Mutation

Chapter 9: Survival Protocol: Hope in the Darkness

As I sat there, my eyes burning from the screen, I quickly switched it off and turned my attention to the makeshift power generator I had rigged to my treadmill. I needed to keep my mind occupied, so I set off at a slow jog, the whir of the machine blending with the low hum of anxiety in the air. Ten kilometers later, I glanced at the small battery storage unit beside me. It was barely a kilowatt, a pitiful amount compared to the thirty my solar panels could generate in a day, but at least it didn’t rely on sunlight.

Night fell, and the once distant cries of the undead grew louder, reverberating through the closed windows as if they were mere paper. My mother had always been an early sleeper; tonight, she had put in her earplugs and retreated to her room. Meanwhile, I had taken a nap earlier, leaving me wide awake and restless. I decided to fire up my laptop and check the latest news, knowing full well I wouldn’t find much comfort.

As I scrolled through various websites and social media, I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread. Reports flooded in about people risking everything to escape the city. Sadly, few made it without encountering the hungry hordes. A small handful of my former colleagues had taken my advice to stock up on supplies, retreating into their homes, but most of them were unaccounted for. Desperate cries for help echoed through the digital realm, but in reality, hope was fleeting.

Law enforcement and emergency services were stretched to their limits, teetering on the brink of collapse. The government had announced a plan to distribute supplies via drone, but the registration system had crashed under the weight of desperate citizens. I chose not to register; we had enough provisions, and I preferred to leave resources for those who needed them more.

I watched the news for a while longer, then settled down to watch a movie. It was around two or three in the morning when I finally donned my earplugs and drifted into sleep.

The next morning, the aroma of fried eggs roused me from slumber. I opened my eyes to find my mother already in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. My favorite: runny yolks over clear broth noodles, sprinkled with bright green scallions that made my mouth water.

As I devoured my meal, I caught glimpses of the television, where news anchors delivered grim updates—things were worse than the previous day, but still, brave souls were holding the line: doctors, firefighters, police officers, and community workers desperately fighting for survival.

“Isn’t it all pointless?” my mother sighed, her eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep.

I nodded, the weight of reality pressing down on me. “The speed of the outbreak is too fast. Our only hope lies with the scientists.”

Just then, the video phone at the door rang. I picked it up to find a security guard from downstairs on the line.

“Hello, homeowner. Do you have any children’s fever medicine? There’s a child on your floor who suddenly became ill, and I’ve asked around but nobody has any,” he explained, his voice strained.

“Medication isn’t an issue. I’ll see what I can find,” I replied.

“Can I come get it?” he asked.

“No, that’s not necessary. Just tell me the apartment number, and I’ll send it up by drone.”

In times like these, opening the door could lead to disaster. It was safer to keep the world outside at bay.

I rummaged through our supplies, finding two boxes of the necessary medication. I packed them in a bag, attached it to my drone, and maneuvered it out through the balcony.

A moment later, I saw a young mother on my screen. She looked to be in her twenties, disheveled and weary, bowing repeatedly in gratitude as the drone descended. I remembered her from the day I moved in—she had been in the elevator, holding her one-year-old child, encouraging him to call me “Auntie.”

The sweet, chubby toddler had flashed me a toothy grin, making my heart ache with both joy and sorrow. Children were something I would never have; the doctors had told me that the chances of a natural pregnancy were almost non-existent.

I had once shared my concerns with her, urging her to stockpile food and supplies during the early days of the pandemic. She had nodded in agreement, aware of the potential for disaster. Her partner worked out of town, and the fear of isolation loomed over her.

Once the drone returned, I found a small treat tucked into the bag—a chocolate bar—and a note: “Thank you, kind neighbor. I hope we can all make it through this.”

Hope, indeed. I clutched the note, feeling a pang of solidarity in these desperate times.

Suddenly, a series of loud bangs echoed from downstairs, jolting me from my thoughts. I rushed to the balcony to peer down, straining to hear over the chaos.

The noises came from the direction of the community gate, but I couldn’t see clearly. My mother grabbed a mirror and affixed it to a stick, angling it for a better view of the unfolding scene below.

What we saw made us both recoil in horror.

The sight was surreal and terrifying. A crowd of frantic people surrounded the gate, desperate for escape but facing an unseen menace just beyond. The air was thick with panic as shadows lurked, moving closer to the chaos. I felt my heart race. We had to remain hidden, but how long could we endure this nightmare?