The morning sun crept over the towers, casting long shadows across the battered apartment complex. From above, it almost looked peaceful again. A few survivors swept broken glass into corners, others patched gaps in barricades, and a line of children's laundry fluttered weakly from the balcony of Tower B. But anyone who looked closer would see the wear on their faces the dark circles, the tension in their shoulders, the constant glances toward the outer gates.
Shivansh sat alone on the rooftop of Tower C, the wind brushing against his hair as he hunched over the old radio again. A cracked solar panel fed enough juice into the battery to keep it running. Static buzzed through the speaker loud, soft, gone, then back again.
He turned a knob slowly. "Come on… say something," he muttered, scanning the emergency frequencies. "Papa, please…"
No voice came through. Only that same dull hiss.
Behind him, Niharika stepped onto the rooftop carrying two chipped enamel mugs filled with weak chai. She walked quietly, her slippers barely making a sound across the dusty tiles.
"You're still trying?" she asked gently.
Shivansh nodded, not looking up. "I thought I heard something last night. A few broken words something about survivors heading north. But then it cut out."
Niharika sat beside him, handing over the mug. "Maybe try again later. You've done more than most would even think of. He'd be proud."
Shivansh allowed a small smile to form but it didn't last. "He always said if anything like this ever happened, we'd stick together no matter what. And now… I don't even know if he's alive."
"You're keeping us alive," she said. "That counts."
A few stories below, Rekha Sethi was assigning water duties to the Verma twins while Ankita and Gurleen Kaur discussed rationing near the temple steps. It felt almost normal for a brief, fragile moment. Parth was in the distance, helping Imran and Aarav lift an old bed frame to reinforce the society gate. There was order now. A routine. The first breath of calm since it all began.
But it wasn't peace. Just the kind of quiet that comes before a storm.
Aalia arrived at the top of the stairs, wiping her hands on a cloth. She looked tired, more than usual.
"We need to talk," she said.
Shivansh straightened. "Something wrong?"
"Neetu's showing signs of early labor stress," Aalia replied. "Not now, maybe not even this week but it's coming. And when it does, we'll need more than cotton, hot water, and prayers."
Niharika blinked. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying," Aalia sighed, "we're out of most medical stock antibiotics, clean syringes, anything that could help a delivery. I've stretched what we salvaged… but it won't be enough. If she goes into labor in the next few days, we won't be ready."
A silence settled between them.
After a long pause, Shivansh asked the question that already sat heavy in his chest. "Where's the nearest place we haven't stripped yet?"
"The hospital in Sector 37," Aalia replied. "But you know what happened there last time."
Shivansh closed his eyes for a second. The memories rushed back the fight with the hoard, the several moments of dying and someone he saw that alert the zombies.
"We'll go again," he said finally. "Soon."
Mukul's voice floated up from a lower terrace, calling out about a broken drone propeller. Laughter followed. Someone else was cooking. On the surface, the day had begun like any other.
But the truth had quietly slipped in: They weren't alone in this city.
And the longer they stayed, the more likely others would come knocking. The air grew warmer as noon approached, but the wind had a sharpness to it like it carried warnings no one could translate. At the center of the compound, the scavenging party gathered near Tower C's rear staircase, all lightly packed and lightly armed.
Parth checked the straps of his makeshift armor rubber gym pads and duct-taped shin guards while muttering instructions. Aalia wore her usual white kurta, sleeves rolled up, first-aid pouch slung across her shoulder. Aarav had his tool satchel and a small walkie set tuned to Mukul's drone camera feed. Mukul held the drone controller close to his chest, backpack clipped tight. Deepak Kohli, freshly shaved and determined, stood last in line, gripping a wooden bat with nails hammered into the top.
"Quick in, quicker out," Parth said, tapping the hospital layout scratched on cardboard. "Emergency ward, basement pharmacy, then bolt."
"No heroics," Aalia added. "We grab what Neetu and I might need penicillin, saline, scalpels, gloves and get out."
"Got it," Aarav replied, voice thin. "We're not staying for tea."
The gate creaked open, and they moved through the exit tunnel Dinesh had been clearing out earlier. Outside, the world was quieter than expected. Fewer crows. No honking. Just the hiss of wind against empty metal and broken glass.
They made it to Sector 37's government hospital in under twenty minutes. The street outside Sector 37's government hospital looked like a forgotten war zone. Trees had been burnt at the base and collapsed like defeated sentries. The sidewalk was cracked and split open in places, revealing pipes and bone-white tree roots. Dust hovered low, refusing to settle, disturbed only by the faint growl of the scavengers' engine as they turned onto the lot.
Parth killed the ignition before the hospital came into full view. The WagonR coasted to a gentle stop under a tilted shade, its cracked roof groaning slightly.
Nobody spoke.
Aalia was the first to step out, clutching the folded med-list like a sacred scroll. Behind her, Aarav adjusted his backpack straps, eyes darting from window to window of the abandoned structure. Mukul followed, one hand on his drone case, the other clutching a thin rod for defense. Deepak still visibly shaken from the last supply run lagged behind, muttering a quiet prayer under his breath.
The hospital's entrance doors had been shattered weeks ago. They crunched beneath Parth's boots like brittle teeth as he led the group inside. Faded posters warning about dengue and swine flu fluttered faintly in the breeze, their corners stained with fingerprints and dried red patches. Blood had dried in long streaks across the walls. One medical gurney was overturned and lodged sideways into a stairwell, as if someone had tried to block a nightmare.
Aalia moved with precision, guiding them to the rear pharmacy. "Painkillers. Disinfectants. Oral rehydration," she whispered. "Don't grab what you don't need."
They moved like shadows through the dust quiet, methodical. Mukul's drone was already hovering near the top floor, scanning from the inside out through fractured glass. It was mostly clear.
But something felt wrong.
On their way out, as the duffel bag weighed heavier with syringes and formula packs, Mukul's drone pinged. "Stop," he whispered, peering into the feed. "There's… movement."
Outside the compound, parked in the sun-blasted shadows of a broken overhead billboard, were bikes. At least four. A jeep too. Nothing moved, but the drone zoomed in cold engines, but dust recently disturbed.
Parth stiffened. "No sound. Get to the car. Now." They moved fast. But not fast enough.
Before they could start the car, a soft clapping sound echoed from the left.
Eight or nine men emerged from the shadows dressed in ragged jeans, leather jackets, half-helmets, faces hidden behind scarves or tinted sunglasses. Their weapons weren't loud but deadly. Hatchets, pipes, a couple with pistols tucked into belt loops. The Crows.
The one at the center didn't carry a weapon. He wore a black kurta under an open biker vest. His beard was trimmed, eyes unreadable. Calm, poised, and terrifying in his stillness. He didn't need to speak much.
Vikram Chauhan.
He raised one hand slowly, like greeting old neighbors. Parth stepped forward, fists clenched.
Vikram didn't smile. He simply nodded toward the car. "You've got something we want. But not today."
One of the Crows stepped forward and casually pulled the bat from Deepak's hand. Another removed the rod from Mukul's trembling grip. Aalia stepped in front of the bag, but they didn't touch it. That was the trick. No violence. Just the threat of it.
Vikram walked over to Parth, inspected the duffel with a glance, then turned back. "My men told me that you've got walls," he said. "You see we need a place to crash and I think that you little colony might be a good space."
Then he reached into his coat and placed something in Parth's hand "I'll be back for it within two days". An empty revolver. A black feather tied to the barrel.
By the time the Crows melted back into the ruins, the group was still frozen in place. The engine stuttered, coughed, and finally came alive. As they pulled away, no one spoke not even when they saw the fresh corpses hanging from lampposts down the road. Not infected. Killed clean. Stripped.
Aalia held the medicine tighter. Mukul kept glancing at the rearview. And Parth… didn't blink. The gate creaked open slowly, groaning like a wounded thing as Parth's battered WagonR slid into the compound. Ankita and Aarav were already waiting near the entrance, weapons in hand, eyes sharp. They didn't have to say anything the expressions on the returning team's faces said enough.
Mukul stepped out of the car last. He looked older somehow. His hands shook slightly as he unhooked the drone gear from the backseat. Aalia immediately took the duffel of supplies and went to the medical corner, where Neetu was lying under mosquito netting, still breathing hard, unaware of how close the world outside was collapsing again.
Shivansh walked down from the Tower B stairwell, fast but composed. "What happened?" he asked, scanning their faces.
Parth looked him straight in the eye and didn't blink. "We weren't the only ones watching Sector 37 this time."
They went inside. The others followed as word spread. The common room filled fast Imran, Rekha, Gurleen, Niharika, even the Verma twins peeking in from the corridor, sensing something was wrong but not knowing how wrong.
"They were waiting," Aalia said, placing a fresh strip of gauze on the table, her voice low and steady. "Not attacking. Just... watching. Like they wanted us to feel safe before they move."
Parth sat down, still gripping the black feather Vikram had given him. He placed it gently on the table like it was a live grenade. "Ten of them. Bikes. Truck. And Vikram Chauhan."
Imran's brows lifted slightly. "That name again…"
Shivansh nodded. "I've heard it. Radio chatter. Before it cut out."
Aarav who hadn't spoken yet finally broke down. He backed against the wall, slid down to the floor, and covered his face with his hands. His voice cracked. "They didn't even try to kill us. That's what scared me the most."
Niharika knelt beside him, gently taking his arm. "They want us afraid. Broken before they knock."
"They won't need to knock," Dinesh muttered from the back. "I found cigarette ash near the rear sewer entrance this morning. We're being watched. In shifts."
Silence fell over the room like a blackout. Mukul slowly brought up his tablet and tapped through the drone footage. On one grainy frame, barely distinguishable, was the glint of something reflective near the tree line behind Tower D. Not movement. Just presence. Waiting.
Shivansh looked out the window, eyes narrowing. "We need to plan. We may only get one chance." Parth exhaled deeply. "I say we start tunneling again. The old sewer line Dinesh can reopen it. Quietly."
"I'll reinforce the kids' rooms and move the infirm to the center flats," Rekha said suddenly. Her voice was firm, back straight. "If they come… we won't get a second to breathe."
Imran stepped forward, hands behind his back. "And I'll prepare the rifle. We can't hold them off forever, but we can buy time."
A small scream broke the silence. Everyone turned. It came from the Tower B stairwell. One of the Verma twins, Nakul, came running down, wide-eyed. "There's a mark… on the back wall. Black paint. A bird. A crow."
Shivansh rushed up to the terrace. And there it was. A crude but unmistakable painting in thick black strokes. A crow's wings, stretched wide across the tower's concrete backside, dripping with fresh paint, feathers falling like black rain.
They weren't just being watched anymore. They'd been tagged. The crow symbol on Tower B's back wall hadn't dried yet. Paint still dripped like fresh blood, thick and intentional. Shivansh stood staring at it for several minutes, bat in hand, heartbeat echoing through his skull. The rest of the rooftop was quiet too quiet. Not even the wind whispered. It was the kind of stillness that came before a monsoon or a massacre.
He came down slowly, past Nakul who still stood frozen near the stairs, down to the common room where the others waited. "It's not a warning," he said. "It's a countdown."
Parth looked up. "Then we need to finish the tunnel." Imran added, "And prep fallback positions. If they rush the gate, we'll need to split." Dinesh nodded. "It's open till the storm drain under the road. I can get it ready in a day, max."
But Shivansh wasn't listening. He was back on the terrace by nightfall, tinkering with the battered police scanner again. He hadn't stopped trying. Not since his father's last known update from the hills. He flipped through frequencies, filtered static, chased whispers. Then suddenly clarity.
"…Inspector Rajeev Sharma to any surviving Delhi units… AIIMS Rishikesh now operational… limited supplies… all civilian sectors urged to evacuate north. Do not engage with group identified as 'The Crows'… armed… unstable leadership… hostile behavior recorded… repeat: avoid contact at all costs…"
Shivansh sat upright, heart racing. He wanted to scream. Laugh. Cry. His father was alive. He had to be. And he was calling them out of this hell. He ran to Parth, breath heavy. "He's alive. My dad. He's in Rishikesh. He says AIIMS is open. That's where we go."
Parth nodded slowly, but there was no relief in his eyes. "We need to survive the night first."
That night, no one slept properly. Rekha Sethi lit a diya at the temple and sat beside it all evening. Gurleen cooked quietly in the corner kitchen, stirring rice without looking up. Kavita didn't let go of baby Tina once. At exactly midnight, a flash lit up Tower C's stairwell window.
A loud crash followed shattering glass and a small fireball that sputtered out against the stone steps. A Molotov cocktail. No blaze, just smoke and ash curling into the air like fingers clawing at the moonlight.
When they got there, they saw it: a broken bottle, half-burnt rag still smoldering. But it wasn't the bottle that froze them it was what had been tied around the neck. A black crow feather. And a note, written in thick charcoal strokes on torn cardboard.
"You people got two Sunsets from now to co-operate. Or we take it all. V.C."
For a long time, no one said a word. Even Parth stood motionless, the words sinking into his blood like poison. Shivansh stepped forward, picked up the note, and stared out into the darkness past the gate.
The faint rumble of a bike engine sounded somewhere in the distance then silence again. He looked back at the others. "We leave before they arrive," he said quietly. "Or we die when they do." And for the first time, no one disagreed.