Chapter 2
920words
Beth’s fingers tightened around Toby’s arm, her body freezing. "That’s Lillian Hart. She’s in Biomedical Sciences—uses the lab on our floor sometimes." Her gaze darted from the wardrobe barricade to the door connecting their en-suite to the shared corridor. "Her room’s two doors down, but the bathroom’s in between. The pipes burst last week—they boarded it up with plywood."
Toby’s palm tingled. The transparent panel flickered to life, outlining the corridor in faint blue: [Corridor: 15m total length, 2 infected detected (bathroom entrance, linen closet). Hostile proximity: 12m. Lillian Hart (Biomedical Sciences student) – vital signs stable].
He picked up a heavy brass bookend from the desk, testing its weight in his hand. "We move quietly, hug the walls. If we make noise, they’ll swarm before we reach her."
Beth nodded, pulling a pair of scissors from her sewing kit and tucking them into her cardigan pocket. Together, they inched toward the corridor door. Toby pressed his back to the cold stone wall, turning the handle slowly—thankfully, the college’s annual maintenance meant the hinges didn’t creak.
The corridor reeked of damp and metal. Grey mist seeped through window gaps, blurring the fluorescent lights into hazy orbs. Toby gestured for Beth to stay behind him, then crept forward, bookend raised. His boots squelched in puddles from the burst pipe, the sound sharp in the silence.
A low growl rumbled from the bathroom doorway.
It was the boy in the tracksuit—now a gaunt shadow of himself, his uniform torn to rags, jaw hanging at an unnatural angle. Dark fluid dripped from his fingers as he swayed, head twitching toward the sound of their footsteps. Behind him, another infected—a girl in pyjamas—scratched aimlessly at the plywood boarding the bathroom.
"Left side," Toby whispered. "When I say run, go straight for Lillian’s door. Don’t look back."
He hurled the bookend with all his strength. It smashed into the infected boy’s temple, sending him staggering into the wall. Beth sprinted past, her trainers barely making a sound, while Toby wrenched a metal towel rail from the wall and swung it at the pyjama-clad girl. She crumpled to the floor, but not before her claws grazed his forearm—leaving four red lines that oozed blood and burned.
"Lillian! It’s Beth!" Beth called, slamming her fist against a door decorated with a faded DNA helix sticker.
The lock clicked. The door flew open, and a girl with sharp cheekbones and ink-stained fingers pulled them inside, slamming it shut and jamming a metal chair under the handle. She wore a lab coat over her hoodie, her dark hair tied back in a tight ponytail—it was Lillian Hart, just as Beth had described.
"Thank God," Lillian gasped, collapsing into a desk chair. She nodded at a shattered window, its frame reinforced with duct tape. "Heard the broadcast, tried to board up the glass. Then they came—I watched three of them drag Sarah from the kitchen." Her voice cracked, then steadied. "I brought lab samples. The virus isn’t bacterial—it attacks the brain stem, accelerates decomposition. And it’s not just bites—saliva on open wounds works too."
Toby’s arm throbbed. He glanced at his panel: [Host status: Minor laceration, no viral contamination detected. New eligible target: Lillian Hart. Current favourability: 25 (Gratitude for rescue)].
Beth noticed his stare. "You’re hurt." She rummaged in her bag, pulling out a small first-aid kit emblazoned with the St. John Ambulance logo, and knelt to clean his arm with antiseptic wipes. "Grandfather made me keep this. Said ‘you never know when history repeats itself’."
The panel pinged: [Beth Williams – favourability increased to 40 (Recognition of reliability)].
Lillian raised an eyebrow. "You two know each other?"
"Academic stuff," Toby said, wincing as Beth wrapped gauze around his arm. "We were sorting her grandfather’s plague-era manuscripts. Speaking of—you said the virus hits the brain stem? The 1665 Plague had similar neurological symptoms. Her grandfather’s notes mentioned a hidden water tank in the tower—used for emergency supplies during quarantines."
Lillian’s eyes lit up. "The West Tower? I saw maintenance logs last month. There’s a cistern on the third floor, sealed since the 70s. But the stairs are blocked—three infected by the landing." She nodded at a corner of the room, where a fire extinguisher leaned against the wall. "Grabbed that on my way in. And these."
She opened a drawer, revealing several test tubes filled with clear liquid. "Ethanol, from the lab. Flammable—good for distractions, if nothing else."
A creak suddenly came from Beth’s en-suite. Then a loud crash echoed down the corridor—something heavy hitting the floor.
Lillian tensed. "They’re breaking through the barricade."
Toby’s panel flashed red: [Hostile proximity: 8m. Multiple infected converging on en-suite entrance].
He stood, grabbing the fire extinguisher. "The cistern. We need to get there. Water’s our priority—and if Beth’s grandfather was right, there might be more supplies."
Beth slung her first-aid kit over her shoulder and nodded. Lillian stuffed the test tubes into her lab coat pocket, then pulled a wrench from her tool belt.
"Lead the way," Lillian said.
Toby checked his panel one last time. Beth’s favourability glowed at 40, Lillian’s at 25. The starter pack still sat on Beth’s floor—5 bottles of water, 3 biscuits. Not enough. But if they reached the cistern…
He nodded at the door. "On three. One… two… three!"
Lillian kicked the chair aside and wrenched the door open.
The corridor was swarming with infected.
