The morning was supposed to start with cereal and cartoons.
Instead, it started with blood on the front porch.
Clara's breath caught in her throat as she eased the door shut again, hand trembling on the knob. Through the peephole, the image didn't change. Mr. Halvorsen—her elderly neighbor with the quiet dog and the gentle eyes—was sprawled across the steps, one hand twitching in spasms. His other hand was gone. Just… gone. Torn off at the elbow. The sleeve of his robe was soaked and shredded.
Ben stood behind her, silent.
She turned, whispering. "He was just out walking Bubbles yesterday."
"I know," Ben said.
Emma peeked out from behind her father's leg, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. "Why's Mr. Halvorsen sleeping on our steps?"
Clara dropped to one knee. "Sweetheart, I need you to stay back from the windows, okay? Just for a bit. Go grab Muffin and—"
"He's gone," Emma said.
Clara blinked. "Who?"
"Muffin. My bunny. I left him outside last night."
Ben and Clara shared a look. The kind that said God, not now.
Another sound joined the chaos outside. A low growl. Wet. Animalistic.
And then—shuffling.
Mr. Halvorsen rose.
Sort of.
Not like a man getting to his feet. Like a puppet being yanked by invisible strings. His body jerked, spine bending at angles the human body should have no business bending. His mouth hung slack, and his eyes—those kind, watery eyes—were glassed over with something cloudy. Something not... there.
Emma screamed.
So did Clara.
Ben didn't.
He moved.
Straight to the fireplace. Ripped the poker from its hook like it had been waiting for this moment its whole life.
"Go. Shoes. Bag. Now," he said.
"But she doesn't have—" Clara started.
"She'll run barefoot."
Clara's hand closed around Emma's tiny wrist. She didn't even notice the tears forming in her daughter's eyes—not then. She was focused on the door. The window. The breath in her chest.
Ben opened the door.
Halvorsen came at him like he'd never been eighty-two in his life. Like he wasn't dragging half a leg behind him. Like death had made him young again, and cruel.
The fire poker met skull with a crack that echoed down the quiet street.
The second hit was easier.
The third was instinct.
Ben didn't stop until what remained of Mr. Halvorsen was just that—remains.
He stood, breath heaving, hands slicked in red.
Emma clung to her mother's leg, tears streaming, whispering: "He was our neighbor…"
---
Clara yanked Emma against her chest, shielding her eyes. But it was too late.
Her daughter had seen everything.
Blood. Bone. The unnatural twitching that didn't stop even when Mr. Halvorsen should've been dead again.
Ben dropped the poker with a clatter on the stone porch. His arms were shaking.
"Back of the house," he rasped. "We go out through the fence."
Clara nodded, scooping Emma into her arms. The girl was barefoot, wearing only her nightshirt. Clara didn't even think to grab shoes.
Outside, the world had turned. Sky dimmer, air thick with distant sirens. Somewhere, a car alarm screamed—long, lonely, ignored.
"Where's Muffin?" Emma asked, voice small, scared.
"We'll get him later," Clara lied.
They slipped out the backdoor. The fence gate was open. Lucky or unlucky, they couldn't tell.
Ben went first, eyes scanning. Clara followed with Emma clinging to her neck. She felt every heartbeat like a drum solo behind her ribs.
Their neighborhood—a cul-de-sac of modest homes and tidy lawns—looked wrong now. Windows shattered. Mailboxes torn open. Someone's sprinkler was still on, lazily spinning, watering the grass like it didn't know the world had ended.
A scream split the morning.
High-pitched. Female. Two houses down.
Clara froze.
"No," Ben said immediately. "We don't check. We don't play hero."
Clara's mouth opened.
And then they saw it.
The neighbor's teenage son—Tyler—stumbling into the street with his mother dragging behind him. No—not dragging. Biting. Her mouth was clamped on his shoulder, tearing at him like raw meat.
He collapsed.
She didn't stop.
Clara turned and vomited in the hydrangeas.
Ben grabbed her shoulder. "We run now."
They ran.
---
Halfway down the street, Emma cried out, reaching back. "Muffin! He's in the yard! I saw him!"
Clara stopped, just a second too long.
That's when the thing across the street turned and looked right at them.
It wasn't Halvorsen. It wasn't Tyler's mom. It was someone else entirely. A woman in a nightgown, her hands raw, dragging her feet like they were broken, yet moving faster than any of them wanted her to.
It hissed.
Ben roared: "Run!"
They bolted. Clara cradling Emma. Ben pulling them both as they ducked between houses, across someone's backyard, over a low fence that tore Ben's pants.
The streets were no longer familiar.
No longer safe.
---
They found refuge in a toolshed.
Crammed, sweating, stinking of gasoline and mildew. Clara held Emma close, whispering stories that didn't make sense. Princesses and space unicorns.
Ben sat by the door, fire poker still in hand. His knuckles white.
For a while, no one spoke.
Then Clara said quietly, "You killed him."
Ben didn't look at her. "I know."
"He was… someone we knew. Emma saw—"
"I know."
A long silence.
Emma whimpered, barely audible. "He had red in his eyes."
Clara stroked her hair. "I know, baby."
Ben finally spoke again. "That wasn't Halvorsen anymore. That wasn't anyone anymore."
Clara nodded. Just once.
Then said something she hadn't meant to say out loud: "I think we're already dead."
Ben looked at her. "Not yet. Not while we've got her."
And as if on cue, Emma whispered, "Where's Muffin?"
---