The hospital is filled with the unmistakable smell of disinfectant, an odor that lingers in the air like a constant reminder of the sterile, lifeless environment. I've grown accustomed to it over the past few hours, but it still makes my stomach churn.
The tension in the air is palpable. Parents sit on the side chairs, exhausted, their faces drawn with worry. I lean against the edge of my brother's hospital bed, staring at his unconscious form. The noise of the hospital, the frantic footsteps of medical staff, and the beeping machines seem to have no effect on him.
The person lying before me is my brother, the one who had just graduated college and was beginning the next chapter of his life. He had been so full of promise, full of life. But this morning, my dad drove him to his new job, and as soon as he stepped out of the car, he was attacked. A crazed person, with eyes full of wild fear, had bitten my brother's shoulder, tearing a large chunk of flesh from his body.
By the time my mother and I reached the hospital, the operating room lights flickered coldly overhead. My dad lay crumpled on the floor, shock and grief etched across his face. A doctor—one I knew personally—had come, reassured us briefly, and left with barely a word.
It was late into the night when the hospital finally grew quiet. The soft beeping of the machines was the only sound breaking the stillness. My dad had gone outside for a smoke, and my mother had fallen asleep, exhausted, on the couch beside me.
Earlier that afternoon, my brother had briefly regained consciousness, only to call out twice, clutching his head in pain before slipping into unconsciousness again. My heart sank when he didn't wake up after that. And as my eyelid twitched nervously, I had this eerie sense that something terrible was about to unfold—something that would change everything.
It was 2:20 AM when the first sign of something was wrong came. The nurses, all too fatigued from the chaos, were slumped in their seats, half asleep. I had gone to fetch a cup of hot water, hoping for some comfort, when I returned to find my brother's body writhing on the bed, twitching violently.
The cup of water slipped from my hands, spilling hot water onto my feet, but I barely noticed the pain. I ran to call for help, my voice trembling with panic. The nurses called the doctor. Soon, more doctors arrived, each scrambling to save my brother using strange, unfamiliar instruments.
The instruments beeped and whined in the background. I knew exactly what was happening. The cold, clinical reality of it all hit me with brutal clarity. My brother was gone.
The doctors, shaking their heads in sorrow, confirmed it. My brother had passed away. My mother fell to her knees, begging them to do the impossible, to somehow bring him back to life. My dad, his face buried in his hands, was sobbing uncontrollably.
In our family, there were three children: my brother, myself, and my seven-year-old little brother. But in that moment, it felt like we were all alone. The boundary between life and death had been shattered.
As I stood by the bed, looking at my brother's lifeless form, a chilling realization hit me. No matter how close we were, no matter how much I loved him, we were now worlds apart.
At that very moment, the hospital received 117 new patients, all of whom had been bitten by the infected. Each of them died in the same cold night, none of them escaping the fate that had befallen my brother.
For hours, the sound of mourning echoed through the hospital. Families had been torn apart, unable to do anything as the horror unfolded. The first scream came from a ward on the opposite side, a harrowing cry that sent the rest of us into a panic.
Then, it happened. The bodies began to move. They weren't alive—not truly. The dead had risen. They opened their eyes, one after another, their blank stares filled with a hunger that could only be satisfied by the living.
We had to act fast. My mother, grandmother, and I fled to the back kitchen of the hospital canteen, hiding there with my little brother. Through the glass window, I could see the wandering corpses of the dead, my brother among them. His hospital gown fluttered in the wind as he paced aimlessly outside.
The sight shattered me. My mother and grandmother cried, unable to cope with the reality of it all. My little brother, in his innocent confusion, pointed to the window and said, "Brother is out there." My dad covered his mouth to stop him, tears welling in his eyes.
That was the night everything changed for us. My brother's death marked the end of the world we knew. But it was just the beginning of something far worse.
The walking dead, the ones who had once been human, had risen. They were no longer themselves. They were predators, driven only by one primal instinct: to feed.
The survivors were few and far between. My family huddled together in fear, trying to make sense of the madness. Outside, there was no sign of hope—no authorities, no police, no help. The world had turned its back on us.
As days passed, we relied on a radio left behind by an unknown person to stay informed about the world outside. It seemed an unknown virus had swept through the world, leaving only destruction in its wake. This virus had no cure, and no matter how hard we tried, our immune systems were powerless against it.
Those who were bitten by the infected quickly died, only to rise again, transformed into mindless, bloodthirsty creatures. It was as though death itself had no meaning anymore. The only way to stop them was to destroy their brains—no easy task, especially when they were so relentless.
By the time the radio broadcasts stopped, there was no more news. The world was silent. We were left in the hospital, the last of the living, and even then, it was unclear how much longer we could hold on.
The refrigerator that had once kept our food fresh had stopped working. The food we relied on was decaying, and the smell filled the kitchen. My grandmother had become ill, suffering from terrible diarrhea. My mother, holding my sick little brother, cried through the night. My father, too broken to do anything but smoke, sat in a corner, consumed by grief.
And then, as I stood with a bone knife in my hand, my father looked at me, his trembling hands still holding his cigarette. "What are you doing with that knife?" he asked, his voice filled with uncertainty.
I glanced at my mother and grandmother, feeling the weight of everything. "We need medicine," I said bluntly. "Without it, grandma and the baby won't make it."
My father went silent. The weight of the decision hung heavy in the air. But after a long pause, he finally sighed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Stay here with your mother. I'll go find the medicine."
I knew better than to argue with him, but deep down, I knew I had to go. There could be no one left here but us.
And so, with a knife in my hand, I stepped into the bloodstained hospital yard. Each step felt like a lifetime.
The outpatient building was just ahead, and as I neared it, the sight of black blood pooled on the ground, flies swarming over it, made my stomach churn. This was no longer a place of healing—it was a graveyard.
The side entrance to the outpatient building was my only chance. I quickly moved, my breath shallow, my heart pounding. The hallway inside was eerily quiet, littered with discarded clothing, shoes, and overturned medicine bottles.
The hospital, once a place of life, was now a tomb. And I was walking straight into its belly.