Manila had been living in the old apartment on Oak Street for a long time. She'd moved in when she first started working as a prostitute—six years ago. That's right. She started at sixteen. A teenage girl selling her body. This place had business. That's why she came.
Liam moved in two years ago. In all that time, Manila had only seen him during the early mornings or late at night, going to and from work. They didn't talk much. Just the occasional greeting, a passing glance in the hallway. A year ago, her light went out and he helped her fix it. That was the longest conversation they'd ever had, some idle chat, nothing that stuck. Liam had never been her client. Once, half-joking, she offered him a discount. He politely turned her down.
In her mind, Liam had always been just another face in New York. One of countless people at the bottom of the city's food chain. A regular office worker, not making much, or he wouldn't be living in a building like this. He looked good—probably had some mixed blood in him—but other than that, there was nothing particularly memorable about him. A background character in her daily life.
But today, everything changed. Today, she saw him differently. Because Liam was calm. Strangely calm. When they first rushed back into his apartment, she saw the fear on his face, that flicker of panic, and it made sense. Anyone would be scared. What they'd just witnessed was beyond reason. But then, something shifted in him. The panic faded. He started thinking clearly, acting with purpose. Even knowing the hallways were crawling with those blood-eyed maniacs, even knowing they could break in at any second, Liam stayed focused. He turned on the TV to check the news. He tried calling family. And only after doing those things—after checking every box—did he finally pull out the gun.
That meant something.
Most people, if they had a gun, would've drawn it first thing. Sat there sweating bullets, staring at the door, chain-smoking or dialing 911 again and again. That's normal. That's human. But Liam didn't reach for the gun until last. Because he knew those things outside weren't getting in. That wasn't luck. That was certainty. Which meant he was thinking clearly, even now.
And that scared her a little, but it also made her feel something else—relief.
Manila might've been selling her body, but she wasn't stupid. She was a survivor. She'd learned to read men the way others read signs. She could spot a deadbeat from a block away, knew when a client was going to skip out or throw a punch. She'd gotten good at knowing who to avoid.
So now, in this nightmare, she did what instinct told her to do. She kept her eyes on the one person in the room who looked like he knew what he was doing.
Liam noticed.
"What are you staring at?" he asked quietly without turning, his voice low and flat.
"Oh…" Manila looked away, brushing off the awkwardness. She tugged at the oversized T-shirt he'd given her, glanced up and asked, "Got a cigarette?"
"Sorry. I don't smoke." Liam sat on the edge of the bed facing the window, phone in hand. He tilted his head toward the fridge a few feet away. "There's food. Bread, milk… maybe some cereal."
Then he lowered his gaze again, scrolling through his contacts.
To Liam, Manila was just a neighbor. Not a friend. But not a stranger either.
"Thanks," she said, stepping barefoot across the floor to the fridge. She opened it, peeked inside, then leaned back and asked softly, "Liam, do you want anything to eat?"
He shook his head without looking. He had his phone to his ear. Manila could hear the faint beep of a voicemail message on the other end.
No one answered.
Two hours passed. It was almost 10 a.m. now. Liam lay on the bed, closest to the window, left arm folded under his head, right hand twirling a scalpel between his fingers. The blade spun so fast it was just a blur of silver light. Only when he stopped for a beat could you tell what it was. He flipped through TV channels with the sound turned low. Static. Color bars. "No signal" text. The screen was the same on nearly every station.
Now and then, a gunshot echoed faintly from outside. Not surprising in a country like America where guns were everywhere. Some people were fighting back. But it didn't help. There were too many of them out there.
At first, Liam watched closely. Now he barely glanced at the screen. He lay still. Waiting. Waiting for a response. A message. Anything from the government. This couldn't go unanswered. Whatever was happening had to be temporary. Something explainable. He hadn't left his apartment. He wouldn't—unless he had no choice.
On the other end of the bed, Manila lowered her phone and looked at him. "No one's answering."
"Same here," Liam said, still flipping channels, still spinning the scalpel, eyes locked on the TV.
He didn't know many people. A few coworkers. Some underworld contacts. He'd tried them all. No one picked up.
Then—finally—the screen changed. A man in a bloody, wrinkled uniform appeared. A Black naval officer, maybe in his mid-thirties. He looked exhausted. He stood in front of a camera, the flag behind him smeared with blood.
Liam sat up instantly. The scalpel dropped onto the nightstand. Manila snapped her head toward the screen.
"My name is Lieutenant Tracy Myles of the U.S. Navy, stationed at Everett Naval Base in Washington State. I regret to inform all citizens that an unidentified virus has spread globally. Satellite images confirm the outbreak began at precisely 6:58 a.m. on March 20, 2025, Washington time. The virus causes death followed by reanimation. The infected lose all mental function. They become violent and will attack any living creature. They crave flesh."
"The virus is extremely contagious. Transmission occurs via saliva or blood. Anyone bitten will turn within ten minutes to six hours. Early estimates suggest 70% of the world population is already infected through airborne exposure. They are no longer human. You may call them zombies. Avoid them if you can. Kill them if you must. They feel no pain. The only way to stop them is to destroy the brain. Do not hesitate. They may look like your friends, your family, your teachers. But they're not. They're gone. Kill them."
He looked like he'd aged ten years in three hours. Who knew what he'd seen since it started.
Then the screen shifted. A woman in a lab coat appeared, maybe in her forties. She held a folder of documents and adjusted her glasses before looking straight into the camera.
"Lab results show that the virus functions similarly to neurotoxins found in snake venom. There is a chance to prevent infection if tissue near the bite is removed quickly. Once the virus reaches the central nervous system, the host dies and undergoes neural mutation. This mutation allows the body to continue functioning after death."
"Initial analysis links the virus to the explosion at Fort Detrick's biological lab in Maryland fifteen days ago. Those not yet turned may already have antibodies, which protect against airborne infection. But direct contact—bites or blood—remains lethal."
"The federal government has collapsed. Half an hour ago, we received confirmation that the President died at 9 a.m. in the White House. The United States is now in a state of anarchy. Do not wait for the military. Do not wait for rescue. Survive. The end has come. We will continue to broadcast updates by radio, as long as we're still alive. God bless America."
"God bless America," a chorus of voices echoed. Then the screen went dark. No signal.
Liam sat frozen. Eyes still on the screen. His mind blank.
He'd thought it was a terror attack. Maybe a bio-weapon. Even when his calls didn't go through, he believed this would be like any other national crisis. Something awful, but manageable. Not this.
He'd never imagined the end of the world would look like this.
No nukes. No war. Just something silent and invisible that burned through the world like dry grass.
There were no leaders anymore. No system. No response. No aid. Titles meant nothing now. What mattered now was one thing—who was still alive.
And anyone still alive had a new name: survivor.