Chapter One
"THIS IS NOT FUCKING HAPPENING!"
My thoughts were screaming, competing with the thunderous chopping of helicopter blades above. The vibrations rattled through my bones as I pressed my hands harder against my ears, my nails breaking skin.
The stench hit me first—that sickly sweet rot mixing with burning metal and fuel. Bile rose in my throat as I watched one of our soldiers literally eating through his companion's chest cavity a hundred feet away. The victim's screams turned to wet gurgles, then nothing.
"Sir! We have to go!" A voice pierced through the chaos as both soldiers began convulsing. Their spines cracked and twisted at impossible angles, vertebrae pushing against skin. But it was their eyes that haunted me—spreading darkness like ink in water until no white remained.
"John!"
"Fuck!" The man standing above me squeezed off another shot, the bullet whizzing past their mutating heads. They snapped toward us with matching groans, dragging themselves toward the open door on broken limbs.
"I don't want to die here! Please!" I screamed, fingers latching onto the nearest thing—a soldier's forearm. He winced but didn't pull away.
Tears cut trails through the grime on my face as John glanced my way. Guilt crushed my chest. These men had found me, brought me to this airbase, vouched for me. And now two of them were... those things.
"Sir! She's a girl!"
I'm twenty-three, I wanted to scream, but terror had stolen my voice.
"Fine. Don't make me regret this!" John hissed as hands roughly strapped me in, shoving a headset over my ears.
"Sir! We have to leave!" The pilot's voice crackled through the comm as the officer glared at me, his stare burning worse than the smoke filling my lungs.
He hated me. But I was alive.
"Fine. Let's go. Brian and Kumbanke are dead. Move out!"
Relief flooded my system as I collapsed against the seat, head thudding against metal. The helicopter hung suspended for one terrible moment before lurching skyward.
Seconds later, we had our front-row seats to hell. The base swarmed with them—twisted shapes hunting anything that moved. The screams of the living mixed with inhuman howls as people ran, fought, died.
My heart shattered as we banked over my city. Smoke columns punctured the bleeding sunrise like black fingers reaching for us. Fresh tears spilled as reality crushed me—my family, my friends, my whole world... gone. Just gone.
"Don't worry Little Bird. You may survive us yet," John spat, moving toward his pilot.
I swallowed hard, tasting copper and salt. Grateful to be alive, but knowing this was just the beginning. The helicopter carried us into the crimson dawn, leaving behind everything I'd ever known, everyone I'd ever loved.
The dead owned the earth now. And we were just visitors in their new kingdom.
Hours before.....
"Are you coming?"
No...
My current suitor and boss, Scott, puffed beneath me as I rode him against his Egyptian cotton sheets, trying to ignore his deep, unpleasant gasps for air that reminded me of my grandmother's pug.
"Come on babe. Give it to me," he said, fingers digging into my waist as I continued to move, mechanical as a metronome.
Oh Jesus...this is the last time I try the company casual dating pool. Note to self: LinkedIn is not a dating app Tills.
"Let's change positions," he panted, sweat gleaming on his forehead despite me doing all the work.
"Sure," I lied through a practiced smile.
He awkwardly maneuvered around me as I climbed off, his hand catching my ankle. Oh promising... He positioned himself between my legs, gathering a large clump of my long, damp hair as his other hand pressed me into the mattress, my ass grinding against him.
After what felt like an eternity of fumbling, he slowly eased in, until he was buried deep. Stretching, filling, relentless.
Oh my!!
"Shit! You're tight!"
I giggled on cue as he quickened his pace, almost aggressively. Through the window, emergency sirens wailed in the distance—seemed like more than usual lately.
"I'm close!"
Seriously? The microwave in my apartment takes longer.
Not even five seconds later, he stilled with a groan that belonged in a nature documentary, collapsing on top of me, his face buried in my hair.
"Seriously!" I repeated, this time out loud without catching myself.
"What?" He yawned, propping himself up on an elbow beside me as I laid on my stomach, counting the threads in his ridiculously expensive sheets.
"Nothing," I matched his yawn, reaching for my phone. Three missed calls from Lisa, my darling, little sister. Strange.
"Do you want to stay?" Scott mumbled, his hand trailing down my spine.
"No. I have plans with Jessica and Winnie in Soho. Girls night out," I said, quickly sitting up, gathering my dress from where it had landed on his signed Yankees baseball. Real classy, Matilda.
"You shouldn't be drinking" Scott murmured.
I glance him a look as I began the awkward dance of gathering clothes while pretending not to notice his wedding ring gleaming on the bedside table like a silent accusation. A news alert flashed across my phone—something about unexplained incidents in five major cities. I swiped it away.
"It's been over for months, Tilly," he said, catching my shameful stare at the ring.
"I know. Everyone knows," I whispered, trying to hold it together as I fished my bralette and underwear from under the disarray of taupe silk sheets. Three thousand dollars worth of fabric to hide his guilt in.
"How is this different? You're with Seth."
"It's been three weeks. But I'm not married to him nor am I fucking his assistant. I share the same office floor with your wife. She's fucking HR!" The words tasted bitter. Outside, more sirens screamed past.
Here we go. The same fight!
Scott sighed, rubbing his jaw. "Matilda Elizabeth Carey. Don't be like that. Please. I love you. I want to be with you."
I scoffed. Sure you do. Just like you loved the three before me….Gossip travels, Scotty.
I pressed a hand to my abdomen for the briefest moment before straightening, swallowing down the butterflies.
"I hate that you know my full name."
Scott stepped closer, fingertips ghosting down my arms, settling just below my ribs—lingering in a way that felt different, like he knew. "You love it. You love me."
I swallowed, ignoring the way my pulse stuttered as I briefly kissed him.
"I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow for the company meeting. I expect your wife will be there so I can't even have a quick destress fuck," I said, avoiding his eyes as I made my escape, my heels clicking against his hardwood floors like a countdown.
"I'll call you later," he yelled as the door slammed behind me.
I couldn't breathe until I reached the elevator, shrinking into the corner as more people filed in from different floors. A man in a surgical mask coughed violently in the opposite corner. The ride felt endless, each stop an eternity as old ladies judged my walk-of-shame appearance with looks that could curdle milk.
My heart dropped as I pulled my coat tighter, stepping out into the strange quiet of downtown. More sirens in the distance, and was it my imagination, or were there more emergency vehicles than usual parked outside the hospital two blocks over? My phone buzzed again—Lisa calling. Something about our father acting strange, fever, should she call an ambulance?
Just another Thursday in the city. Right?
***
"Just dump the prick" echoed over our table at Le Louie, competing with the bass thrum of some pop remix. The cigarette smoke curled around me like Scott's ghost, his scent a stubborn reminder on my skin.
Ah Jessica and Winnie. My personal Greek chorus of relationship doom. The moment you get a man—married or not—they'll CSI every red flag while conveniently forgetting their own greatest hits of questionable choices. Jessica, my childhood partner-in-crime from down the street, and Winnie, my college roommate who once dated three guys from the same frat. At the same time.
But they followed me to New York, and I loved them for it. Someone had to fill the void while my parents played happy family with my perfect younger sister back in San Francisco.
They were both in ruthless mode tonight, laser-focused on my poor life choices as they worked the room in dresses that were more suggestion than fabric. Le Louie's usual Thursday crowd seemed thinner than normal, but the desperation hung thicker in the air.
"I'm not talking about this tonight," I mumbled into my fourth gin and tonic, sneaking another glance at my phone. No messages. No declarations of love. No promises of leaving her. Just emergency alerts I kept swiping away.
Raucous laughter erupted from the next table, but my attention caught on the TV above the bar. Ashley O'Neill—looking perfectly coiffed in that trademark blue dress that probably cost more than my monthly rent—was speaking with unusual intensity. The ticker below read: "FLESH-EATING VIRUS SPREADS: OFFICIALS ADVISE STAYING INDOORS."
Right, because my Visa bill pays itself if I don't show up to work.
"Tills?" Winnie's voice cut through my thoughts. A man at the bar was being escorted out, arguing with the bouncer about feeling sick.
Just another night in New York. Though the sirens outside seemed louder than usual.
"What?" I snapped back, tearing my eyes away from the TV as Ashley O'Neill's perfectly lined lips kept moving silently above the bar.
"Your phone's been blowing up," Jessica pointed out, her perfectly manicured nail gesturing to my screen. Scott's name flashed repeatedly, along with what looked like fifteen missed calls.
Desperate much?
I was about to make a snarky comment when Winnie suddenly grabbed my arm. "Hey... is your sister okay?"
"What? Why?"
"Instagram. She's posting weird stuff." Winnie turned her phone toward me. My sister's usually pristine feed was a mess of blurry photos and incoherent captions. The last one, posted two minutes ago, was just a series of letters that made no sense.
"She's probably drunk," I laughed, but something cold settled in my stomach. I wanted to throw up. My little sister didn't drink. Ever.
A crash from the bar made us all jump. The sick guy from earlier had apparently come back in, but something was wrong with him. Really wrong. His movements were jerky, unnatural, and there was something dark dripping from his mouth.
"Sir, you need to leave!" The bartender shouted, but his voice wavered.
The man's head snapped toward the sound with an audible crack. That's when I noticed his eyes—they were completely wrong. Black.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Ashley O'Neill's voice suddenly cut through the music as someone turned up the TV volume. "We're receiving reports of violent incidents across multiple boroughs. Citizens are advised to—" The feed cut to static.
My phone buzzed again. Scott.
"Tilly," his voice was breathless when I answered. "Where are you?"
"Le Louie, why—"
"Stay there. I'm coming to get you. Don't go outside. Don't—" The line went dead as screams erupted from the street.
The sick man at the bar lunged.
