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Chapter Text

Cosmo

      Like any usual day in this damned city, the clamor was thick with the rattle of trams on metal rails and echoes of newsboys in flat caps hawking headlines about foreign affairs. Their voices bounced between the maze of brick and slate buildings. It often felt as if their words held more merit than they did. Men of all sorts, in freshly pressed shirts, clung to the folded daily mail along every path. The columns in each of their hands trembled slightly as they caught their first glimpse of the updates from the seemingly new world. The warfare overseas kept everyone's nose buried in these papers, though Cosmo had always thought it was just a racket for a fresh quarter-dollar. Nearby the corner of anywhere, one could always smell the heavy coal smoke in the aroma. It mingled with the putrid scent of the new age automobiles from the long avenues where people lingered. Ashtrays on every café table overflowed onto the marble counters. Cigarette smoke, curling beneath the glow of neon signs and casting everything in a haze the color of old ghosts. Children clothed in wool coats skipped past the corner bakery as they chased each other through puddles left behind by the morning street sweepers. It was just another lively day for most. However, odd as it did not appear, in the shadows of the eastern district, sirens wailed long past dawn. A warning nobody paid much mind to; The nearby military base was always running drills, never bothering to warn the general public. It was the price people often paid for living so close by. With the distant war ongoing, it provided a likely excuse for the paranoid to lean on.

      Cosmo was among the first to sense something was wrong. He had worked as a Licensed Practical Nurse at this specific hospital for nearly five years. It was a steady job in a city that never slept. One might think that after all that time, the horrors would barely register, especially since the war. That the constant drip of adrenaline and exhaustion would fill in any cracks of uncertainty. And he would've agreed with that any other day; However in that morning, dread seemed to gnaw at him like an animal hunger. Every wall around him felt as if terror itself had seeped into each crevice of its fresh paper paint, yellowing its edges. It lay heavy and suffocating as a wet blanket pressed over his face, stifling his every breath. The rotary landline on his nearby nightstand rang before sunrise, its shrill bell shattered the fragile stillness of his flat, shaking even his bones. He snatched up the receiver, and listened to the unfamiliar voice that came through it. It sounded urgent, with orders about an emergency protocol. Report to the hospital immediately. No details, no comfort, just that haunting command. Cosmo felt his stomach twist with an unnamed anxiety. He dressed in the dark, his fingers fumbling so badly that he got his buttons mismatched for the first time. As he stepped into the hallway, he couldn’t remember if he’d even locked his door, his thoughts tangled in his own panic. When Cosmo finally stepped off the streetcar, every corridor reeked of disinfectant so sharp it stung his insides and left a chemical taste on his tongue. The air burned with sterile violence. This assault on his senses was nothing new, he had relied on this jolt every early shift to get his brain in the right mindset. But today it seemed crueler, almost hostile, as if the building itself wanted to drive him out. The light overhead painted every pale square of bone white tile into the color of sickness, making Cosmo's skin prickle beneath his pressed uniform. What first truly chilled him were the soldiers on every corner in olive toned fatigues, their bodies hidden under disposable gowns. No longer the familiar security guards but armed strangers. He noticed their rifles slung across their chests, staring through him with flat eyes as if he were already a ghost. Cosmo felt their tension like static in the air.

      Medical professionals down every hall rushed and nearly pushed past Cosmo in their panic, faces near bloodless when he could see the blurs of them. Once white coats streaked with shiny crimson, stains of it so fresh they gleamed under these bulbs. Some of them he had known for years, people he’d shared endless cups of percolator coffee and late shifts with. But they barely seemed to see him at all. He caught a glimpse of his old preceptor, the man who taught him how to tie a tourniquet with trembling fingers. The preceptor was scrubbing his hands raw at the battered metal sink, his nails pink and rimmed with red from the stiff-bristled brush. He looked up, met Cosmo’s eyes, and for a second, he saw regret and despair etched into every line of his face before he turned away. His shoulders hunched inwards as someone who had already accepted defeat.

      Cosmo swallowed hard, mouth as dry as the bottom of an empty Lucky Strike pack, and forced the words out like a confession he’d regret. “What’s the word?” he murmured to his preceptor, trying to keep his voice steady.

      “Containment breach,” was all the preceptor said back, eyes darting over his shoulder as if even the walls themselves might be listening in for the truth. Though he had questions, too many, that was all anyone would say out loud. Rumors usually spread faster than infections in hospitals, but today, everyone kept their voices low and heads down.

      His first patient of the day was a soldier. Barely older than a boy, probably drafted right out of high school. The soldier’s arm was chewed up with what seemed like bite marks, the flesh around swollen and angry. Bruised rivers crawling with sickly violet. He could see the outline of the veins, slithering outward from the gorge as if corruption itself were mapping the body. The sort of wound that made him flinch just to look at. Cosmo leaned over it, pressing gloved fingers to the open wound, feeling the fever through the latex. Purple and feeble, pulsing with each ragged breath of the soldier. Cosmo wondered for a moment if this boy had a mother waiting for him somewhere, maybe a little sister who still believed he was a hero. He whispered, "You’re going to be alright," but the lie tasted bitter in his mouth.

      That was when the soldier’s hand shot up from where it lay, seizing Cosmo’s wrist in its grasp as if he himself had been the cause of the pain. Cosmo gasped, near choking, as his heart pounded like a jitterbug record skipping on the phonograph. The soldier’s eyes snapped open as he tried to pull him ever closer, clouded, gray, unfocused, like windows fogged from the inside. Cosmo saw his own reflection in them, completely helpless. The soldier’s lips peeled back, teeth snapping at the air between them. The sound was wrong, the kind of noise that seemed to crawl under the skin and nest there. He saw nothing human left in the boy, just starvation and pain, and it hurt in a way nothing ever had before. He wanted him to let go, to run away, but his feet wouldn’t move.

      Cosmo finally stumbled back from the cot, his thoughts splintering, his whole body wracked by a shock so edged it was almost holy. He had never felt a fear like this, before that fact seemed like a blessing. Before he could even scream, the thunder of a firearm cracked through the air. Blood sprayed in a scalding arc, splattering the wall in a fresh brutal mural. The soldier’s body suddenly collapsed onto the gurney, now with two wounds instead of one. Hunger extinguished as abruptly as it had flared. The officer who had fired didn’t even flinch from the shot. His eyes were deadened; he had already crossed some invisible threshold. Cosmo felt every emotion strike him at once, his knees giving way underneath him. He sank into the cold tile, the chill biting through his clothes. He pressed himself flat against the linoleum as if trying to disappear. He gulped for air, desperate to wake up, but the nightmare only thickened and tightened around him with every breath.

      “Get used to it,” the officer muttered, not even looking up from beneath the brim of his service cap. Cosmo wanted to scream at him, at all of them around. He wanted to ask how any of this could ever feel normal in a world where jukeboxes still played love songs and neighbors still left milk on their stoops.. By midday, the hospital had become nothing more than a graveyard in waiting. Overflowing, the halls packed with the wounded and the dying, their dog tags clinking like loose change around their necks. The air filled with the stink of antiseptic and sweat. Cosmo tried to keep count of the soldiers streaming through the doors: some carried in on stretchers, others shackled at the wrists. All of them wide-eyed and terrified, clutching at anyone who would even listen. The bite victims never lasted long: a handful of hours at best before convulsions hit, their bodies jerking and twisting as if it was betraying their own minds. Cosmo did what little he could in his position, feeling more like an extra in a B-movie hospital drama than a real nurse. He tried to comfort them with what he knew. Holding their hands and whispering lies to them about how it would all be okay. Some cried or prayed. Some just stared at the ceiling, silent as the midnight street. But the moment they rose again, Cosmo could see it in their eyes, whatever spark had made them alive was hidden behind something so cold and so hungry.

      Outside, words began to unfurl, no one knowing which version of the truth to believe. Folks spoke of accidents at laboratories, of toxic spills, of experiments gone haywire. Most seemed to blame the war, chemical strikes on their end, some kind of sick weapon. The government issued statements over the AM radio, voices clipped and calm: “A minor incident has occurred. All is well. Citizens should remain calm and go about their business.”

      They thought of people like Cosmo as sheep to herd away from the wolves, but people weren’t blind. No one could ignore the sudden curfews or the screams that even he heard sometimes on his way home from the hospital. His usual path home would take him through half-shuttered storefronts. Now with hastily painted signs reading ‘CLOSED’, the letters crooked. Lights inside flickered in weak, uneven pulses, casting shadows that twitched like the streets themselves were nervous. Cosmo caught a glimpse behind window blinds. Faces pressed against the glass like prisoners waiting for their release. None of them ever spoke, at least not to him. They only stared, silent, pleading, as if he might carry answers he didn’t have. Some nights, Cosmo lay sleepless in bed, listening to sirens wailing somewhere in the dark; the Bakelite receiver of his rotary phone sat heavy in his grip, knuckles bloodless around it, waiting for the call that would summon him back to that place of bleach and blood. He couldn’t bring himself to tell his mother what was really happening, couldn’t bear to put that fear in her voice. So he just told her he loved her, every night, just in case. Sometimes, after he hung up, Cosmo cried quietly into his pillow, wondering if he’d ever see her again.

      Rumors spread, as rumors always do. In one such backstreet, the story went that a child had seen it firsthand. That he had followed his dog into the dark of the city when he heard it whimpering. What he found had froze him. His mutt stood trembling before a man in a torn lab coat. Apparently, the man’s skin had hung gray and sagging, his mouth smeared with the blood of lord knows who. The descriptions he had heard from this particular story seemed eerily similar to those of the patients he’d seen being bundled out of hospital rooms at late hours. The boy never made it home, and by sunrise, soldiers were already patrolling that street. Cosmo once caught wind of talk in the hospital’s break room, hushed over the terrible premade espresso they gave out to ease the woes of never-ending hours. Some said everything started down there, right beneath their feet. Everyone could agree that the government they once trusted would never allow the truth of it to escape. The nurses all pretended to turn their heads, not to hear the whispers, but the fear in their eyes gave them away more often than not. Cosmo sometimes caught himself staring down at the floor, imagining what it would be like if they were to be trapped down there, alone with what they had made. The only certain thing was that new orders were rolling in for the medical staff. Not to cure or save, but to silence, to erase every trace of what had happened. He kept thinking if anyone made it through this mess, whatever it was, will they ever forgive those who played a part? Would he ever forgive himself? Once death had found a way back into the world, it would not return quietly to the grave.

Chapter Text

Sprout

      Sprout never figured he’d end up in the thick of it. Not even after trading in the dreams of an apron for the itchy government-issue uniform, and learning how to stand at attention. He had been drafted so long ago that he lost count of the days in any particular order. His service felt more like punching a timecard than duty. Sprout was lost in the tedium of folding sheets and mopping up messes. He was often assigned to do whatever boring job was handed to him, fading into the background. Routine became his own kind of camouflage against all the wishes left behind. He accepted monotony as a way to keep the world's twisted cruelty at a distance. He had blamed this repetition for why nothing could have prepared him for the moment the shouting started, not even those marching drills or lectures refined into every inch of his being. One second, he was invisible; the next, indispensable. The hallways around him seemed to erupt so suddenly with movement as boots pounded hard against the concrete. Stretchers wisped through the aisles after them with a desperate urgency, so close that he had to press himself flat against the cinderblock walls to avoid being run over. Sprout's name came flying from every direction, sharper than a switchblade. "Sprout! Over here!", "Gauze, stat!" There was no time to hesitate or even think. Every step of his needed to be of use where he could. What he remembered most was the smell of that day. Before the gurneys appeared or alarms sounded over the PA. It was there... something strangely metallic, like a nickel placed between your teeth. A sour, sickly tang that clung to the edges of his consciousness like a forewarning. Rot. Sprout swallowed hard, trying to keep his hands busy. But his mind only drifted back to the bakery from his hopes, like a wish for its freedom. A plea. It always seemed to in stress like this. The scent of rising dough seemed to fill a room and make the whole world feel soft again. Like the old days before the ration cards and blackout curtains. He used to beg his mother to let him crack the eggs or shape the rolls. Though cracking eggs had no comparison to the things asked of him now.

      When Sprout came back to reality, somehow, he found himself standing in one of the city's better-looking hospitals. The kind with polished terrazzo floors and a lobby that still smelled faintly of lemon wax. Perhaps he was following orders, or perhaps he was simply moving where the panic pushed him to go. Just the same, he was hopelessly surrounded by other troopers who looked more at home in a newsreel than he ever did.. Men and women stood ramrod straight at his sides, their uniforms crisp and their boots seemingly spotless. Nobody said a word, not even a wisecrack. He had caught a few glancing at the doors at the end of the foyer, as if they were expecting something to burst through at any second, like a scene out of a serial. Sprout had already known that he didn’t belong in their world, but there he was, stuck in the middle, wishing he could melt away like sugar in water.

      When the gurney flew through the doors of one of the little stand-by rooms, he couldn’t stop staring at the boy as he lay strapped down across the mobile bed from where he stood. He looked so young, barely old enough for a draft card, defenseless in a way that cut right through him like butter. Part of Sprout recoiled at the sight of his arm; it was completely ruined. If the boy lived past the blood loss, they’d have to cut it clean off for sure by the looks of it. But he didn’t want to look at it. No one in that room did. A jagged memory flashed through Sprout's mind of holding a cake knife, its edge gleaming in the warm bakery light. Just the thought of slicing through something so delicate filled Sprout with an intense dread. But just as the rest, he forced himself to stand his ground. He didn’t let himself look away from the swell of it, not even when he felt the urge to escape the suffocating room of the things he couldn’t fix. Maybe Sprout could save him, if only he just knew how. But for now, he could at least be present, could at least refuse to abandon someone who was suffering. He watched the medics’ hands clatter through the stainless steel tray, memorizing every step so he could help if called. He had to retell himself, in that moment, that having courage wasn’t just about never being afraid, but the willingness to stay and face fear. In any case, that’s what his father used to say to him. Disgust quickly churned in Sprout's gut, feeling thick and making him ill, but he wouldn’t give in to it. He needed to stay steady and ready, because someone had to. Because he owed it to him, the boy on the stretcher, and to himself, not to turn away.

      Sprout couldn't help but inspect the nurse slightly as he worked. The nurse seemed the sort who never appeared rattled, at least not by this. It was always visible in their faces, always the first to roll up their sleeves for the ugliest jobs. The one others counted on when feeling their own disdain. He watched as the nurse leaned close to the wounded, murmuring something comforting. Sprout couldn’t catch the words, only his tone. He could only seem to focus on the annoying buzz of the lights in the room, but he saw the way the nurse’s hand hovered above the boy’s shoulder before finally resting there, gentle as could be. For that moment, he had almost let himself believe that this kindness might be enough, that this nurse could pull the boy back from wherever he’d gone.

      But he was wrong, as were all the others at the time. Everything seemed so hopeful until they all watched simultaneously as the restless hand shot out from its restraint and latched onto the nurse. The snap of teeth clanging together rang out through the room. Sight. Breath. Squeeze. Sprout's heart jackhammered in his chest as he fumbled to get a grip on his rifle. Sprout did what he could to steady his breath, but it rattled like dice in a coffee can. His mind raced through every drill he’d ever been taught. There were no directions for this. Eyes on the threat. Feet apart. Ready to step in if no one else could. The world shrank into a tunnel. And then the shot. Not his own, but just as deafening… Just as final. The betrayal of relief that seared through Sprout’s mind before the warmth hit. A mix of gratitude and shame that he hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger. Warm spatters of red hit his cheek and jaw as the narrow bullet wound made the creature’s blood shoot out in a stream across them all. Sprout stumbled backwards away from it as his hand came up to wipe away the wetness, only to smear it further across his skin. He glanced down the line of GIs to spot the one with the smoking sidearm, the culprit of the lead that lay in the neck of the boy. The words Sprout heard from his mouth would haunt him for the rest of his days.

      “Get used to it.”

      This was their future to adapt to, wasn't it? The hush that settled in the room afterward felt emptier than the city after curfew, only broken by a quiet, distant sobbing. It sounded buried as if muffled in the crook of someone’s arm down the hall. Sprout looked down, his hands still wrapped tight around his rifle, fingers numb from the grip. The metal was digging into his palm as he forced it ever closer. Adrenaline was still buzzing within him, but he refused to let go of his gun. Not after seeing what happened when you hesitated. Not after he had seen it was the only thing that stopped that hostile in its tracks. The bandages that he had been carrying just moments before were scattered at his boots, but he kept his weapon ready instead of reaching to collect them. Sprout was determined not to be caught off guard again. It hit him then why the others in the corridor had the reactions they did when he first arrived, their doomed expressions. He took a slow, steadying breath and squared his shoulders, forcing himself to stand tall. To look like someone others could rely on. He then made himself walk, kicking the bandages off his boots as he took his stride. All he could do now was follow the motions; this was what he was here for after all. The other soldiers around him did the same, falling in line. Sprout chose to believe that every one of them was pretending they weren’t on the edge of something they couldn’t quite name. That it wasn't just him, who was. The old daydreams he used to have of cinnamon felt more impossibly far away than ever before. This wasn't the first time he had seen death, but it was the first time he saw someone die twice.

Chapter Text

Shelly

your final gore warning

      There was a cold comfort in the way the museum taught Shelly to handle death. She couldn't help the smile that stretched across her cheeks as she evaluated the vast display of relics in front of her. A small cracked coin lay on her tray, a particular favorite of the day. Its surface is marred by time. Face permanently etched with a reflection of humanity’s eventual path. The daily cataloguing of bones and death’s kind reminders was all meant to keep the reality of desolation at arm’s length, but it never worked the way she hoped. The truth was, she felt every ounce of loss radiate within her from each bone she handled. Her touch offered a deep sympathy that weighed on her soul, as if she could feel empathy through her fingertips. Every display, once alive, was now a cradle for someone’s veined gaze. Down to the tiniest artifact, no matter how cold and weightless it felt in her hand, had a special way of making her ache for a world she never knew. She mourned for strangers whose stories she would never learn, and the grief of it all settled in her bones like dust.

      Two hours into her shift, amid a particularly lovely morning, something started to unravel. Sunlight slanted through the stained glass and it made the radiance paint the marble floors with colors that felt like a blessing. Shelly took a quiet pace through each of the exhibits on her usual path, still finding wonder in this place. There was a reassuring rhythm in the metallic slide of the coin dish in her hands as she sauntered along. She often arranged a platter of these trinkets for the weekly school tours. It filled her with a sense of pride, finding all the little ways she could make history beautiful for everyone around her, just as she found it. There was a special type of peace to days like these. Once she found her usual standing post, she let her fingers linger on the coins, tracing the faint designs etched on their surface while she waited. The buses were on time. She had seen them yellow as lemon drops just that morning on her way inside; they should've been in this section by now, surely. Teachers ought to have lines filed along the door waiting for her to unlock them. Just as Shelly turned to puzzle out the silence, she heard the loud sting of the building's alarms blare. She planted her feet quickly in her aghast as she quickly rushed for an excuse. It's just another drill, she told herself. There had been so many: fire drills, gas leaks, even that bomb threat that turned out to be a janitor's forgotten lunchbox. But this time was different, ending up being, anyway...

      The thud that came from behind was not just a noise. It ruptured Shelly's thin lie to herself more than any alarm could have, as if something monstrous had landed behind the exhibit case. She prayed it was nothing more than a child knocking over a thousand-year-old vase. It would have been an expensive mistake, but one she’d seen before. That illusion was shredded before she even had the chance to fully believe it. Shock gripped tight around her throat and nearly claimed her as another heavy bulk plummeted to the ground. The impact was so violent that the sound of brittle bones snapping and flesh rupturing rang out thick from under it. Its cacophony matching the unholy echoes of something less than sane that ricocheted through the marble halls. She staggered back, unknowingly toward the carnage in time to see an elderly man collapse into a glass display. The case didn’t just break; it exploded, slicing through his flesh and embedding shards deep into his writhing body. The closest security guard, who had instinctively tried to help, stopped short in terror once he gained a closer look. He nearly tripped over his own feet at the shock of the old man's appearance. How he convulsed, and how his blood smeared the glass as each of his limbs spasmed. Each time his body struck the case, a fresh splatter of red and skin rained down, painting the relics inside with gore. Worst of all, his teeth gnashed at the air. Jaws snapping with barbarity, flecks of foam spraying from his lips with each mastication. Screams erupted and rattled the bones in Shelly's own skull. A woman nearby lurched past her, blood bubbling from her nose and mouth, her face distorting as her eyes bulged so far they threatened to burst. She pitched forward, hitting the floor with a wet, sickening slap.

      It was pandemonium, pure, unrelenting terror. Bodies dropped as even the floor seemed to hunger for them. People sprinted, slipping in pools of blood, careening into fossils that shattered under desperate hands. Chunks of flesh and broken bone littered the tile, relics crusted with viscera. On the ground visitors dragged themselves, crawling through it all, leaving bloody smears with each movement, like kids finger-painting on the driveways. Most of these few were trampled, their screams cut short beneath pounding feet, doomed by others' terror. A woman in the corner rocked, her hands digging bloody crescents into her scalp, sobbing as her friend convulsed and foamed beside her. A child clung to the base of a statue, wails swallowed by the stampede of adults trampling the fallen. In the distance, a new alarm began to howl, almost organic, as if the building itself was alive and screaming with us.

      She was paralyzed… trapped in her own skin like a deer caught in the headlights, unable to scream or run at that moment. Shelly's thoughts fractured, every momentum of rational hope splintering under the pressure of her own apprehension. She could feel her chest humming so furiously within her it was like her heart might rupture beneath its own beating. A cold sweat drenched her as icy trails carved the outline of fear across her skin. She stumbled, running even if her legs felt like they belonged to someone else. There was only one place she could even fathom to go: toward the main door, the lobby. She was still clutching the tray in her hands, dropping it felt like it might break the last thread tethering her to normal life. Her limbs were trembling so terribly that the coins rattled like loose teeth, spilling out every side. She saw hell pressed against the glass doors when she reached the lobby: crowds clawing at the panes, fingernails snapping. A pile of strangers smeared rufescent handprints as their palms streaked down the daunting glass doors. Shelly's own tears spilled as the sight of the worst thing she had ever seen struck her.

      So she ran. That glass wouldn't hold, and she wasn't going to stick around for the grand finale. Shelly burst out through the service doors, into the streets of the upscale district. The cobblestones shone clean here, and the boutiques were shuttered in the early hour like nothing bad could ever seep into their world of Chanel and pearl necklaces. The panic hadn’t reached here yet, not fully. The silence of wealth insulated this side of town. Her breath came in serrated gasps, and her legs carried her on pure instinct. The city seemed to run with the pulse of her own terror. But it wasn't just fear driving her forward; it was the thought of the museum back there, filled with pieces of history she was going to become. Vee, too. She had to find Vee. Vee was the one person who always knew what was going on, always seemed to have her finger on the pulse. The kind of gal who could tell you what was happening three blocks away before the morning edition hit the newsstand. She must have some answers.