CHAPTER 1

The smell of disinfectant was everywhere in the hospital.

I felt sick after breathing it in for too long.

People rushed through the halls, their footsteps echoing against the sterile floors. Parents sat in chairs along the corridor, their faces drawn with exhaustion.

I leaned against the edge of the hospital bed, my eyes fixed on the sleeping figure before me. The chaos around us didn't seem to disturb him.

That was my brother. He had just graduated from college. In the morning, my dad had driven him to his new job. But before he even made it inside the building, a crazed man appeared out of nowhere and bit him on the shoulder.

Tore a chunk of flesh clean off.

By the time my mother and I arrived at the hospital, the operating room doors were already closed, and my father lay slumped on the floor outside, his hands stained with blood.

A doctor I recognized—one I saw making rounds every day—showed up briefly, offering a few words of reassurance before disappearing again.

That night, the ward grew quiet. The only sounds were the soft beeping of machines.

My father had stepped out to smoke in the hallway, and my mother had dozed off on the couch beside him.

After checking in with my brother's fiancée over the phone, I returned to his bedside.

Earlier that afternoon, he had woken up once, gripping his head in pain before slipping back into unconsciousness.

A nagging feeling crawled beneath my skin, a sense of unease that wouldn't leave me alone. My right eyelid had been twitching ever since I got the call about my brother's injury. Some part of me knew something terrible was coming.

At 2:20 AM, even the nurses on duty had nodded off in their seats.

I had just filled a cup with hot water when I returned to the ward and saw my mother collapsed on the floor. My brother's body was seizing violently on the bed.

The cup slipped from my fingers, shattering against the floor. Scalding water splashed onto my feet, but I barely registered the pain.

I screamed for help.

The nurses rushed in, then the doctors. More equipment was wheeled in, wires attached, medicines injected.

The high-pitched whine of the heart monitor cut through the room like a blade. A long, piercing sound.

Flatline.

I knew what it meant before anyone said a word.

The doctor shook his head, murmuring condolences.

My mother fell to her knees, sobbing, begging them to bring him back.

My father pressed a hand to his face and wept.

We were three siblings—my brother, me, and our seven-year-old baby brother. Now we were two.

I stood at the foot of the bed, staring at my brother's body as the nurses removed the monitors. Even though we were inches apart, he had never felt so far away.

That same night, the hospital admitted 117 other patients suffering from bite wounds.

By morning, all 117 were dead.

The sound of wailing echoed from every corner of the hospital, the grief of families tearing through the walls.

Then came the first scream.

It rang out from a ward at the far end of the hall, just as my grandmother was stepping off the elevator with my baby brother.

Doctors and nurses rushed toward the sound.

Ten minutes later, two people staggered out of the ward, their faces covered in blood.

They attacked the first people they saw, sinking their teeth into flesh.

The corridor erupted into screams.

And then, one by one, the dead opened their eyes.

For two months, our family hid in the back kitchen of the hospital cafeteria.

Through the grimy kitchen window, I saw my brother. Or what was left of him. His hospital gown hung in tatters, his skin an unnatural gray. He stood outside, his hollow eyes scanning the room, his jaw slack.

My mother and grandmother burst into tears at the sight of him.

My baby brother pointed at the window. "Brother's there," he whispered.

My father clamped a hand over his mouth.

The night my brother died was the night everything ended—for our family and for the world.

Everyone who died that night came back within thirty minutes.

At first, their loved ones were relieved.

Then the biting started.

Joy turned to horror.

The hospital, once a place of healing, became a slaughterhouse.

I tried to lead my family out, desperate to escape, but we found every exit blocked.

The outside world—whoever was left—had locked us in.

No one knew what was happening.

The dead woke up and attacked the living.

The hospital doors finally opened half a month later.

But instead of ambulances and emergency response teams waiting outside, we found… nothing.

The streets were eerily silent. Wind carried torn newspapers and plastic bags across the empty roads.

My name is He Mo. I'm a college junior.

My little brother's name is He Tiantian, but we call him Baby.

Before everything fell apart, he was outgoing and full of life.

Now, he barely spoke.

In those two months trapped in the back kitchen, we listened to a radio someone had left behind.

That's how we learned what was happening.

An unknown virus had struck at the turn of spring and summer.

Medical experts were baffled. The human immune system was useless against it.

Once infected, death came quickly.

And then, the body would rise again.

But it wasn't a resurrection. It was something else.

Something monstrous.

They had only one instinct: to eat.

And we were the food.

At first, news stations reported updates daily.

Then, after a month, the broadcasts stopped.

No more reports. No more warnings.

The last thing they said before the signal went out was clear:

"The dead are no longer human. They are not your family. They are not your friends. They are predators. Destroy their heads, or they will destroy you."

July came, and the heat was unbearable.

The power had gone out two days ago. The refrigerator was failing, and our food supply was rotting.

We had no choice but to cook what we could, but my grandmother still fell ill with severe diarrhea.

My mother sat up all night, holding Baby, tears streaking down her face.

My father, who had once been a strong man, now sat hunched in the corner, chain-smoking through the last of his cigarettes.

I gave my grandmother some boiled water, then stood up and walked toward the cupboard.

Inside, I found a butcher knife.

As I gripped the handle, I heard my father's voice behind me.

"Girly… what are you doing with that knife?"

He was older now. His hair had turned white in just two months. His hands shook as he stubbed out his cigarette.

My brother's death had shattered him, shattered all of us. But reality didn't care.

We had no time to mourn.

I turned to him and spoke softly. "This is a hospital. There's still medicine in the outpatient building. I need to get some for Grandma and Baby."

His expression twitched. His voice trembled. "You… you want to go out? You know what's out there."

I met his eyes. "I do. But without medicine, they'll die."

He fell silent, staring at the floor.

Then he took one last drag of his cigarette before crushing it beneath his shoe. "Stay here with your mother. I'll go."

"Dad." I shook my head. "Someone has to stay and protect them."

I didn't know what it felt like for a father to watch his daughter walk into a nightmare.

But gripping that knife, stepping into the bloodstained hospital halls, I knew exactly what it felt like to be the one walking away.

I kept my footsteps light, moving like a frightened rabbit, ears tuned for danger.

The outpatient building was just ahead.

The streets were empty. Blackened blood stained the pavement. Flies swarmed over the remains of something unrecognizable.

I pressed my back against the wall and slipped through the side entrance.

Inside, shoes, clothing, and medical supplies lay scattered across the floor.

And as I stepped past an abandoned hospital room, I saw a severed hand, writhing with maggots.

I swallowed my nausea and pushed open the door of the first outpatient room.