298

You peer outside the apartment and from seven stories up notice crowds of people formed outside. Sirens blare as police vans and cruisers skirt up and down streets, and news helicopters swarm overhead. You remember now—the infection. It was only a few days ago you first heard of the outbreak. Emma mentioned reports at the hospital were of a fatal, highly contagious virus spreading like a forest fire if the forest was doused with gasoline.

The lights flicker, and the television set dims and cuts off. Light streams in through the apartment windows, casting a golden glow through the air which fades in the recesses of the room. You hear movement in the hallway outside of the apartment and rush to the door. All is silent. You wait and listen, pressing your ear to the hard wood surface. Silence.

You move back to the television and flip the power on and off. Nothing. The dim ambient light from outside coats the room. Time creeps by as you consider your next move.

A sharp scratching noise seeps through the ceiling, once then twice, metal scraping cement. You spin in a full circle; the sound comes from the floor above. The scratching builds into harsh screeches, like a fork digging deeper and deeper into a Styrofoam plate. The sound intensifies for several minutes and then ceases.