The sun dipped below the hills as if it were receding. No fiery blaze of gold. No dramatic finale. Just a quiet resignation, the type of sunset that didn't color the sky so much as erase it. The shadows outside Edward's window grew long, drawing the neighborhood into a muted silhouette of itself. A single streetlight hummed softly, buzzing to life as if it had suddenly remembered what it was for.
He hadn't turned on any lights in the house. Not from any need to hide, exactly—but turning them on felt like a challenge. As if light might summon something he did not want to see.
The living room smelled stale, like sweat and fabric that had dried too many times without being washed. His instant coffee was on the table, untouched. The water was lukewarm by the time he poured it, and he hadn't eaten for hours. He'd spent the latter half of the afternoon pacing slowly from room to room, rechecking locks. Doubling curtain seams with string and thumbtacks. Moving furniture—not for comfort, but for cover.
He was telling himself he was being careful. Not paranoid.
But even the air felt dishonest now. Too still.
Then—outside.
Tires crunching on gravel. Not speeding. Not reckless. Just… heavy.
He moved to the kitchen window and parted the curtain with two fingers, heart already climbing into his throat. Same black truck as before. No markings. No sirens. This wasn't a public health response. This was extraction. Containment.
Six people climbed out on the passenger side.
Four hazmat suits—same glossy yellow material, same black-glass visors that hid the eyes. But this time they didn't move the same. Quickly. With a purpose. No clipboard. No reassuring routine.
Two soldiers followed them. Helmets on. Guns out, not slung. No more pretense of safety.
Then the civilian moved forward. A man in a dark coat. No protective suit. His stance was open, almost relaxed, but the suits were listening to him. That was all Edward needed to hear.
They didn't knock.
One of the soldiers moved forward up the porch steps to Laura's door—still open, still hanging crookedly on its hinges—and pushed it open with a shoulder.
Edward stooped low, out of sight. But he did not go far. Something within him needed to know. Needed to hear.
The sounds that followed were unlike those previously.
There were voices—clipped, urgent commands that did not sound rehearsed. Someone inside shouted something in return. Male. Younger than Edward maybe. Then something metallic fell to the ground—a trash can? A chair? Something with enough heft to crash against tile.
Then the gunfire.
Three.
Quick. Controlled.
Then a pause.
Then one more.
Each shot vibrated through Edward's bones. He had not realized he was holding his breath until his lungs rasped at him. He flinched back from the window and caught his hand on the fridge, knuckles white.
He wanted to move closer to the door. Wanted to peep through the peephole. But something more fundamental than curiosity anchored him.
Fear, of course. But also certainty.
There was nothing he wanted to find on the other side of that door.
Abruptly—his phone vibrated.
Its ring made him jump. In the quiet, it might have been a shriek.
One new message.
No name. No photo. Just an unfamiliar number.
Unknown:
"they can't take it down this time. mirror link. spread it. it's real."
Followed by a YouTube link.
Edward hesitated.
In an earlier chapter of his life—back when it was all prior to the blood and the CDC suits—he would've ignored it. Spam. A conspiracy. But now? Now the line between fake and genuine had started to break down. And whatever was on the other side of that video, it was closer to truth than anything the authorities had said.
He clicked on the link.
It took some time to load. Buffering. Then: static.
No title. No description. Just a thumbnail that looked like a fuzzy TV signal.
He glanced once more toward the street. The soldiers were moving forward again—this time more slowly. The man in the black jacket was standing in the doorway of Laura's house, looking down at something Edward couldn't see.
Then the video started.
The camera shook. It was quite clearly handheld—filmed in a dimly lit room, with only one desk lamp and a fuzzy webcam image. A man spoke, not to the camera, but to someone just off-camera.
"If you're seeing this, that's evidence the mirror survived. They've sanitized the last three off. I'm not crazy—this is real. I saw it. I recorded it. They're lying to you. The CDC's lying to you. We're all infected already. We all are."
Cut to cell phone footage. Hospital room. Overhead lighting. A woman on a gurney—sheet up to her neck, toe tag dangling like an accusation. The screen shook as the man filming zoomed in.
At first, nothing. Stillness. Then—
A twitch.
The woman's finger moved.
"She'd been dead six hours. No brain activity. No vitals. Then this."
The woman sat up.
Sluggish. Disjointed. But undeniably alive—or something like it.
Then the video cut again. Now text, white on black:
EVERYONE IS CARRYING IT.
DEATH ISN'T THE END.
IF YOU DIE, YOU COME BACK.
Another hard cut. List of instructions. Fast. Aggressive.
Don't wait for rescue.
Barricade all doors.
Aim for the head.
Stay quiet. Movement triggers aggression.
Don't let them bite you—but don't let them die on you.
Each word punched into the screen like a warning typed too late.
The last clip was taken outside, on a street that might have been any suburb—except the sky was orange with smoke and something screamed in the distance.
A man stumbled into frame, blood soaking his shirt.
"You think this is a hoax? Watch your neighbors. Just watch them. They're getting mean. You don't need a bite. You just need time."
His mouth contorted into something not quite human before the video ended.
Cut to black.
The YouTube comments were already pouring in.
"This has to be a stunt."
"Bro watched too many movies."
"Actors. Good ones though."
"Wait… where was this filmed?"
But amidst the sarcasm and disbelief were others. Quiet. Panicked.
My cousin assaulted our dad. No warning. No symptoms."
"Is anybody else hearing sounds at night?"
"They took my roommate this morning. Didn't say why."
"Please somebody tell me what's going on."
Edward looked at the screen.
Then at his own reflection in the dark window.
The quiet outside had shifted. Not just quiet. Absent. Like the air was waiting.
He turned off his phone.
Moved away from the window.
The streetlight outside flickered one last time.
Then went out.