Leo | Zombie Apocalypse

Leo watches from his window. The building directly across the street is a column of fire, against the night sky. Screams, sirens, a soundtrack of urban panic he’s always hated, amplified now. But he doesn’t hear it. Not really. His mind is stuck on the frantic texts from his sister, Linda. It's a crazy new disease! Government cover-up. It's not like the flu! They are lying. It sounded like her usual conspiracy theory spiral. He’d brushed it off, even when his coworker, Jeff, called in sick, then died a week later. Flu, they said. Tragic. He unlocks his phone again. He taps his mother’s contact. Listens. Nothing. Not even the digital beep of a failed call. Just dead air. No signal bars. No spinning wheel of data. A part of him, the part exhausted by constant notifications, had always quietly wished for this silence. But not like this. The last call with his mom was a blur. He was exhausted, muscles screaming from a double shift: hauling bricks at the construction site by day, delivering greasy pizzas by night. "Just stay inside, honey," she’d said. "Something’s not right." He’d grunted an agreement, collapsed onto his mattress, and slept for twelve solid hours. He’d woken to the smell of smoke and a world coming apart. The phone screen goes black just as a sound cuts through. Not a scream from the street. Closer. Right outside his apartment door. Mr. Lowell. It’s a wet shriek, then a sound Leo's brain refuses to process. It’s followed by a thick, tearing noise, a rip that raises the hairs on his arms. Then chewing. Loud, deliberate, sickening chewing. No. Instinct moves him. He’s across his studio apartment in a heartbeat, yanking the rusted crowbar from under his bed. He's kept it just in case. He yanks the door open. The hallway is a sight of nightmares. Old Mr. Lowell, in his ratty cardigan and slippers, is on the stained carpet. And something is on top of him. A man Leo vaguely recognizes from the third floor. His shirt is soaked in something dark. He’s bent over Mr. Lowell’s throat, chewing. Leo doesn’t think. What happens next is a blur of metal and motion. The crowbar comes down. Once. Twice. A sickening, final crunch. The thing collapses, leaving Mr. Lowell still alive. His eyes, wide with terror and pain. His hands weakly touching the fatal gaping wound in his throat, the tide of blood soaking into the floral carpet. A wet sound escapes the old man's lips. No... There’s nothing to be done. Leo stares at the body of his neighbor, at the thing he just killed. The crowbar is slick in his hand. I gotta get out. Find Linda. Get out. He’s back in his apartment, stuffing a backpack in a blur. He pulls on a jacket, grips the crowbar, and bolts. The city outside is pure surreal horror. The screaming has not lessened. It’s still there punctuated by gunshots that seem to come from everywhere and nowhere. He sees shapes moving in the shadows of alleyways. A car is overturned and burning on the next block. He keeps his head down, his shoulders hunched, and runs. Linda’s apartment building is a twenty-minute sprint through a nightmare. The front door is ajar. The lobby is dark, the power's out. He takes the stairs to the third floor. Apartment 3A. Her door is slightly ajar. “Linda? It's Leo” he calls, his voice a hoarse whisper. He pushes inside to see the place ransacked. Drawers pulled out, her few possessions scattered. But no blood. No sign of a struggle. She’s gone. She left, or she was taken. Then, a sound. A steady, rhythmic thudding from next door. Apartment 3B. Its door is wide open. He creeps to the doorway. The living room is a disaster. In the back, a closed bedroom and something else. A figure. It’s another one, a woman in a bathrobe, bashing her head against the closed bedroom door. The wood is splintering around the latch. Not Linda. Thank God. He doesn’t hesitate this time. The crowbar swings. It connects. The thing goes down. He steps over it, his heart pounding wildly. Is Linda there? Hiding? He raises a fist, knocks softly. “Linda? You in there?” No answer. He shoves the door open, crowbar raised. The room is dark, curtains drawn. But there’s enough light to see it’s not his sister. A stranger is backed into the far corner, half-hidden by the bed. they're clutching their arm. Their eyes are wide, fixed on him and the weapon in his hand. Leo lowers the crowbar, his brain scrambling to process. No Linda. A stranger. Hurt. “Hi,” He blinks, his gaze dropping to the dark, wet stain on them. The adrenaline recedes, leaving a cold, hollow dread in its place. “Is that... Are you okay?”