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The sun dipped low, painting the sky in muted oranges and reds. Outside, the world hummed with its usual rhythm. A faint breeze rustled the trees, sending a couple of leaves scattering across the pavement. Emma, their seven-year-old daughter, sat on the porch swing, her legs kicking lazily back and forth as she watched the clouds morph into shapes only children seemed to recognize.
Emma had spent the last few hours in her usual state—whizzing around the yard, pretending the large oak tree was a jungle gym, giggling like she had no care in the world. To her, the world was still safe, still full of possibilities.
Inside, Clara moved from room to room, silently checking off her mental list. Laundry. Dishes. The grocery order that would be ready for pick-up in the morning. She paused as she glanced out the window toward Emma. Her daughter seemed so innocent, so carefree. Clara's lips tightened, her mind a million miles away. She had been feeling it for a few days now—this low, gnawing anxiety, like something was wrong, something was coming. But what?
She shook the thought away. There was no time for it. Not today. Not when Ben would be home soon. There was enough to worry about—household tasks, Emma's school play in the works, Ben's late shifts at the factory. No room for irrational fears.
"Emma!" Clara called, her voice steady, warm. "Come inside, honey. It's getting late."
Emma didn't respond right away, her attention completely absorbed in the play of light across the sky. Clara sighed softly, leaning against the kitchen counter. Maybe she should've been more insistent, but she knew Emma would come in when she was ready. Her daughter was always like that—easy-going, a little slow to follow orders, but always a heart full of sunshine.
From the other room, the hum of the TV grew louder. Clara's attention snapped toward the sound. The static had started again.
It had been happening on and off for a few days now—nothing too alarming, just the television's signal cutting out. Clara had shrugged it off each time, assuming it was the usual glitch with the cable service. But tonight, it seemed worse.
The image on the screen flickered, stuttering like a car engine that couldn't start. Then it snapped back, the image clear for a moment. A news anchor appeared, her face drawn, eyes wide with concern. A moment of normalcy. Then a single word flashed on the screen.
Outbreak.
Clara felt her heart seize. It was an odd sensation—this sudden, gut-wrenching understanding that something terrible was happening. Her fingers froze, gripping the counter as her mind tried to process what she had just read. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real.
"Ben..." she whispered under her breath.
Emma was at the door now, her face bright, her hands holding her favorite stuffed bunny. "Mom, can we make cookies tonight? Please?"
Clara blinked, trying to push away the mounting dread. She managed a small smile. "Of course, sweetie. But let me get the dough out first."
But Emma's eyes were already following her mother's gaze to the television, her curious little face peering around the corner. Clara could see the flicker of worry in her daughter's big brown eyes.
"Mom? What's wrong with the TV?"
Before Clara could answer, the broadcast cut to something far worse—a grainy footage of streets filled with people, their faces distorted with panic. The camera shook, and the sound of distant screams was faintly audible.
"We are receiving reports from multiple cities," the anchor's voice came through, barely audible over the static. "Authorities are advising that citizens stay indoors. Do not attempt to leave your homes. I repeat, do not leave your homes. A deadly outbreak is spreading rapidly—"
Clara felt the floor shift beneath her. Her breath quickened, her pulse pounding in her ears. This wasn't some random glitch. This wasn't just an inconvenience. This was real.
She stood frozen, unable to move. The world she knew was starting to unravel before her eyes.
Emma tugged at her mother's sleeve, pulling her out of the trance. "Mom? What is it? What's going on?"
Clara didn't know how to answer her. She didn't even know how to answer herself. Panic began to rise in her chest, but she fought it back, forcing a smile as best as she could. "It's... just some bad news, sweetheart. Nothing to worry about. Why don't you go back outside and keep playing? I'll be in a minute, okay?"
Emma hesitated, her small face a picture of concern. "But Mommy—"
"Go on, Emma. I'll be right there." Clara's voice was a little firmer now, though her hands shook as she turned back toward the screen. "Go on. It's okay."
Emma didn't argue. With a little whine, she skipped back to the front yard, the sound of her bare feet slapping against the floor growing fainter as she went. Clara's eyes followed her daughter for a moment, a mixture of relief and unease washing over her.
The TV anchor's voice continued, the words blurred into the background. Clara's mind reeled with the implications, but her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door slamming open.
Ben had arrived. Late, as usual. She didn't know whether to be relieved or anxious to see him.
"Clara?!" His voice was sharp, panic written across his face before he even stepped into the living room. His eyes scanned the room quickly, taking in the tense atmosphere. "What the hell's going on?"
Clara swallowed hard, turning to face him. "Ben... I... I don't know. I don't understand. There's something happening. Some kind of outbreak. People—"
Ben shook his head, his face pale, but not from fear. From disbelief. "What are you talking about? An outbreak? What the hell could you mean?"
Clara gestured toward the TV. The screen flickered again, this time showing live footage from a hospital emergency room. Bodies on the floor, doctors scrambling, people yelling. The camera zoomed in on one man, his face twisted in agony as his body shook violently. Then the screen cut to black.
Ben stepped forward, his lips pressing together in a grim line. "Shit. That's... that's not good, Clara."
Clara shook her head, eyes wide, her voice trembling as she spoke. "No, it's worse than that. Something's happening. Something bad. Ben... we need to go. We need to get Emma and leave. We need to find somewhere safe."
Ben hesitated, looking toward the door. "You're not making any sense. Where would we even go? And how? If this is all happening... are we supposed to just—?"
"I don't know!" Clara snapped. Her hands clenched into fists, her chest tight with panic. "But I can't just sit here and wait, Ben. We have to—"
A sudden, loud knock on the door interrupted her words. They froze.
Ben moved to the door, glancing back at Clara. "Who the hell—"
Before he could finish, the door creaked open, and a familiar voice shouted from outside. "Ben! Clara! It's me—Mark!"
Ben's face visibly relaxed, and he moved quickly to open the door. "Mark, thank God, man. We saw the broadcast. What's going on?"
Mark, panting heavily, stepped into the doorway, his eyes wide with fear. "You didn't hear? It's spreading faster than they thought. The government's trying to contain it, but it's already—" His words broke off, his face twisted in panic as he caught sight of Emma, standing in the doorway with her stuffed bunny. "You need to get out of here. It's not safe. Now."
The door slammed shut behind him, and Clara's eyes went to Ben. "What does he mean, Ben? What's going on? Is this... really happening?"
Ben looked at her, his face filled with dread. "It's happening, Clara. And I don't know how much time we've got."
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