Deviltry

Chapter 2: Part 1

Kyrsha woke to the sound of her bedroom door creaking open and the familiar weight of Gladys settling into the old armchair by the window. Not startling awake—that would have sent Sampson into protective mode—but the slow drift from sleep to consciousness that meant safety, familiarity, someone she trusted moving through her space.

"Morning, sleeping beauty," Gladys said softly, though her voice carried an undercurrent of tension that made Kyrsha's eyes snap fully open.

Her roommate sat silhouetted against the gray morning light filtering through the curtains, looking like some gothic priestess holding court. Her black hair fell in waves over one shoulder, and she wore her usual armor of dark eyeliner and burgundy lipstick even at—Kyrsha squinted at the clock—7:23 AM.

"You're up early," Kyrsha mumbled, pushing herself upright. Sampson lifted his massive head from where he'd been sprawled across the foot of the bed, amber eyes alert but not alarmed. He knew Gladys's scent, her movements, the particular way she breathed when she was worried.

"Couldn't sleep." Gladys held up her phone, the screen glowing with news headlines. "They found Patient Zero."

That got Kyrsha's attention. She sat up fully, her ash-blonde hair falling like a curtain around her shoulders. "Here? In LA?"

"Here in LA." Gladys's smile was sharp and humorless. "Some douchebag lawyer named Bradley Hutchinson. Just got back from a 'romantic getaway' in Romania with his secretary. Apparently spent the last week bragging about it to anyone who'd listen before he started trying to eat people's faces off."

Kyrsha scrubbed her hands over her face, trying to process this. "They're sure it's him?"

"Oh, they're sure. His arrogant ass has been plastered all over every news channel since about midnight. CNN, Fox, local stations—everyone's running the same footage of him getting dragged out of his Beverly Hills office by guys in hazmat suits."

Gladys turned her phone around, showing a news clip of a man in an expensive suit thrashing against the grip of medical personnel. Even through the grainy video, Kyrsha could see the same wrong angle to his head, the same glassy-eyed stare she'd seen in Patterson yesterday.

"They've got him in quarantine at Cedars-Sinai," Gladys continued. "Full isolation, military escort, the whole nine yards. Apparently the CDC flew in overnight."

"Shit." Kyrsha threw off the covers and padded to the window, peering through the blinds at the street below. Everything looked normal—morning commuters heading to work, joggers with their dogs, the usual Los Angeles rhythm. But now she knew what to look for, and she could see the subtle signs. Fewer people out than usual. Cars moving just a little too fast. The kind of tension that settled over a city when something was wrong but nobody wanted to admit it yet.

"There's more," Gladys said quietly. "They're calling it the Hutchinson Strain now. Three more cases overnight—all people who had contact with him in the last week. His secretary, the valet at his hotel, some poor barista at his regular coffee shop."

Kyrsha's stomach clenched. "Are they...?"

"Alive, yeah. But changed. Same symptoms as your guy yesterday at the clinic." Gladys's dark eyes found hers in the reflection of the window. "They're saying it's not airborne, but they don't know how it spreads yet. Could be saliva, blood, close contact."

"Or bites," Kyrsha said softly, remembering the way Patterson had lunged for her throat, teeth bared like an animal.

"Yeah. Or bites."

Kyrsha's phone buzzed on the nightstand, cutting through the heavy silence. Dr. Leanne's name flashed on the screen. She hesitated before picking it up and answering with a “Hello?”

"Kyrsha? I hope I didn't wake you." The older woman's voice carried the weight of a sleepless night. "I'm calling everyone—we're closing the clinic today. Maybe tomorrow too, depending on what the health department tells us."

"Because of Patient Zero?"

"Because of everything. The mayor just announced a 'heightened alert status' for downtown and Beverly Hills. They're recommending businesses reduce staff, avoid large gatherings…” she paused before saying, “ Better safe than sorry, you know?"

After she hung up, Kyrsha stared at her phone for a long moment. A day off should have felt like a gift, but instead it felt ominous. Like the city holding its breath.

"So," she said, turning back to Gladys, "looks like I'm unemployed for the day. Maybe longer."

"Join the club. Half my freelance clients just canceled their shoots. Apparently nobody wants to risk a photo session when there's a new plague strain making the rounds."

Kyrsha scrolled through her contacts, landing on Peter's number. If she was going to be stuck at home while LA slowly unraveled, she might as well check on her friends. Her birthday was in three days—not that she was in much of a celebrating mood anymore—but maybe they could do something low-key.

Peter answered on the second ring, his voice slightly muffled like he was eating. "Kyrsha! Perfect timing. I was just—" There was a pause, some shuffling, then the sound of a hand covering the receiver and muffled voices in the background.

"You okay?" she asked when he came back on the line.

"Yeah, yeah, totally fine. Just, uh, having breakfast with Desiree. You know how she gets when she's stressed—starts cooking for an army."

More muffled conversation, then Desiree's voice calling out something that sounded suspiciously like "hide the streamers."

"Are you guys planning something?" Kyrsha's eyes narrowed.

"Planning? Us? No! Why would we be planning anything? It's not like your birthday is coming up or anything important is happening that would require... planning."

Kyrsha snorted. "You're a terrible liar, Peter."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Anyway, what's up? Besides the whole potential zombie apocalypse thing."

"That's exactly what's up. Work's closed, the city's on edge, and I'm going stir-crazy. Want to hang out? We could go to—" She paused, realizing most of their usual hangouts were probably bad ideas right now. "Actually, where can we even go?"

"Nowhere, really. Desiree was telling me that the Grove shut down early yesterday after some kind of 'incident' in the food court. And Hollywood Boulevard is practically empty—all the street performers and tourists just vanished overnight."

Through her window, Kyrsha could see Mrs. Chen from next door loading her car with what looked like enough groceries for a month. Down the street, Mr. Rodriguez was boarding up the windows of his corner store.

"It's getting weird out there," she said quietly.

"Yeah. Desiree's mom called this morning from Koreatown—she said people are buying out all the canned goods and bottled water. Lines around the block at some stores, fights breaking out over toilet paper. It's like March 2020 all over again, but worse."

Kyrsha watched a police car cruise slowly down her street, the second one in ten minutes. "How is it worse?"

"Because this time, people know what they're preparing for. Sort of. Last time it was just 'stay home, wash your hands, wear a mask.' This time it's 'stay home because infected people might try to eat your face.'"

"Comforting."

"Right? Anyway, why don't you and Gladys come over here? We can order takeout—assuming anywhere's still delivering—and pretend the world isn't ending."

After she hung up, Kyrsha found herself staring out at her neighborhood with new eyes. The wrongness she'd been sensing wasn't just her imagination anymore. It was seeping into everything, turning familiar streets into something that felt like a movie set dressed for disaster.

"So," Gladys said, appearing beside her at the window with two cups of coffee, "ready to watch civilization slowly unravel from the comfort of our friends' couch?"

"Beats watching it unravel from here."

But as they got ready to leave, Kyrsha couldn't shake the feeling that they were all just pretending normal was still an option. The city was holding its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And when it did, she had the sinking suspicion that birthday parties and takeout orders were going to be the least of their worries.

Peter and Desiree's apartment sat in the middle of a converted warehouse in Arts District, all exposed brick and industrial fixtures trying their best to look artisanal. Under normal circumstances, Kyrsha loved the space—it had character, like a magazine spread that someone actually lived in. Today, with half the windows facing the empty street and the other half looking out at shuttered businesses, it felt more like a bunker.

"Jesus Christ," Gladys muttered as they climbed the stairs, Sampson's nails clicking against the metal steps. "This place looks like the opening scene of a zombie movie."