Survive with Me

The sky wasn't supposed to be purple.

Ysella pressed her back against the rusted van, her breath shallow and deliberate. Beside her, Elodie was a live wire—fingers twitching, eyes wide, her heart hammering loud enough to attract every Stage 2 in the district.

"Easy, El," Ysella hissed. She reached out, her scarred fingers grounding her friend. "The pressure is dropping. If you panic now, the air will do the rest."

A hundred yards away, a man stumbled into the street. His skin was the color of a wet sidewalk, his fingernails stained a bruised black. He wasn't a zombie. He was something worse. He was Stage 3, his head snapping left and right as he argued with shadows only he could see.

"He's suffering," Elodie whispered, her hand moving toward her holster. Her huge heart was always her greatest flaw. "Ysa, we could help him. We have the sedatives—"

"We have three doses left, and they’re for our friends. Not a stranger who’s already lost his mind." Ysella’s voice was like ice, but her eyes never left the man.

Suddenly, the man screamed—not a cry of pain, but a roar of Stage 4 bloodlust. He began clawing at his own arms, his eyes fixed on the empty air where he imagined a monster was lurking.

The first drop of chemically-black rain hit the pavement. The "Flash Storm" had arrived.

"Move," Ysella commanded, pulling Elodie into the shadows of a crumbling alley. "We have a city to cross, a squad to find, and three hours before this rain turns everyone into a hallucinating killer. Don't look back."

They stepped into the ruins.