a gun—not yet, anyway. But she told herself she'd eventually find one. She'd have to.

This was America, after all.

In a situation like this, there were bound to be people with guns. People who'd stockpiled them, people who'd abandoned them, or people who no longer needed them. It was only a matter of time before she came across one.

The thought wasn't comforting, exactly. A gun meant power, but it also meant responsibility—and danger. Still, she couldn't deny the gnawing sense of vulnerability creeping up her spine.

A gun would change that. It would give her a chance. A fighting chance.

It's not like she wasn't familiar with guns. Before becoming an ER nurse, she had been a military nurse, specializing in pediatrics. The job had come with its own set of challenges, but one thing was certain—she'd received military training. Basic combat training, to be exact. She'd never been out in the field, though.

Soon after, she'd realized her true calling was in the ER, helping save lives in a different way. But the training had stuck with her,

Back in her room, she placed the large knife at the front of her backpack and slid the Swiss knife into the side of her bra. No one would find it there. She slipped into a second pair of comfortable sneakers, then went to the bathroom. She washed her face and hands, clearing the dirt and stress of the past hours. She clipped her red hair back, taking one last look at herself in the mirror.

The reflection staring back at her felt unfamiliar, as though the person she once was had already left. She switched off the light, returned to her room, and zipped up her suitcase. Her backpack, now full, went over her shoulder. She walked to the kitchen, grabbed the old radio, and tried it—only to be met with static. The signal was gone, just like everything else. She tucked it into her backpack anyway.

She reached for her car keys on the counter, then took a deep breath. The sounds of chaos still rang out from the street, but she couldn't afford to hesitate any longer. She opened the door, stepped outside, and made her way to her small car. She tossed her suitcase into the trunk and slid her backpack into the passenger seat.

Without wasting another second, she slipped into the driver's seat and inserted the keys into the ignition. The engine roared to life, and Selma gripped the steering wheel, pulse racing.

This was it.

There was no turning back now.

People in the neighborhood were still packing, hurriedly throwing whatever they could into bags and boxes, their movements frantic and disorganized. Some had already left, disappearing into the night, unsure of where they were headed but desperate to get away. Others, however, had decided to stay. They clung to their homes, unwilling to leave behind everything they had known, despite the danger creeping closer with every passing hour.

There was no right choice, no perfect answer. Stay and face the unknown, or leave and risk everything in the chaos of the world outside. Everyone had their reasons.

A/N — first chapter :) not edited but I hope it was enjoyable !!!

don't hesitate to drop a comment or two xx