Stepping outside his beauty salon, Florence froze, his breath catching in his throat. The distant echoes of chaos had been little more than background noise within the safety of his shop. But now, with nothing but open air between him and the terror unfolding, the sounds crashed over him like a wave—screams, frantic cries, the blare of horns. He could almost feel the panic vibrating in the ground beneath him. He wanted to turn around, lock the door, pretend none of it was real. But something—maybe survival instinct, maybe madness—pushed him forward.
The scissors in his hand felt woefully inadequate, but he gripped them tighter, their sharp edges digging into his skin as if the sting could keep him anchored. His legs, trembling like they belonged to someone else, carried him down the narrow hallway of the building, each step heavy with dread. The dim lighting only made everything worse, casting shadows that seemed to move, making his heart leap into his throat with each flicker.
As he reached the stairs, the noise from the street below hit him in full force. Felix Y. Manalo Street was no longer a street—it was a battlefield, a place where terror reigned. People ran, their faces contorted in panic, some tripping, some pushing, all desperate. Cars, trapped in a standstill, honked like useless alarms. The scent of sweat, fear, and the acrid smell of smoke hung thick in the air, swirling around Florence as he stood frozen at the base of the stairs.
His mouth felt dry. “Okay… okay…” His voice was a whisper swallowed by the chaos, his hands slick with sweat as they clutched the scissors tighter. "To the quarantine zone... wherever that is." His voice cracked, the tremor revealing the fear he tried so hard to suppress. “Manifesting that no infected will chase me…”
But the thought was hollow, and he knew it. His legs jolted into motion, and he sprinted.
The world around him dissolved into a frantic blur—faces, limbs, screams, all blending into a single, horrifying tapestry. The infected could be anywhere, he knew that much, and every glance over his shoulder felt like it might be his last. His lungs burned, his sneakers slapping the pavement as he darted around others who moved too slowly, too frantically. Some fell, some stumbled, and Florence forced himself not to look back at them. He couldn’t afford to care.
He barely registered when he reached the end of Felix Y. Manalo Street, skidding to a stop at the edge of Sumulong Highway. The scene before him was worse than anything he could have imagined. People packed the road like a swarm of bodies, pushing, shoving, and screaming, desperate to escape. Cars had been abandoned, their doors flung open as belongings spilled onto the pavement—forgotten in the haste to flee. It was chaos, pure and unfiltered, and the infected were already in their midst. Florence could see them—infected figures, moving with animalistic speed, their bloodshot eyes wild, mouths dripping with froth, attacking without hesitation.
Florence’s stomach lurched, his knees nearly buckling under him as he hesitated. Where was he supposed to go? Where was anyone supposed to go? The crowd surged and thinned, moving like a directionless tide, their panic feeding off each other. He was just as lost, the sounds of horror drowning out everything except the hammering of his heart in his ears.
"Infected!" A voice in the crowd shrieked, the word cutting through the noise like a knife.
Terror ignited inside him. Florence’s body moved on its own, his legs pumping harder, faster than he thought possible. He didn’t dare glance behind him. The idea of seeing the infected close, their bloodshot eyes locking onto him, was too much. His breath came in ragged gasps, adrenaline surging through him as he raced past the convenience store. His vision blurred, sweat stinging his eyes. His grip on the scissors tightened, though he wasn’t sure why. What could he even do if one of them caught him?
Without warning, he slammed into something—or someone. The force knocked the air from his lungs, and Florence crashed to the ground, pain flaring up his arm as the asphalt bit into his skin.
"Goddammit!" a voice shouted.
Dazed, Florence blinked through the haze of pain. A woman sat sprawled on the pavement where she had landed, glaring at him with sharp, narrowed eyes. Her convenience store uniform was streaked with dirt and blood—blood that had dried into dark, crusted patches on her skin.
Florence’s heart stuttered. He let out a girly scream. Had she been bitten or beaten up?
“I—I’m sorry! Th-There’s infected back there in the crowd!” Florence stammered, his voice a shaky mess, his limbs still weak from fear.
“No shit, we’re in a fucking outbreak! They’re everywhere!” the woman snapped, her tone razor-sharp with both exhaustion and anger. For a brief moment, their eyes met. Florence saw it in her gaze—the same fear that coursed through his veins. But she wasn’t frozen by it; she was running on adrenaline, on fight rather than flight.
Before they could exchange another word, a guttural growl rumbled from behind Florence, the kind of sound that made his blood run cold.
"Hey, behind you!" the woman—Maxine, as her name tag read—shouted, panic lacing her voice.
Florence’s heart stuttered in his chest as he spun around. An infected was hurtling toward him, its eyes wild and bloodshot, its mouth dripping with saliva. There was nothing human left in those eyes—only violence. His body locked up, terror freezing him in place, his breath stuck in his throat.
Maxine didn’t hesitate. With a swift kick, she knocked Florence out of the infected's path, her strength sending him sprawling backward just as the infected lunged. The infected missed, crashing to the ground with a sickening thud, clawing at the pavement as it tried to right itself. Florence landed hard, pain shooting through him again as he struggled to breathe, the shock rattling him to his core.
“Your scissors—stab him!” Maxine’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and desperate.
Florence’s mind screamed at him to move, but his hands were trembling, the scissors in his grip feeling heavier than before. He stared at the thrashing infected on the ground, its body jerking with erratic movements. Fear battled with instinct, but finally, something snapped. His legs carried him forward, crawling, shaky but determined, and with a surge of adrenaline, he drove the scissors into the infected’s back.
“D-Die!” he cried, his voice raw as he stabbed again and again. Each strike was wild, driven by terror rather than precision. The infected screeched—a terrible, bloodcurdling sound—before its body went limp beneath him.
Florence stumbled back, standing up, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His chest heaved, each inhale tasting of smoke and fear. His entire body was shaking, but there was no time to catch his breath. The chaos around him was relentless, the noise of the panicking crowd a constant reminder of the nightmare they were trapped in.
Another infected, this one faster, more violent, barreled toward Maxine just as she was standing up. Its mouth foamed, strings of saliva trailing behind it as it lunged at her with savage speed. Maxine barely had time to react, catching its arms and holding it back with all her strength, its teeth gnashing just inches from her face.
“Get off me!” Maxine growled, her muscles straining as she fought to keep the infected from biting down. In a swift motion, she shoved it backward, creating just enough distance to plant her feet. Her stance shifted—solid, deliberate—and the moment the infected rushed at her again, Maxine was ready. With precision, she slammed her fist into its face, the blow landing with a crack that staggered the infected. Her next move was brutal—a sweep kick to its legs that sent the infected crashing to the ground, its head smacking against the pavement with a sickening crack.
“Now, stab her!” Maxine barked, her voice hoarse with the strain of the fight.
Florence froze. The infected lay face-up, its bloodshot eyes rolling wildly, its mouth snapping open and shut as it clawed at the air. His heart pounded in his ears. “I—I can’t! What if it bites me?”
Before either could move, two figures burst onto the scene, their footsteps heavy as they ran toward the chaos. One wore a gray windbreaker, his kitchen knife gleaming under the dim light. The other, a woman with glasses, was in a black hoodie, her eyes wide as they landed on the scene before them—two bloodied strangers standing over the bodies of the infected.
For a moment, everything stopped. Florence could see it in their eyes—the suspicion, the fear. They thought he and Maxine were infected.
“Are they infected? Rio, we’re cornered!” the woman—Elaine—said, her voice trembling as panic surged in her chest. Her wide eyes darted between the advancing infected and the strangers in front of her. The desperation was written on her face, her body coiled to run.
Rio stepped in front of her, his kitchen knife raised defensively, his jaw clenched. Maxine, bloodied and breathing hard, raised her hands in surrender, her eyes sharp and serious. "Calm down, we’re not sick!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the noise.
But her words barely registered before her gaze snapped back to the infected she’d knocked down. It was moving again, starting to push itself up from the ground. “Hey, kick that infected! It’s getting back up!”
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Rio didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, his foot slamming into the infected’s side, sending it back to the ground. The infected writhed for a moment before Rio knelt down, his face tight with grim resolve, and plunged his knife into its back.
Elaine’s voice broke through the tense moment, trembling with raw emotion. “Please, help us! We’re being chased!”
Her words hung heavy in the air, thick with fear and desperation. Rio’s eyes flicked between Maxine and Florence, taking in their bloodstained clothes, their weapons, the bodies of the infected littered at their feet. He hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on him. They could leave—run, try to survive on their own. But the thought of leaving these people behind, of hearing their screams in the distance as they were torn apart...
“Damn it!” Rio swore, clenching his jaw as he made his decision. “You guys can fight, right? Of course you can.” The words tumbled out fast, almost as if he was convincing himself. There was no time for doubts now.
The air shifted, a new threat closing in. Two more infected burst from the shadows, their forms hunched and grotesque, moving with terrifying speed. Their bloodshot eyes gleamed, mouths foaming as they charged toward the group.
Rio stepped in front of Elaine again, his grip tightening around the handle of his kitchen knife, ready for the next attack. Maxine positioned herself beside him, her muscles tensed, her eyes focused. Florence and Elaine, though shaken, moved to the back, gripping their weapons with fear in their hearts, but determination in their eyes.
“I don’t feel good about this! Can we really take them on?!” Florence shouted, his voice straining as he raised his trembling scissors like a makeshift sword. His hands were shaking, the fear unmistakable, but there was something in his tone—adrenaline-fueled determination, that thin thread holding him together in the chaos.
Elaine flicked open the blade of her box cutter, the sound sharp in the night air. Her hand trembled, but her grip was firm. The cold metal reflected the dim, flickering lights, making her chest tighten. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears, but forced herself to focus, to breathe—because if she didn’t, she’d fall apart.
“These things… they don’t stop,” Rio warned, his voice low and taut, eyes flicking between the two infected racing toward them. “Don’t get bit. You know what happens then.” His knife was steady in his hands, but his expression betrayed the weight of it all. The odds seemed in their favor—four against two—but the infected weren’t human anymore. They moved like rabid animals, erratic, unrelenting, driven by a violence that didn’t care about the numbers.
Maxine stood firm, eyes locked on the approaching threat, her body coiled and ready. “We’ll knock them off balance first,” she said, her voice steady amidst the panic. She glanced at Rio, and despite the tension, there was a calm, deliberate determination in her. “Then you guys finish them off.”
Rio adjusted his grip on his backpack, loosening one strap as it slung heavily over his shoulder. He shot Maxine a quick look of something close to admiration. “She knows martial arts,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, a mix of relief and amazement in his voice. “Just our luck.”
The infected were on them before anyone had time to second-guess. Their snarls tore through the air, animalistic and guttural, echoing off the surrounding walls. The group braced themselves, hearts racing as adrenaline shot through their veins.
Maxine moved first, reacting with deadly precision. She launched a powerful push kick, driving her foot into the stomach of the nearest infected with a force that sent it flying backward. The infected tumbled across the pavement, limbs flailing as it crashed onto the ground with a sickening thud.
At the same time, Rio swung his backpack at the second infected, the impact throwing it off balance. It stumbled but didn’t fall. Snarling, it lunged toward Rio again, but Maxine was faster. She closed the distance in an instant, her fist connecting with its solar plexus in a punishing strike. The infected gasped, its body jerking from the blow, but before it could react, she followed up with an elbow strike to the side of its head. The infected collapsed, crumpling to the ground, its body limp like a broken puppet.
“Go!” Maxine shouted, her voice cracking through the tension.
Rio didn’t waste a second. He rushed forward, knife in hand, and dropped to his knees beside the infected she’d kicked down. The infected was still alive, trying to crawl, its bloodshot eyes locked on him. But Rio’s movements were sharp and deliberate. His knife plunged into its back over and over, the blade sinking deep into flesh with each strike. Blood splattered across the pavement, and the infected let out a final screech before its body stilled, the sound dying in a gurgle of blood and saliva.
Florence and Elaine stood frozen for a second, watching as Rio dealt the final blow. But their own threat was still writhing at their feet, dazed from Maxine’s strikes but still dangerous. Florence’s breath came in ragged bursts, fear clawing at his chest. His hands were shaking, but he gripped his scissors tightly, knuckles white as he forced himself to move.
With a frantic cry, Florence lunged, driving his scissors into the chest of the infected. The metal pierced flesh with a sickening sound, but the infected kept moving, its body thrashing beneath him. Florence could feel the warmth of blood seeping through his hands, sticky and hot, but he didn’t stop. His strikes were desperate, messy, but he didn’t care—he had to kill it. He had to end this.
Elaine knelt beside him, her hands trembling as she held the box cutter. Her breaths were shallow, panic threatening to choke her, but she couldn’t hesitate. If she did, they would die. In one swift, decisive motion, she slashed the infected’s throat, dragging the blade across with enough force that blood sprayed out, warm droplets hitting her face. The infected’s body spasmed, its gurgling breath fading into silence, and finally, it lay still.
The sound of their heavy breathing filled the air, the chaos around them never ceasing. Blood pooled at their feet, staining the cold pavement beneath the motionless infected bodies. The night felt like it was closing in around them—fiery yet dark, oppressive, filled with distant, frantic screams and the snarls of those still infected roaming the city.
Rio rose slowly, his knife still dripping with blood. His heartbeat pounded relentlessly in his chest, but his focus was singular—Elaine. His eyes darted to where she crouched, trembling, her box cutter stained red. "Elaine... we gotta go," he said softly, urgency threading through his voice as he moved toward her.
She didn’t move. Her eyes were locked onto the lifeless body of the infected she had killed, the blood pooling beneath it, and the slick metal of the box cutter shaking in her grasp. “Rio... I slit his throat…” Her voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, and her breath hitched as the weight of it all hit her. That thing wasn’t a person anymore, not really. But still, the action… the finality of it clawed at her.
Rio knelt in front of her, gripping her shoulders firmly but gently, grounding her. “Elaine, listen to me.” He gave her a small shake, pulling her back from the edge of shock. His gaze locked onto hers, eyes filled with a determination she needed right now. “It’s okay. I stabbed someone too. We had to. They would’ve killed us—beat us down, ripped us apart, or worse.” His voice was steady, even though the weight of his own words pressed heavily on his chest. “It’s either them or us. We have to protect ourselves, okay?”
Elaine’s lip quivered, but she nodded, the reality slowly sinking in. Her hands shook as she released the box cutter, letting it clatter onto the asphalt. The sound seemed to break the tension in the air, but not enough to ease the chaos surrounding them.
Without a word, Rio picked up the box cutter, and gently placed it back in her trembling hand. “Hold onto this,” he urged, his voice soft but steady. “We’re not out of danger yet.” He squeezed her hand, grounding her in the moment. “Right now, we have to move. It’s not safe here. Remember the coffee shop you told me about? In the next city? That’s where we’re heading.”
His voice softened as he spoke, pulling her mind away from the bloodshed and the terror. He knew she needed something—anything—to focus on, something familiar to grasp in the chaos. An escape, even if just for a few seconds.
Elaine gripped the box cutter tighter, her fingers steadying around the cold metal. She nodded again, her breath coming in slower now as the mention of the café tugged at her thoughts. The comforting image of warm lights and the scent of coffee started to push back the fear, if only a little. “Yeah… the café,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “Let’s go.”
Maxine wiped her bloodied hands on her jeans and took a step closer. “I’m coming with you guys,” she said, her voice firm despite the exhaustion etched in her face. Her eyes scanned the horizon, looking for any sign of more danger. She tapped Florence on the shoulder. “C’mon, pretty boy. We stick together.”
Florence, still catching his breath, looked around at the destruction surrounding them—the overturned cars, the shattered windows, and the empty, abandoned bags scattered across the street. The chaos of evacuation. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, his pale face betraying the fear gnawing at him. “You guys even know where the hell you’re going?” he asked, his voice shaky despite his best effort to sound confident.
Maxine smirked, her expression one of cool defiance despite the blood smeared across her skin. “Do you?” she shot back, raising an eyebrow. Her confidence was steady, a sharp contrast to Florence’s uncertainty.
Elaine, now a little more composed, stepped forward with a quiet strength. “We’re heading for the quarantine zone eventually,” she explained, her voice carrying a hint of the tension still lingering in her body, but steadier now. “But tonight... we’re going to rest at the café along the highway in the next city. We can’t keep going without some rest.”
Florence blinked in disbelief, his eyes wide as if she’d just suggested something impossible. “Spend the night? In this mess?” His voice was laced with both skepticism and the kind of desperation that came from knowing how bad things had gotten.
Maxine, standing tall despite the weariness etched into her every move, nodded grimly. “You heard her. This shitstorm’s only getting worse. Running all night from those infected freaks?” She shook her head, voice heavy with exhaustion. “You’re not gonna make it without some rest.”
Florence’s shoulders sagged, the cocky bravado he’d carried crumbling under the weight of the reality closing in on them. “Fine, fine. Café sounds good. I'm so fucking hungry right now,” he muttered, his stomach grumbling audibly in response, a reminder of how long it had been since he’d eaten. The last few hours trapped in the salon without food had left him feeling weak and irritable.
Elaine’s gaze shifted toward Rio, her eyes filled with a mix of hope and doubt, as if asking for reassurance. “They can come with us, right?” The unspoken question hung between them, lingering in the uncertain air.
Rio hesitated. His mind raced through the possibilities, the dangers, the risks. He didn’t trust easily, and yet Maxine had stood her ground alongside them, fought as if their lives meant something. He couldn’t ignore that. With a slow nod, he made the decision. “Yeah…”
Maxine didn’t wait for a second invitation. She nudged Florence forward with a playful shove of her elbow, though the lightness in her tone was forced. “Let’s go, cutie pie. Wouldn’t want that pretty face of yours getting ruined out here, would you?”
Florence scoffed, trying to maintain his playful demeanor, but it was clear that the day’s events had drained whatever was left of his humor. He sighed deeply, eyes dropping to the bloodied scissors in his hand. The weight of what he’d done—the infected they had killed—clung to him like a heavy, suffocating fog.
Together, the group began their run down Sumulong Highway. Their footsteps seemed to vanish into the chaos surrounding them, overshadowed by the distant wails of panicked evacuees and the occasional inhuman growl that echoed through the night.