Chapter One.

Waking up is its own special kind of torture. It’s not a gentle nudge, but a sledgehammer to the skull. My body felt like it was in full revolt, every cell screaming in protest after being cheerfully marinated in poison last night. A low groan escaped my lips, a sound that seemed to rattle my very bones.

"Damn," I muttered, rolling onto my side. The cheap hotel sheets stuck to my skin, and the movement sent a fresh wave of nausea through my stomach. But my head was the main event. It didn't just ache; it felt like the entire weight of a mountain was balanced right behind my eyes.

I put a trembling hand to my forehead. My fingers were cold against my clammy skin. I could feel a rhythmic, pounding thud right there, a sick drumbeat matching my frantic heart. Each throb was a reminder of that last tequila shot, the one I’d accepted with a laugh that now felt a universe away. Slowly, painfully, I cracked one eye open. The dim light of the room stabbed at my eyeball like a shard of glass.

My vision swam, then focused on the twin bed beside mine. It was empty, the sheets a chaotic mess. A hollow feeling, different from the hangover, settled in my chest. I wasn't surprised. Not really. This was the pattern, the unspoken script of every trip I took with Elise. The party would peak, the music would throb, and Elise—beautiful, impulsive Elise—would vanish into the night, pulled away by a new pair of eyes, a charming smile. I was always the one left behind.

Last night, after realizing I’d been abandoned at a stranger's beach villa, I stumbled back to the hotel alone. The rest of the night was a blur of room-service vodka and canned laughter from the TV, a pathetic attempt to fill the silence until I finally passed out.

I squinted at the clock on the wall. The red numbers burned into my brain: 1:45 PM. I’d slept through the entire morning. Elise would be stumbling back soon, I was sure. She’d burst through the door, her energy barely dimmed, smelling of sea salt and someone else’s cologne, with a long, dramatic story already on her lips.

And I, Ethel, would have to listen, my head throbbing, and then deliver my well-rehearsed lecture about safety and responsibility. "I'm not ready for that, Elise," I whispered to the empty room, the words feeling hollow. "I'm not ready to be the one left to explain."

My mouth felt like a desert. My tongue was thick and fuzzy. I didn't dare try to speak. Survival was the only goal. And survival required coffee. Lots of it.

I staggered out of bed, and the world tilted. I held onto the nightstand until the dizziness passed, then took a few slow, shuffling steps toward the bathroom. The tile floor was cold under my bare feet. I flicked on the light and winced, catching my reflection in the mirror. I looked like hell. My hair was a bird's nest, my skin pale and waxy. I splashed cold water on my face. The shock was a small mercy, but it wasn't nearly enough to make me smile. It just made me aware of how truly awful I felt.

I stumbled back to the main room and fumbled for the phone. I pressed the button for room service. The phone rang. And rang. And rang. Nothing. I slammed the receiver down, the impact spiking fresh pain through my head. "Unbelievable," I rasped. I tried two more times. Nothing. So much for the "good customer service" at the Paron Island Resort. Looks like I'm getting my own damn coffee.

With a sigh, I started the slow process of making myself look halfway human. I pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a soft t-shirt—a small comfort. I gathered my wild hair into a messy bun. One last look in the mirror. "Oh, no," I giggled weakly. My eyes were a network of broken blood vessels, the whites a violent, streaky red. They looked like two tiny maps of hell. I dug out my eye drops, tilted my head back, and let the stinging liquid wash some of the red away. There. Now no one had to know the full story.

I opened the hotel room door and stepped out into the hallway. And I stopped.

It was… silent. A deep, heavy, unnerving silence. The hallway stretched out in both directions, all identical dark doors. No hum of a vacuum, no chatter, nothing. A shiver went down my spine. I hated quiet places, and I blamed Elise and her awful horror movies for that. This hallway was a perfect setting for one of those films. I half-expected a monster to appear at the far end.

"Get a grip, Ethel," I muttered. "It's just a hangover. You're imagining things."

I walked to the elevator and pressed the button. It lit up, but there was no hum, no sound of movement. I pressed it again. Nothing. A trickle of anxiety joined the nausea in my gut.

"What the actual heck?" I whispered to the empty hall.

The stairs. The thought made my spaghetti-legs ache. But I had no choice. I shoved open the heavy stairwell door. The concrete echo of my footsteps was jarring. I descended slowly, my head pounding with every step.

The main lobby was a vast, open space with a high ceiling and fancy furniture. And it was completely deserted. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and stared. No one at the front desk. No guests. No one. The only movement was dust dancing in the afternoon sun.

This wasn't just odd. It was wrong. My fuzzy mind scrambled for a reason. A fire drill? A staff meeting? A more absurd thought popped up: Was there a rapture and I got left behind? A hysterical laugh caught in my throat. Well, if that were true, I wouldn't be alone for long. Elise would definitely be down here with me.

I shook the thought away. Coffee. Mission first.

The breakfast buffet was in the next room. I walked in, my sneakers squeaking loudly on the marble. The sight was surreal. The buffet was fully stocked, but abandoned. Congealed eggs, shriveled sausages, dry pastries. It was like a museum display of a last meal.

My stomach churned with panic now, not just hangover. I found a stack of mugs and a coffee carafe. I poured a cup. The rich smell was a tiny piece of salvation. I held the warm mug, closing my eyes, trying to feel normal.

Then I heard it.

A soft, wet, crunching sound.

It came from behind me. I froze. The sound was low and rhythmic, like an animal gnawing on a bone. Every horror movie warning I'd ever screamed at Elise flashed through my mind. Don't go toward the strange noise!

But my feet moved on their own. I crept forward, holding my coffee mug like a shield. I peered around a large column. The sound was coming from behind a long table with a cloth that went to the floor.

The crunching stopped.

I held my breath. The silence was worse.

Then, a low, guttural grumble. Something was moving under the tablecloth. A rat, I thought desperately. It has to be a rat.

I took another step, leaning to see under the table. My foot bumped a chair leg on the floor. The clatter was like a gunshot.

The world exploded.

With a snarling grunt, a figure erupted from under the table. It was a woman in a torn hotel uniform, drenched in dark, sticky blood. One arm was a mess of jagged wounds. But her face… her eyes were wide and milky, her mouth hanging open, her chin slick with fresh blood. In her hand, she clutched a piece of raw meat.

"Oh, crap!" I screamed.

The woman roared and launched herself at me. I stumbled back, my coffee mug flying and shattering. She crashed into me, and we tumbled to the ground. The smell was awful—blood, sweat, and something like spoiled meat. I thrashed, trying to push her off. She snapped her teeth, a horrifying clack just inches from my face.

"Get off! Get off me!" I screamed. I brought my knee up hard into her stomach. She grunted. I shoved her sideways, and her head cracked against a table leg.

I didn't wait. I scrambled backward like a crab, then leaped to my feet. My whole body was trembling, but my mind was screaming one word: RUN!

I sprinted for the elevator, slamming the call button over and over. "Come on, please!" I begged, looking back. The woman was already getting up, moving with a jerky, scary speed. Her milky eyes locked on me.

The elevator was dead. The stairs were my only way out. I bolted for the stairwell door. I could hear the slap of bloody feet on the marble behind me, getting closer. I hit the door at a full run. My foot slipped on the first step.

I cried out as I fell, my shins scraping hard against the rough concrete. Before I could even feel the pain, a cold, strong hand closed around my ankle.

I screamed and kicked backward with my free foot. My heel connected with something soft—her face, I hoped—and the grip loosened. I heard a furious growl, and then she was on me again, crawling up the stairs with terrifying speed. I rolled onto my back, kicking out wildly. It was like kicking a sack of wet cement; she barely seemed to feel it.

As her bloodied mouth lunged for my leg, I got my feet under me. I launched myself upward, taking the steps two and three at a time. I didn't look back. I didn't stop until I reached my floor. I fumbled with the heavy door, my hands slick with sweat, terrified it would be locked.

It swung open. I fell through into the hallway and slammed it shut, leaning against it, my whole body shaking.

I ran, stumbling, to my room. My hands trembled so badly I could barely get the key card in. A green light. A beep. I threw the door open, fell inside, and slammed it shut, locking the deadbolt and the chain.

I slid down the door onto the floor, pulling my knees to my chest.

"Oh my god… Oh my god… Oh my god…" I chanted. My heart was a wild drum in my chest. The hangover was back, my head throbbing in time with my pulse. So much for getting coffee. I had nearly gotten myself killed.

A sudden, violent knock on the door made me jolt upright with a short scream. For a terrifying second, I thought the bloody woman had found me.

"Ethel! Open the damn door!" a familiar voice yelled, full of impatience.

Elise.

A wave of relief so powerful it left me weak washed over me. I scrambled up, undid the locks, and yanked the door open. Elise pushed past me, a whirlwind of perfume and messy blonde hair, and beelined for the bathroom, slamming the door.

I stood there, stunned by how normal it was. After the horror downstairs, her drama was almost funny. Anger started to replace my relief. "Really?" I snapped, my voice still shaky. "You just push in after being gone all night? No 'hello'? No 'sorry I abandoned you'?"

The toilet flushed. Elise came out, looking refreshed and not sorry at all. "Sorry," she said, without meaning it. She gave me a weak, charming smile. "I really, really had to pee. The line for the elevator was, like, insane." She flopped onto her bed and peered at me. "What's up? You look like you just saw a ghost."

I let out a hollow laugh. "Damn right I did." I fell backward onto my own bed, staring at the ceiling. The adrenaline was fading, leaving me exhausted.

Elise sat up, her flippant mood shifting a little. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," I said slowly, "that a crazy woman, covered in blood—like, lots of blood—just tried to kill me in the lobby."

Elise stared at me, her eyebrows knitting together. She opened her mouth to reply, probably with a joke, but another knock on the door stopped her.

This knock was different. Weaker. A feeble tap, followed by a low moan.

"I'll get it," Elise said, hopping off the bed, glad for the distraction from my crazy story.

"Elise, wait—" I started, but it was too late. She was already looking through the peephole. She gasped, a sharp sound of real shock, and stumbled back from the door, her face pale, her hand over her mouth.

I was on my feet instantly. "What? What's wrong?"

Elise just pointed a trembling finger at the door.

My heart in my throat, I approached and looked through the peephole.

The distorted view showed a man slumped against the doorframe. He was shirtless, his chest slick with sweat and blood. A deep, ragged bite mark on his shoulder was oozing dark red. His face was ashen, his eyes wide.

"Help… me…" he groaned, his voice barely a whisper through the door.

Without a second thought, Elise unlocked the door and yanked it open. The man—Gary—half-fell into the room, collapsing on the floor just inside the doorway. Elise quickly slammed the door shut and locked it again.

"Are you crazy?" I hissed, my heart hammering. "We don't even know him! He could be anyone!"

"He's... he's the guy who dropped me off," Elise said, her voice small and shaky. She stared at the bleeding man with a mix of horror and recognition.

"You mean the guy you hooked up with last night?" I asked, my voice flat.

Elise just nodded, still staring. "His name is Gary."

I let out a long, exasperated sigh. This was going from bad to insane. But he was here now, bleeding all over our cheap hotel carpet. "Well, don't just stand there looking shocked," I snapped, my practical side taking over. "Help me! Get the first-aid kit from the bathroom. And grab some towels!"

I knew Elise was useless with blood—she got queasy at a paper cut—but this was her mess. I knelt beside Gary, trying to see how bad it was. The bite was deep and ugly, the flesh torn and angry. This was way beyond a simple bandage.

It took twenty messy minutes to clean and wrap his shoulder as best we could. I did most of the work, my hands surprisingly steady despite everything. Elise just hovered, handing me supplies while looking like she might be sick. We used up almost the whole first-aid kit and two fluffy white towels, which were now stained a deep, ugly red.

Gary was propped up against Elise's bed, his breathing shallow. He was conscious, but just barely. He still looked terrible.

"So," Elise finally asked, her voice trembling. "How did this happen?"

Gary's eyes fluttered open. He looked from Elise to me, his gaze hazy. "I don't know," he slurred. "A crazy woman... outside the hotel, by my car. I asked if she was okay, and she just lunged at me. Bit me." He winced as he tried to move.

Elise and I exchanged a look. A crazy woman. A bite. The pieces were starting to fit together, but the picture they made was too crazy to believe.

"And how do you know our room number?" I asked, my voice sharp. That part felt important.

"I told him," Elise admitted quietly, looking at her hands. "Last night. So he could... find me this morning."

"Seriously?" I exploded, my fear and frustration boiling over. "A guy you just met? What if he's the dangerous one?"

"Stop being dramatic, Eth," Elise shot back, but her heart wasn't in it. She was scared. "We need to take him to a hospital. Now. Look at him!"

"Yeah, no kidding," I retorted. He did need a doctor, badly. But I was covered in his blood and my own sweat, and I felt disgusting. The grime from the lobby floor, the terror, the hangover—it all clung to me. "But I need a shower first. I can't think like this."

I didn't wait for an argument. I grabbed a clean towel and locked myself in the bathroom. The shower was a sanctuary. I stood under the scalding water, letting it wash away the blood and the fear. The steam helped clear my head. My pounding headache finally started to fade, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. When I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, I felt almost human again. Almost.

Back in the room, Elise was chewing on a thumbnail. Gary was still on the floor, his eyes closed. The room was silent except for his ragged breathing. I dressed quickly in clean jeans and a hoodie. We needed a plan. We needed to know what was happening.

I picked up my phone. The signal was low. I mindlessly opened a social media app, scrolling through the usual vacation photos. And then I saw it. A post shared by a friend back home, the headline screaming:

WHAT IS HAPPENING ON PARON ISLAND? IS THIS THE APOCALYPSE???

My blood ran cold. I clicked on it. It was from a sketchy website, but the photos were real. Blurry shots of people fighting in the streets. A broken car windshield. The article talked about an "outbreak" of a "rare disease" that made people violent. The comments were pure chaos.

"Elise," I said, my voice low and urgent. "Look at this."

But Elise was just staring into space. I knew I needed better proof. I grabbed the TV remote.

"What are you doing?" Elise asked, snapping out of it. "We need to go! This isn't the time for TV, Ethel!"

"Just be quiet for a second," I said, my tone leaving no room for argument. I turned on the television and started flipping channels. Every major news channel showed the same message: "Technical Difficulties. Please Stand By."

My stomach tightened. I kept flipping. More static. Then, a local island channel flickered to life. A young reporter was standing on Paron's main coastal road. She looked terrified. Her hair was a mess, and there was dirt on her cheek. The camera was shaking.

"—don't know how much longer we can broadcast," she said, her voice breathless. "Paron Island is... it's going crazy! There's an outbreak of a rare disease. It makes people violent and aggressive. If you are scratched or bitten, seek medical help immediately. It's highly contagious."

She looked down at her notes, her hands shaking. She looked back up, her eyes wide with pure fear. "I've just been told... All transportation on and off the island has been shut down. The ferry, the airport... everything. The government is trying to contain this."

Another loud crash sounded off-camera. The reporter's head whipped around. Someone yelled. The camera jerked wildly, and the screen dissolved into static, followed once again by the "Technical Difficulties" message.

The room was dead silent. The only sound was Gary's labored breathing. The truth crashed down on me. It wasn't just one crazy person. It was an outbreak. A quarantine. We were trapped.

I jumped to my feet, the last of my tiredness burned away by pure adrenaline. "Okay," I said, my voice steady. "Gary has to get to a hospital now, before he gets worse." The unspoken words—before he turns into one of them—hung in the air.

"Yeah, but how?" Elise wailed. "The reporter said everything's shut down! We're stuck here!"

"Dammit!" I ran my hands through my damp hair, pacing the small space between the beds. This was a nightmare.

A weak, rasping voice came from the floor. Gary was trying to sit up, wincing. He fumbled in his jeans pocket and held up a single car key with a little silver surfboard keychain. "I have a car," he managed to say. "In the back lot."

I stopped pacing. I looked at the key, then at Gary, then at Elise. It was a lifeline. A dangerous one, but it was all we had.

"Okay then," I said, grabbing the key from his trembling hand. The cold metal felt solid. A plan, however flimsy, was forming. "Let's go."

I grabbed my coat, my phone charger, and on a wild impulse, snatched a half-empty bottle of warm beer from the nightstand. I needed something to take the edge off. This was definitely an edge that needed taking off. I shoved it into my coat pocket.

Elise helped Gary to his feet, supporting his weight. He groaned in pain, but managed to stand. Together, the three of us—the hungover realist, the terrified party girl, and the bleeding stranger—headed for the door. We stepped out of the room's shaky safety and into the unknown chaos waiting for us outside. The door clicked shut behind us, a final, ominous sound.