Second floor. The elevator shuddered slightly, and for a heart-stopping moment I thought it might break down, trapping me in this metal tomb. But then it continued upward, and finally—finally—the doors opened onto the familiar hallway of the third floor.
When the elevator doors slid open, I didn't immediately step out. Instead, I pressed myself against the side wall and listened, straining my ears for any sound that might indicate danger. The hallway stretched before me, lit by the same harsh fluorescent lights as the parking garage, but it was the silence that unnerved me most. No shuffling footsteps, no low moans or growls, no sounds of life at all.
After what felt like an eternity but was probably only thirty seconds, I finally exhaled the breath I'd been holding and stepped into the corridor.
There were only four apartments on this floor—mine, Mrs. Chen's across the hall, and the young couple at the far end whose names I'd never bothered to learn. It had always been a quiet floor, the kind of place where neighbors nodded politely but rarely spoke beyond pleasantries about the weather.
Now it was quiet for entirely different reasons.
The moment my feet hit the carpeted hallway, I saw them—dark, wet footprints leading from the elevator to various apartment doors. Some were clearly human, but others... others had a dragging quality that made my skin crawl. The beige walls were splattered with rusty brown stains that could only be blood, and in some places, I could make out the distinct impression of handprints, as if someone had been pressed against the wall while struggling.
My legs felt like lead as I followed the grisly trail, knowing with growing dread where it would lead. Each step brought me closer to apartment 3B—my home, the place where I'd spent the last three years of my life, where my mother and I had built our small but precious home after the divorce.
When I reached my door, my worst fears were confirmed. A bloody handprint was smeared across the familiar green paint, the fingers splayed in what looked like a final, desperate attempt to hold on to something. The print was small and delicate—distinctly feminine.
"No, no, no..." The words tumbled out of my mouth as panic began to claw at my chest. My hands shook so badly that it took three tries to get the key into the lock. When the door finally swung open, the metallic smell of blood hit me like a physical blow.
I stepped inside and immediately closed the door behind me. The living room, which had always been my mother's pride and joy with its carefully arranged throw pillows and family photos, was in complete disarray. The coffee table was overturned, magazines and books scattered across the floor. Dark stains streaked the pale yellow walls, and I could see drag marks in the carpet leading toward the back of the apartment.
"Mom?" I called out hesitantly.
My heart was hammering against my ribs so hard I thought it might burst. Each breath felt like I was drowning, the air thick and wrong in my lungs. I knew what I was going to find, but some desperate part of my mind kept insisting that maybe—maybe—she had hidden somewhere, maybe she was injured but alive, maybe there was still time to save her.
I forced my feet to move, following the trail of destruction toward my mother's bedroom. The door was ajar, hanging at an odd angle as if it had been forced open with tremendous violence.
"Mom?! It's me, Ryan! Are you okay?!" I shouted, abandoning all pretense of stealth as I slammed the door open.
The room was empty. Her bed was unmade, blankets twisted and stained, but there was no sign of her. For one wild moment, hope flared in my chest. Maybe she had escaped, maybe she was hiding somewhere else in the building, maybe—
A low, inhuman sound from behind me made every hair on my body stand on end.
I turned around slowly, every instinct screaming at me to run, and came face to face with my worst nightmare.
My mother stood in the doorway, but it wasn't really her anymore. The woman who had raised me, who had read me bedtime stories and bandaged my scraped knees and believed in me when no one else would, was gone. In her place was something that wore her face like a grotesque mask.
The thing that had been my mother was a ruin of torn flesh and exposed bone. Her skin had taken on a sickly, grayish pallor that made her look like she'd been submerged in dirty water. Half of her stomach was simply gone, revealing the dark cavity within where her organs should have been. Bite marks covered her arms and neck, some so deep they showed white bone beneath.
But it was her eyes that broke my heart. They were the same warm brown I remembered, but now they held nothing but mindless hunger as she fixed her gaze on me and let out a low, rattling snarl.
"M—Mom?" The word came out as a broken sob.
She began moving toward me with that distinctive shuffling gait I'd seen from other infected, dragging her feet across the carpet. One of her ankles was clearly broken, bent at an unnatural angle, but she kept coming with single-minded determination.
"Mom, it's Ryan," I said desperately, backing away until I felt the wall behind me. "M-Mom..."
I reached out with one trembling hand, some part of me still believing that human connection could somehow break through the infection. But the moment my fingers came within reach, she lunged forward with startling speed, her teeth snapping inches from my wrist.
I managed to catch her by the face, my palm pressed against her forehead to keep those gnashing teeth away from my flesh. She was stronger than she looked—infection apparently came with its own terrible vitality—and she fought against my hold with desperate hunger. Her fingers, still bearing the nail polish she'd applied just days ago, clawed at my chest, leaving deep scratches through my shirt.
"Mom... why..." I choked out between ragged sobs, tears streaming down my face as I looked into those familiar yet alien eyes. "I'm so sorry. I'm so…sorry I wasn't here."
My free hand found the box cutter at my belt, and I pulled it out with fingers which shook so badly I almost dropped it. The blade caught the light from the hallway, a tiny sliver of metal that suddenly felt impossibly heavy.
I gritted my teeth trying to keep my hand from trembling.
"I love you, M—Mom," I whispered. "I love you so much. P-please forgive me..."
I closed my eyes and brought the blade across her throat in one quick motion.
She made a horrible sound—part growl, part gurgle—as dark blood began to flow. But it wasn't enough. The infection had made her body resilient to damage that would have killed a normal person instantly. She kept struggling, kept trying to reach me with those clawing hands.
Through my tears, I struck again and again, each cut precise and desperate. It felt like an eternity before her movements finally began to slow, before the terrible light in her eyes began to fade.
But it still fought back.
I gathered what remained of my strength and pushed her to the bedroom window.
The window had always stuck, requiring both hands and considerable force to open. Now, powered by grief and adrenaline, it slid up easily.
"I'm sorry," I whispered one last time before pushing her body with all my force through the opening.
The sound of impact from three stories below was wet and final making me flinch.
Then there was only silence.
I collapsed to my knees right there on the blood-stained carpet, my body wracked with sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than my lungs. The grief was a physical thing, pressing down on my chest like a concrete block, making it impossible to breathe properly.
I had never felt so alone in my entire damn life.
For five long minutes, I knelt there and let myself fall apart completely. I cried for my mother, for the life we'd built together, for all the conversations we'd never have and all the moments we'd never share. And I cried for myself, for the realization that I was now truly alone in a world that wanted to kill me.
When the tears finally stopped coming, I forced myself to stand on unsteady legs. Across the room, on my mother's dresser, sat a framed photo from my tenth birthday. In it, she was kneeling beside me as I blew out the candles on a homemade chocolate cake, her hand resting gently on my head, both of us grinning at the camera with pure, uncomplicated joy.
I picked up the frame and stared at it for a long moment, memorizing every detail of her face when she was alive and whole and happy. Then I carefully removed the backing and extracted the photograph, folding it gently before tucking it into my shirt pocket, right over my heart.
The practical part of my mind—the part that sounded increasingly like Sydney—reminded me that I couldn't stay here wallowing in grief. I had to gather supplies and get back to the car before something else found me.
I found an old hiking backpack in the hall closet and began filling it methodically. Clean clothes, first aid supplies, bottles of water from the emergency kit my mother had insisted we keep. Non-perishable food from the kitchen—granola bars, canned soup, anything that wouldn't spoil. From the kitchen drawer, I took the large carving knife my mother used for holiday dinners, testing its weight in my hand. It was infinitely better than the box cutter.
Before leaving, I allowed myself one luxury that the rational part of my mind knew was dangerous: a shower. The hot water felt like absolution as it washed away the blood and grime, and for a few precious minutes, I could pretend I was just getting ready for another normal day. I put on fresh clothes—jeans, a dark t-shirt, and the sturdy boots my mother had bought me for hiking trips we'd never gotten to take.
When I was ready to go, I took one last look around the apartment that had been our home. Every room held memories: the kitchen where she'd taught me to cook, the living room where we'd watched terrible movies and laughed until our sides hurt, her bedroom where she'd comforted me through nightmares and heartbreak.
This had been our safe place, our refuge from a world that often felt hostile and overwhelming. After the divorce, when it was just the two of us against everything, she'd made this apartment into a home through sheer force of love and determination.
Now it was just another tomb in a city full of them.
I locked the door behind me and dropped the key on the hallway floor. I wouldn't be coming back.