Ash stared at the crimson smear on the sidewalk, a sticky trail leading to the empty road beyond. The rising sun cast a calm, golden hue over the scene, as though it didn’t grasp that the world was falling apart. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked—sharp, frantic. The sound carried too far in the eerie stillness.

Her dad had always said the world had grown too large, people too disconnected. “Another virus,” he’d muttered weeks ago, sipping his coffee at the kitchen table. “We’ve lived through worse.”

The house behind her was suffocatingly quiet now, the kind of silence that clung to your skin like damp air. She hadn’t heard another human being in days. The neighbors had all gone their separate ways. The outbreak had begun as a whisper, rumors of people dying horrifically, torn apart. Bite marks. The hospitals overflowed, and the government issued lockdown orders. Everyone had held their breath, waiting for it to blow over like before. But it didn’t.

Some were dragged from their homes, kicking and screaming, as men in white suits promised they were going to a safe place—a place where they could receive care. They never came back. Despite curfews and roadblocks, the neighbors had packed up in the dead of night, fleeing to some imagined safety. Gunshots echoed often in those early days. Now, the only sound was that damn dog.

Ash paced in the driveway, unable to bear the stillness of the house any longer. They hadn’t eaten in days. Every step felt heavier, her muscles taut with anxiety. Her dad’s face flashed in her mind—the creases on his forehead deepening as he walked out the door. “I’ll be back, babygirl.”

He hadn’t looked scared. He was too strong, too stubborn to die. When everything went to hell, he refused to leave their home. Her parents had built everything from nothing after coming to this country. Immigrants with no support, they’d poured their lives into giving Ash the future they never had. He wouldn’t abandon it.

But now, Ash was spiraling. Her dad was her anchor, her only family left, and he’d been gone for 26 hours, 30 minutes, and 28 seconds. She’d counted. She had nothing else to do.

Her water bottle was nearly empty—two meager drops. She stared at the sky, willing a cloud to form, just for a hint of moisture. She kicked a broken piece of cement, watching it skitter and vanish into the shadows. It wasn’t just the virus that had consumed them. It was the silence. The stillness. The hollow feeling of a world reduced to ash and echoes.

The neighborhood she’d grown up in had been unrecognizable for weeks. The houses had trembled under the force of bombs, the government’s last, desperate efforts to contain the chaos. From the upstairs window, she’d watched the city burn, firelight staining the sky in hues of red and orange. Rioters moved through their town, pushed out from the city—refugees and anarchists scavenging for food and shelter. Her father had worked frantically, boarding up windows and doors while Ash stood by, handing him nails and tools. “We’re not leaving,” he had said. “This’ll blow over.”

For the first time in her life, Ash thought, maybe he was wrong.

A faint shuffle of footsteps broke her pacing. She froze, her breath caught in her throat. Slowly, she turned toward the sound, the silence pressing heavy against her chest. A figure stood in the distance, bathed in the glare of the sun. She couldn’t make out their face, but they shuffled forward, their gait unsteady.

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“Dad?” Her voice cracked.

The figure stopped. A gurgling snarl came from their throat, wet and unnatural.

Ash didn’t move. The figure lurched toward her, their arms outstretched. Her feet faltered as she backed away, her heel brushing the edge of the porch. The wood creaked loudly, the sound too sharp in the oppressive quiet.

Her heart slammed in her chest as the figure came into focus. Her father.

His face was pale, his shirt torn, a dark stain spreading across his chest. His lips hung slightly open, his head tilted unnaturally.

“Dad!” The word escaped her in a strangled gasp.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even blink.

“What’s wrong?” she tried again, louder, her desperation rising.

Her father stumbled closer, dragging his foot through the wet grass. Something about his movements twisted her stomach, though she couldn’t explain why. He looked so tired. So lost.

The empty water bottle slipped from her trembling hand, clattering onto the porch. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. She closed her eyes, willing the scene to disappear.

The scream of a woman’s voice shattered the moment.

“Hey!”

Ash’s eyes widened, her chest heaving as she struggled to comprehend the scene unfolding before her. The woman moved with brutal efficiency, her bat swinging in an arc that made a sickening crunch as it connected with her father’s skull. Blood sprayed with every strike, droplets catching the light and splattering across the porch, the driveway, and Ash’s trembling hands.

She froze, her breath hitching, as the woman brought the bat down again. The sound was wet, visceral, a terrible squelch that echoed in the stillness. Crimson seeped into the cracks of the pavement, spreading like veins, and Ash’s knees wobbled as nausea gripped her.

Her father’s body crumpled under the relentless blows, limbs jerking unnaturally with every impact. The woman didn’t stop. She gritted her teeth, her short, wild curls plastered to her sweat-slicked face, blood streaking her forearms and staining the bat in her hands. Her eyes burned with raw, animalistic determination, a look that sent a chill down Ash’s spine.

“Stop!” Ash tried to scream, but the word came out as a weak croak, lost beneath the dull thuds of metal meeting flesh. She could only watch, her legs feeling like lead, as the woman raised the bat one last time and swung it down with terrifying finality. A final crack echoed, louder than the others, and her father’s body fell still.

Ash staggered backward, bile rising in her throat as the reality hit her. Blood clung to her skin, sticky and warm, dripping from her fingertips like she’d been the one to wield the weapon. She wiped at her face in a panic, smearing crimson across her cheeks and chin.

“No!” The scream tore from her chest, raw and guttural, shaking with grief and disbelief. She stumbled, her knees giving way, her voice cracking as it echoed into the quiet.

The woman straightened slowly, dragging her sleeve across her face to wipe away sweat and blood. Her chest rose and fell heavily, and her dark eyes flicked to Ash. There was no kindness in her gaze—just cold calculation.

“Are you bit?” the woman demanded, her voice sharp and clipped. She stepped closer, her fingers still gripping the bat so tightly her knuckles turned white. The blood-streaked weapon dripped onto the pavement with a rhythmic patter, each drop a reminder of what had just happened.

Ash stared at her, unable to speak, her heart pounding in her ears. The woman’s intense gaze bore into her, her expression hard and unforgiving. She wasn’t just asking. She was ready to act.

Ash stared at her father’s crumpled body, the blood pooling beneath him glinting in the sun. The stench of copper and bile filled her nose, and the world spun violently. She staggered to the edge of the porch, doubled over, and vomited onto the cracked pavement, her stomach twisting as tears blurred her vision