They reached home just before noon.
The neighborhood remained intact at first glance.
Lawns cut to the same height as always. Mailboxes upright. Cars resting in driveways exactly where they had been that morning. A sprinkler clicked methodically somewhere down the street, sending arcs of water into the heavy air.
Nothing appeared damaged.
Nothing appeared abandoned.
And yet the atmosphere pressed inward, dense and watchful, as if the entire block were holding its breath.
Dad shut off the engine.
No one moved.
Opening the doors felt like it might disturb something unseen.
Mom finally spoke, voice careful.
"Let's bring everything inside."
Something to do. Something measurable.
They unloaded quickly. Grocery bags rustled, keys jingled, the garage door motor groaned upward and down again. Noah kept glancing toward the street between trips, shoulders tight.
Inside, the house felt sealed off from the outside world. Cool air flowed from the vents, steady and artificial, a small pocket of control surrounded by uncertainty.
Mom began stacking supplies on the counter with mechanical precision.
Dad turned on the television.
Not for distraction.
For confirmation.
The screen flickered before stabilizing.
The anchor sat rigidly upright, composure stretched thin.
"…reports continue to come in of individuals experiencing severe flu-like symptoms, including high fever, disorientation, auditory disturbances, and sudden loss of motor control. Medical authorities are advising citizens to remain calm and avoid unnecessary travel…"
A video clip replaced her.
A man stumbled along a sidewalk, clutching his chest. His steps veered sharply left and right as if his balance no longer belonged to him.
Someone off-camera asked if he needed help.
He didn't respond.
He collapsed without warning.
Not like fainting.
Like a structure losing support.
His body convulsed, limbs snapping against the pavement in violent, irregular bursts. His back arched, lifting his torso off the ground.
Then his head twisted sideways far beyond what joints should allow.
The footage cut to static.
Mom lowered herself onto the couch slowly.
"…That isn't a flu."
No one argued.
The Scream
The sound tore through the quiet outside.
Sharp. Human. Cut off abruptly.
Mom flinched. "Was that—?"
Another scream followed, closer this time, dissolving into choking sounds.
Dad moved to the window.
"Stay back."
He parted the curtain just enough to see.
Across the street, Mrs. Keaton lay sprawled on her driveway. Her body struck the concrete repeatedly in short, violent motions, heels hammering the surface as if she were trying to dig through it.
Mr. Keaton knelt beside her, gripping her shoulders, shouting her name over and over.
Her movements weren't frantic.
They were abrupt. Precise. Too strong.
Her back bowed sharply, lifting her chest off the ground without any visible effort.
Mom gasped behind him.
"Oh God…"
Mr. Keaton tried to hold her still.
Then she bit him.
Not a reflexive snap.
A sustained clamp of her jaws around his forearm.
He screamed, stumbling backward as blood poured down his sleeve.
Mrs. Keaton rose to her hands and knees.
Her head lifted in a single smooth motion.
She did not look at her husband.
She looked around.
Not searching.
Aligning.
Her gaze stopped on their house.
Mom recoiled.
"…She saw us."
Ethan stepped forward and drew the curtain closed.
"Don't stand in the open."
His voice was low, even, impossible to argue with.
Approach
Something scraped across pavement outside.
A dragging sound, irregular but persistent.
Noah's voice trembled.
"Is she… coming here?"
Ethan listened.
Yes.
Footsteps crossed the street, uneven but direct. Each step landed with too much force, followed by a short pause, then another — as if the body needed to reorient between movements.
A rasping noise accompanied them, breath pushed through a throat that didn't cooperate.
Mom clutched Dad's arm.
"What do we do?"
Dad looked toward the front door instinctively, shoulders squared without a plan behind the gesture.
Ethan spoke quietly.
"Lock everything."
Dad moved immediately.
Doors secured. Windows checked. Blinds lowered.
Outside, the footsteps reached the driveway.
A shadow passed across the front door.
A hand struck it.
Once.
Twice.
Then harder.
The wood shuddered in the frame.
Mom pressed both hands over her mouth to contain her sobbing.
Noah stared at the door, eyes wide and unblinking.
The impacts grew irregular, force applied without rhythm or hesitation.
The Street Unravels
A scream erupted from farther down the block.
Then another.
Dogs barked in overlapping bursts, some frantic, some abruptly cut off.
Glass shattered somewhere out of sight.
Car alarms triggered in sequence, rising into a chaotic chorus that erased any sense of direction.
The figure at their door paused.
Its head turned toward the noise.
After several seconds, the pounding stopped.
Dragging footsteps retreated down the driveway.
Mom sagged against the couch.
"…What is happening?"
Ethan didn't answer.
Because the answer would not help.
On the Screen
Dad unmuted the television.
The anchor had disappeared.
Shaky footage filled the screen.
A city street in turmoil.
People ran in all directions, colliding, falling, scrambling back up.
Several figures pursued them on all fours, movements fluid but wrong, limbs bending and extending with unnatural range.
One launched forward, striking a fleeing man and knocking him down. The camera jerked violently as the person filming screamed.
Something struck the lens.
Static.
A hospital corridor replaced it.
Patients thrashed on gurneys while staff struggled to hold them. One orderly collapsed as a patient seized his shoulder with jaw strength that shouldn't have been possible.
The feed cut again.
Mom whispered, hoarse.
"Turn it off."
Dad didn't.
Because looking away felt worse.
Noah
Noah suddenly gasped.
His body went rigid, fingers digging into the carpet.
"Something's wrong—"
Heat radiated from him instantly.
Mom grabbed him.
"Noah!"
His pupils dilated, breathing erratic.
Dad froze.
"…Is this the same thing?"
Ethan moved forward immediately.
"Let him breathe."
Mom looked at him, terrified.
"But what if—"
"If you restrain him, you'll make it worse."
Noah trembled violently, jaw clenched.
"…It hurts…"
Ethan crouched beside him.
"Focus on breathing. In. Out."
His tone anchored rather than soothed.
Noah locked onto his brother's face.
The shaking began to ease.
Minutes passed in suffocating silence.
Then Noah collapsed back, gasping but conscious.
Mom pulled him into her arms, sobbing.
"He's okay… he's okay…"
Ethan watched carefully.
Awareness intact. No distortion. No dissociation.
Successful adaptation.
Outside
Sirens wailed continuously now.
Helicopters thundered overhead, low enough to rattle the windows.
Smoke rose beyond the rooftops in thin gray columns.
Gunshots cracked intermittently in the distance — isolated bursts separated by long silence.
Dad lowered the blinds completely.
"…We're staying here."
No one argued.
Ethan
Seven years ago, Ethan had faced this phase blind, reacting instead of preparing.
This time would be different.
This house would hold.
For now.
Long enough.
He moved toward the hallway.
Mom looked up.
"Where are you going?"
"To get things ready."
It sounded practical.
Dad nodded slowly.
"Good idea."
They still believed stability would return.
Ethan knew better.
Because this wasn't collapse.
It was transformation.
Closing
The light filtering through the blinds had dulled to a gray haze.
Noah leaned against the couch, pale but breathing steadily.
Mom refused to release him.
Dad stood near the window, shoulders squared against something he couldn't see.
Ethan paused in the hallway, listening.
To distant screams.
To mechanical sirens.
To the pressure building in the air like a held breath.
Tomorrow would be worse.
The day after that—
Unrecognizable.
He touched the wall briefly.
Solid.
Familiar.
Temporary.
Then he turned away and began preparing for war.
Because those who could not change were no longer human.
And soon—
Something far worse would arrive.