Edward's heart pounded in his ears as he closed the door after him and the CDC agents. Their rough egress had bequeathed to him a grinding doubt, but it was certainly not the culmination of it. The terror which had begun on his doorstep was all but done. He still heard their boots on gravel driveway, but their sounds receded with the flight of seconds. He was again alone, the smear of blood on his finger a reminder of just how close it had come to being infinitely worse.
He stood in the hallway, trying to calm his breathing. The CDC agents had left him shaken, especially with the harshness of their treatment, their rough handling of his body, their looking for bruising—but never a word of explanation of what they were looking for.
When they'd made him raise his shirt, his hands had trembled. He did as he was told, showing them his torso, skin flushed with tension. The woman had probed him with cold eyes, rolling his arms over, checking every inch as if he were a specimen. He could feel her hands pushing harder than necessary, and the other agent glided like a ghost, his eyes scanning his body for anything out of the ordinary. They had even shoved on his belly, harder than normal, seeking something unspoken. Edward had swallowed hard, his throat tightened, too terrified to ask.
Then, under threat of gun, they'd taken his temperature again, this time with more care as the woman pressed the thermometer against his neck like a threat.
"Just routine," she'd told him, but it didn't ring true. It sounded threatening.
Stay inside. Avoid contact. If anything unusual happens, you'll be contacted.
They didn't say what "unusual" was. Edward had no idea how much longer he could hold onto any sense of normalcy, or if he even could anymore. The quiet that followed their departure felt like a hollow echo.
He bolted the door again and checked the windows before he made his way back of the house. The tiniest shudder ran through him as he glanced at the streak of blood on the glass—there, where it had been before, there, where the CDC agents had insisted upon not seeing it was.
The bloodstain lingered, glaring at him through the back door. The smudges stretched out like a bad sign that whatever was being done to Laura, to all of them, would not be so easily cleansed. Something had destroyed that door—its memory lingering like a bad habit.
He needed to clean it up.
With his own nerves jangling, Edward grabbed the nearest plastic trash bag, ripping it open with quick, jerky movements. He wasn't going to take a chance. Not now.
A makeshift suit.
The trash bag only fit loosely on him, but it was the best he could manage. He taped the seams as best he could, sealing the holes around his wrists and ankles. His lungs burned in the plastic cocoon, but he could not risk being exposed.
He grabbed a pair of rubber gloves, shoving them on hastily before he reached for a disinfectant spray. Every movement was mechanical. He sprayed the surface of the glass, watching as the liquid fizzed and dripped, trying to erase the bloodstains that were left behind. The rag he held in his hand became soggy, its color darkening to a deep red with each stroke. The more he scrubbed, the more stubborn the smear became. It would not be erased.
Panic sat on his chest as he hunched closer to the glass, studying the markings that deformed its surface. Was it blood? It did not feel like blood anymore. Not the way it ought to be.
He had no idea what else to do. So, he wiped it again, over and over, until his hands were sore and his head was too far gone.
The back door was cleaner, but not much. It was still tainted with something. A presence. A memory. And all he could think of.
He needed to get rid of it.
Edward grabbed a can of gasoline from the garage and kept it outside, his shaking hands splashing a little of it on the plastic bag suit that he still wore. His heart pounded. The possibility of exposure was too much—to destroy the suit. All of it. He wasn't taking any chances.
With a match held in his hand, Edward ignited the gasoline-drenched plastic on fire. The fire erupted with a jolt of velocity, lapping at the air with tongues of flame that were yellow and orange, consuming the trash bag uniform he'd just improvised. The air was thick with the pungent odor of burning plastic—harsh, toxic, sickening. And it vanished. He was safe. At least, that's what he believed.
With the fire crackling at his heels, Edward's eyes strayed to the other houses on the street.
His breath was caught in his throat. The neighborhood was not at all familiar. The scene before him was something out of a nightmare.
The two houses down had their home opened wide. The door had been broken in, splintered wood covering the lawn. Red lines scarred the porch, inside leading to the front door. His stomach turned.
He glanced aside to the house next, whose windows were smashed, and whose glass had what seemed like bloodstains upon it. The house was otherwise empty, but the dark inside felt wrong, out of place. The house on the street had its front door open, and out of the blackness inside, it seemed to be breathing with anticipation. Was someone still inside? Or had they just left—something worse happened?
Edward's heartbeat thudded against his chest as he retreated towards the house. His hand automatically reached for his phone, and he texted Kyle, the guy he'd met at Sam's place. His only connection to the world outside now that everything else seemed to be coming apart at the seams.
Edward: What's going on? What the bloody hell is going on?
He stared at the screen, anticipating a response, but nothing immediately appeared. Seconds passed—then minutes.
Finally, the phone buzzed.
Kyle: I'll talk soon. Stay inside. Stay alert.
Edward gripped the phone tighter. Stay alert? What the hell did that mean? But before he could text again, his phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number. He hesitated.
The message contained a link to a YouTube video.
Curious, he clicked it.
The title of the video flashed on the screen: Dying Isn't the End – A Public Health Warning.
Edward's hands trembled as the video began.
The man on the video—white, lab-coat-wearing—was in a plain white room. His voice was rushed, breathless. "Listen. This isn't a publicity gimmick. It's not a prank. Everybody's infected. Everybody who's been exposed to the virus, symptomatic or not. The CDC is aware of this. They won't say it, but they know."
The video stuttered and flickered for a moment before the person picked up where they left off. "They're not telling you death isn't the end. It's not. If you've had exposure to someone who has shown symptoms—if you've been around them even for an instant—you're infected. Stay home. Be careful. Watch your neighbors. If someone becomes violent."
The video went off by itself, leaving behind only the eerie stillness of the room.
Edward's heart sank as he looked at the screen.
The video was gone, deleted. But not before it had left a chilling message.
Everyone is infected.
The comments at the bottom of the video read a mix of shock and fear. Most were dismissing it as another sick joke, a publicity stunt. But there was one comment that stood out from the rest.
Anonymous: I don't know what's going on. But the people around me are getting violent. You have to stay away from anyone who is acting… differently.
Edward hung up the phone. He couldn't breathe. The weight of it all was choking him.
His gaze drifted back to the street outside. More houses. More proof of devastation. More blood.
What had started as a normal health check had turned into something unrecognizable.
Edward had to stay alert. Whatever was coming, it wasn't complete yet. And he wasn't sure that he was going to survive.