Plague City

4:45 AM - My phone alarm rings, jolting me from my sleep. It signals the start of another day. Getting out of bed is always a struggle; a good night's sleep often gets away from me. I find myself very aware of every sound, each one a possible disturbance.

I get out of bed, my muscles feeling stiff and not working. I make my way to the bathroom. I splash my face with cold water. In the spare room, lit by the faint morning light, I choose my clothes for the day ahead, all the while glancing out the window to check the weather.

5:00 AM - Moving quietly, I go through the house, careful not to disturb my wife and daughter's sleep. My bag is ready, packed with the main things: lunch, documents, and, yes, a torch. Scarlet finds humour in my collection of torches, but for me, they represent being prepared. "Always ready," she quips.

At the downstairs mirror, I look at my appearance, making sure I present a composed exterior to the world, even if inside, I feel somewhat pulled apart.

5:21 AM - I step out the door, my footsteps echoing through the quiet estate. The morning air is crisp as I walk the familiar path to the high street. I catch up to a man I've seen countless times. We've shared this walk for two years, yet his name remains a mystery. It's an odd game I play with myself—how long can I go without knowing? Just for my own amusement. "Morning," I say. His response is a gruff, "Alright, geezer." We fall into our usual conversation: the weather, the ongoing train strikes, and his frustration with young people who lack respect and push ahead in the bus queue.

5:35 AM - The regulars gather at the bus stop. "Morning," I say to each of them, and they reply in kind. Among them is a lady in her mid-50s, always with a small suitcase on Thursdays. She tells us about her weekend plans. Today, it's Brighton – visiting one of her many friends. 'Good for her,' I think, admiring her energy. There's an exhibition they're excited about.

5:39 AM - The bus arrives, and we move to our usual seats. Thankfully, the rain's holding off today, and there's a gentle feel of spring. I choose the Underground instead of my usual train – a fifteen-minute extra bus ride to the tube. Sometimes, when the bus is too crowded, I take this route. I hate being stuck among a crowd, trapped and unable to get off.

6:45 AM - I step into the office reception. The security guard nods. Up to the 6th floor, where my desk is. Through the window, the Thames flows steadily, and the city skyline stretches out on the South Bank, a mix of buildings and bridges. I log in, check emails, and then start my daily inspection. The office needs to meet rules before my colleagues arrive, a quiet routine that sets the day's tone.

8:55 AM - Seated at my desk, my manager is next to me at hers. She leans in, looking puzzled. "What's with everyone today?" she wonders. "What do you mean?" I ask. "Well," she begins, "someone threw up over another person, and it looked like they'd had a fight. I got off at the next stop, and the smell was unbearable. Then, walking to the office, I saw a few more people vomit near the shops. And just around the corner by St. Paul's, there was an outright street fight. Quite a morning." I chuckle. "Hope you didn't catch anything. I'm not looking for a surprise illness." She grins back. "Coffee?" I ask. "I'm good, thanks," she replies, taking a call.

9:05 AM - I go down to the atrium, a sunken area below street level. It opens up, with a glass roof on the 6th floor. The coffee station, usually busy, only has me and two others. I speak to Kirsty, the hospitality manager. "Where is everyone?" I ask. Kirsty rolls her eyes. "Three no-shows, two sick calls – it's just me and Marko," she complains. "Could be that sickness bug," I suggest. "People are falling ill everywhere." I get my coffee, go back to the 6th floor, and do another check. The office is strangely quiet, not its usual busy self. Desks are empty, waiting for people. Sitting back at my desk, I take a sip. Kathy, my manager, leans over. "Looks like it's just you and me today," she observes.

9:23 AM - From the corner of the office, near the TV, Madison – from my team – walks in. She's usually careful about her appearance, but now she looks dishevelled. Her hair is tangled, hinting at days without care. Sweat beads on her forehead, and she looks tired. Kathy and I exchange a concerned glance. Madison sits at her desk, and Kathy, ever caring, asks, "Are you okay?"

"It'll take more than a bug to stop me coming in," Madison rasps, coughing. Determination and weakness are clear in her eyes.

9:52 AM - My phone buzzes, and I see my wife's name. "Hello, darling," I answer. Relief floods her voice. "Thank God you're okay," she breathes. "Everything's fine," I assure her. But then she drops a bombshell: "There was a huge attack at the train station this morning. It's all over the community page. A couple of people started attacking others, and some fell onto the tracks, hit by the train." My stomach tightens. "That's terrible," I reply. "I'm glad I took the Underground today." The realisation struck me – how close I'd come to it. The thought of never seeing my daughter's milestones, of leaving my wife behind, it made my heart race. My manager taps my shoulder, and I glance at the TV on the wall.

The news reporter, masked and standing outside Liverpool Street station, gives a grim report. "As you can see from the scenes behind me, this violent sickness bug is sweeping across London. It's unclear where this originated, but..." His words are cut off abruptly as he's tackled to the floor, viciously attacked.

"Geeze," I mutter, genuinely shocked. Scarlet, sensing my distress, asks, "What's the matter?"

Outside, screams pierce the air, and I rush to the window. My manager and a few colleagues who made it to the office join me, their eyes fixed on the chaos below. People are attacking each other, some vomiting uncontrollably. Time seems to distort, and the world outside becomes a nightmare.

A scream echoes from across the office, pulling me back to reality. I look over and see a colleague assaulting another. A few coworkers rush to intervene. "Lincoln," my wife calls out, her voice desperate.

Madison's body rises from her chair in a sinister way, her mouth oozing a viscous substance that stains her clothes. Her vacant eyes show no trace of humanity, and her mouth gnashes at the air, hungry for something unspeakable. In a horrifying instant, Kathy, caught off guard by Madison's strange behaviour, becomes the victim of her frenzied attack. A gut-wrenching scream echoes in my ears as the two figures collapse onto the floor in a macabre tangle.

Adrenaline rushing through me, I pull Madison away from the horrifying scene. The sight waiting for me is a nightmare. My manager, once a composed figure, now lies before me, her left eye gruesomely dislodged, exposing a gory mess of bone and tissue. The room is drenched in a sickening mix of blood and terror.

As I turn to Madison, her face is a grotesque horror. Blood stains her features, mixed with shreds of flesh hanging from her teeth. The reality sinks in, and I'm left dealing with a harrowing mix of shock, fear, and the grim task of managing this gruesome encounter.

I sprint to the storage cupboard on the opposite side of the office, locking the door behind me. My voice trembles as I speak into the phone. "Scarlet, listen carefully. Something's happening, and it's spreading. People are violently sick and attacking each other."

"What's going on?" Scarlet's voice trembles through the line.

"It's not safe for me to leave right now," I explain urgently. "Take the baby to the loft. There's a bed and a generator. Gather all the food, blankets, and covers you can find. Lock all the doors and windows except our bedroom window. Keep it closed but with the latch open. There should be enough supplies for a month."

"A month?" Her disbelief is clear. More screams from the office.

"I hope it won't take that long," I say, my heart pounding. "Don't come down until you hear my voice. If anything else happens, stay silent. I love you. Stay safe, and I'll get home as soon as I can."

"I don't understand," she cries out, but the line goes dead.

10:17 AM - Outside my storage cupboard, I hear shuffling and grumbling – ominous sounds that chill me. I press my hand over my mouth, muffling panicked breaths.

Liquid splatters onto the floor, and the groaning recedes. The Wi-Fi connection is still on, and I read more reports and watch videos of the chaos outside these walls. Desperation grabs at me as I dial my wife’s number again, but there’s no answer. Scarlet always teases me about being overly prepared – I guess today, that might save my life.

I barricade the door with stacks of paper boxes and wedge a chair under the handle. The films and TV series I've watched flash through my mind. No way I'm going out into that madness. I'll hunker down, wait it out. My colleague's snack stash, those vending machine freebies he squirrelled away, will keep me going.

Battery saving crosses my mind. I kiss the photo of my family, their faces etched in my heart, and switch my phone to power-saving mode.

5:43 PM - The air is filled with a relentless symphony of screams, shouts, and the sound of vehicles crashing into buildings. Hours have merged into a single, nightmarish blur. Outside my storage cupboard, a deceptive silence has taken hold.

My mind races. My bag's by my desk, but getting it seems too dangerous. The cupboard might have to be a makeshift bed for the night; I think about getting cushions from the breakout area. But the risk of encountering the infected on this floor stops me. Images of Scarlet and Nelah, my wife and daughter, weigh heavily on me. Their safety is uncertain.

A makeshift mask, from a tote bag, hides my face. A hammer, once a tool, now shakes in my hand as a weapon. No time for repairs; now, it's about survival.

I remove the chair and boxes blocking the door. Gently, I open it, cautiously peering down the corridor. Meeting rooms line my path. Moving carefully, I head east. The corridor opens up, revealing the office's north, east, and south sides. A horrific sight greets me: three colleagues involved in a gruesome act. I pull back, pressing myself against the wall, holding my breath.

Returning to my sanctuary, I secure the cupboard. As the world outside continues to unravel, I hold on to life, to hope, and to the cherished memory of my family.

6:15 PM - The adrenaline rush has passed, leaving my head clear. The floor needs clearing. My mind's a whirlwind of survival tactics from every show and movie I've seen. Then, there it is – a large ball of string on my shelf. Just what I need.

I move quietly towards the internal office in the northeast corner, looking for any signs of infection. A glance through the office door window confirms it's safe. I tie the string to the door handle, stretching it back to a desk about 10 meters away. I then set a blaring alarm for 3 minutes on the PC and take cover under the desk, waiting. Those 180 seconds feel like forever.

The alarm goes off. Even though I expected it, I'm jolted. The sound fills the air, drawing the infected. I freeze, eyes fixed on the door. Three of them, once people, now just hungry for flesh, are lured by the noise. Two more join in, their movements a grotesque dance. I'm scanning for more when a hand grabs my leg, followed by a groan. Panic sets in, and I react, kicking David from IT in the face; his jaw is now slack. His groan draws their attention, and they head towards the door.

I pull the string, but it breaks. "Damn," I swear, bolting from under the desk. I close the door and lock it with my master key. A quick check – no one else is around. Emerging from my hiding spot, I'm confronted with the aftermath – David, his body leaving a trail of gore.

I had to leave him. The floor, once busy, is now a scene of horror: four mangled bodies and David, a sad figure dragging himself through the ruins.

I trap David in a meeting room. This time, I'm on the table, calling out. "David!" I yell. As he comes in, I jump over him, slamming and locking the door behind me.

7:23 PM - The lights outside start to fade, flickering out one by one until it's all dark. The backup generators kick in, their hum breaking the silence, throwing weird shadows around. The emergency lights flick on, giving everything that spooky, abandoned look, while the fridges keep humming along, keeping their contents safe.

Now, water's my top priority. I grab the company's water bottles from the cupboard and fill them to the brim at the water station. The fridges have a decent haul – some fruit, some pre-made meals. It's enough food for a week, but I'm not planning to stay holed up here that long. My bag's packed, I've got food, and I've turned the cupboard into a bunker to ride out this storm.

Then, in the IT cupboard, I hit the jackpot – power banks. These little things, once just office items, are now pretty much powering the photo of my family on my phone.

8:57 PM - With my prep done, I take one last look around. Through the window, the city's a mess – buildings on fire, chaos everywhere. On the building across, a guy runs for his life from those things.

Back in my makeshift room, I have a cold rice dish from the fridge. Night's coming, and it's all about making the right calls now. I try Scarlet's number again, but all I get is that endless ringing – no one's picking up. It's so quiet, and I can't help but wonder if she's okay, if Nelah's safe and sound, perhaps waiting to hear me call out. Outside, it's still a war zone, but I'm holding onto hope, to the thought of their faces, as I get ready for whatever the night brings.