The moaning never fully stopped.
It faded sometimes—thinned out, dragged farther away—then swelled back like a tide creeping up the stairwell. It lived under the generators' hum and the emergency lights' faint buzz. It slid between footsteps and whispered prayers. It became part of the building's soundscape the way a storm becomes part of a house: not always loud, but always there.
By the time the clocks would've said midnight, nobody trusted them anymore.
Time moved wrong. It stretched and snapped. Minutes felt like hours, and then whole hours vanished until someone realized their hands were shaking or their jaw had been clenched so long their teeth hurt.
Sharon Leesburg leaned against the nurses' station counter and closed her eyes, counting her breaths like she was trying to hold herself together with math.
In.
Out.
Again.
The air felt thicker than earlier—stale, recycled too many times through vents that didn't know what they were filtering anymore. Underneath the disinfectant was sweat, fear, and that faint metallic bite Sharon had never been able to fully describe to people who hadn't worked medicine.
Blood.
Not one clean injury. Not one controlled bleed.
Blood that had been everywhere.
Somewhere above them, glass shattered. Not close, but close enough that the sound traveled through the building's bones instead of the air. A hollow crack that made every nurse on the unit go still for half a second.
A baby cried from one of the patient rooms—thin, stubborn, alive.
It should've been comforting.
Instead, it made people's eyes fill, because the cry didn't just mean life. It meant sound. It meant attention. It meant please don't let them hear that.
Angela Freeman approached quietly with a clipboard thick with handwriting—room numbers, vitals, names, notes that looked too small for what they were trying to contain. Her steps were careful now, like her body was negotiating every movement with exhaustion.
"We need rotations," she said, voice low. "People are going to fold if we don't."
Sharon opened her eyes. "Barricade first. Hallway watch. Then rest."
Angela hesitated. "Some of them won't rest."
"I know," Sharon said.
They both glanced down the corridor.
Family members sat on the floor with their backs against the wall—some staring at nothing, some whispering prayers, one woman rocking slowly like she could rock herself out of reality. The emergency lights painted everyone in a sickly wash, turning faces gray and eyes too bright.
Near the stairwell barricade, Officer Daniels stayed planted, shoulders stiff, gaze locked on the stairwell door like it might start breathing on its own if he looked away.
And there was Troy Barlow.
Broad-shouldered. Loud even when he wasn't talking. The kind of man who took up space like oxygen belonged to him. He stood over his pregnant wife—who sat on a gurney pulled from a supply alcove—like he was guarding her, but Sharon had seen enough to know the difference between protection and possession.
Troy had been talking all night.
Not prayers. Not comfort.
Just a constant stream of confidence and contempt.
"They're not getting through that door," Troy said loudly, for at least the third time. "I don't care what anybody says. You hold the line, you show strength—people back off."
Daniels didn't turn his head. "That's not what we're dealing with."
Troy scoffed. "Fear's fear. People break."
"They're not acting like people," Daniels replied flatly.
Troy muttered something under his breath that made his wife flinch. Sharon's stomach tightened.
Later, she told herself. Later, when the building isn't trying to eat us.
A low sound rose again from below—moaning, shuffling, the drag of something against concrete.
Then came a new noise.
Not the stairwell.
From the other end of Women's Services.
A sharp, sudden BANG BANG BANG that echoed down their hallway like a gunshot without the crack.
Every head snapped toward the metal double doors that separated their wing from the rest of the floor.
Those doors were heavy, institutional, sealed with a keypad and badge reader. They required a code—or someone inside to buzz them in. That barrier had felt like a blessing an hour ago.
Now it felt like a drum being beaten in a dark room.
Another slam.
BANG—BANG—BANG.
A voice followed—human, panicked, hoarse. "HELLO? PLEASE! Let me in!"
A woman down the hallway gasped. A father rose halfway from the floor, like instinct could shove him toward rescue before his brain caught up.
Sharon moved.
Not running—running meant panic—but fast and deliberate, heels quiet on tile. Angela and Patrice fell in with her immediately, because they understood without needing words: doors were decisions now.
They stopped several feet from the metal doors. Close enough to hear the wetness in the man's breathing on the other side.
"Please," the voice rasped again. "Please—there's people out here. They're—" He swallowed, and Sharon heard it: the thick hitch of pain. "I'm bleeding. I need help."
A second voice—female—cut in behind him, higher, frantic. "Open the door! Oh my God, open it! He's hurt!"
And then, under the voices, another sound.
A low, dragging moan—closer than it should've been.
Sharon felt her scalp prickle.
She didn't step closer.
She raised her voice just enough to carry through the seam. "Sir. Can you tell me your name?"
The man's breath stuttered. "Greg—Greg Hannon."
"Greg," Sharon repeated, keeping her tone calm, controlled, the way she'd spoken to hemorrhaging mothers and fathers fainting in delivery rooms. "Where are you bleeding from?"
A pause—too long.
Then: "My arm."
The woman behind him sobbed. "They grabbed him—oh my God, they grabbed him—"
Sharon's eyes met Angela's. Angela's face had gone pale, but her eyes were sharp.
"Greg," Sharon said, "are you alone?"
"No," he whispered. "No, there's—there's a few of us. We came up. We ran. We—" His voice cracked. "The elevators—people were—" He gagged mid-sentence, like the memory was physical.
A loud thump hit the door from the other side—not fists, not deliberate knocking. Something stumbling into it with weight.
Greg's voice jumped. "Stop! Stop pushing, stop—"
Another slam, harder.
The metal doors shuddered in their frame.
Someone on Sharon's side screamed softly, involuntary, the sound of a body reacting before the mind approved it.
Patrice whispered, "They're piling up."
"They can't open it," Angela said, barely audible, like she was trying to convince herself. "They can't—this door—"
Another THUD.
The moan behind Greg's voice got louder.
It wasn't speech.
It wasn't pleading.
It was just… sound.
A hungry, broken sound that carried through metal like heat.
"Greg," Sharon said, "listen to me. I need you to answer one thing, and you need to answer honestly. Have you been bitten?"
Silence.
Not a clean pause. Not a thoughtful pause.
A terrified pause.
Then Greg whispered, so softly Sharon almost didn't hear him through the seam:
"…yes."
The hallway on Sharon's side went still in a way that felt like death.
A woman behind Sharon made a strangled noise and put her hand over her mouth.
Greg's voice rose in panic. "But I'm still me. I'm still—please, I'm still me. I just need—just give me bandages, give me—"
The woman behind him started crying harder. "He's not—he's not like them, he's—"
A wet sound interrupted her.
A sound that didn't belong in a hallway.
It wasn't a scream.
It was the sound of flesh being worked on. The awful, sloppy rhythm of something tearing that wasn't cloth.
Greg made a noise like he was trying to inhale and couldn't.
Then he screamed.
It wasn't a long scream.
It was a short, sharp burst that ended the way a light bulb ends—sudden, final.
The woman shrieked. "GREG!"
The metal doors shook again as bodies hit them—harder now, desperate, uncoordinated. Not deliberate door-opening. Just people and things slamming into a barrier because the only thought left was forward.
Through the seam, Sharon heard chewing.
Not neat. Not quiet.
Wet, repetitive, obscene.
Someone on Sharon's side retched. The sound splattered into a trash can and echoed.
Another thud hit the doors.
The woman outside sobbed, voice turning animal. "OPEN IT—PLEASE—PLEASE—"
Her words choked into a gurgle.
Then another sound replaced them: a low, thick moan pressed right up against the metal.
Not smart. Not strategic.
Just close.
Just there.
Sharon didn't move. She couldn't afford to.
Angela's hand gripped Sharon's forearm so hard it hurt.
Patrice whispered, "Sharon…"
Sharon's voice came out quiet, but it carried because the hallway was holding its breath.
"Interior rooms," she ordered. "Now. Anyone not on patient care or barricade—move."
People stumbled backward. Some obeyed instantly. Some looked like their feet had forgotten how to work.
Troy Barlow's voice cut through the stunned silence like a slap. "That's why you don't hesitate. You open it fast or you don't open it at all."
Sharon turned her head slowly.
"What did you say?" she asked, calm in a way that made it dangerous.
Troy lifted his hands like he was being reasonable. "I'm just saying—this half-and-half mess gets people killed."
His wife flinched at his tone and tightened her arms around her belly. Sharon saw it. Filed it.
Later.
Angela stepped closer to Sharon's ear. "We can't keep them at the doors all night."
"We're not keeping them anywhere," Sharon murmured back. "We're holding our wing."
Another violent slam hit the metal doors. Something scraped down them, leaving a sound like nails on a filing cabinet.
Then—quiet.
Not relief-quiet.
The kind of quiet that meant the people who'd been begging weren't capable of begging anymore.
Sharon stared at the doors until her vision blurred at the edges, then forced herself to turn away.
If she stared long enough, her brain would start building faces.
And faces were how you lost it.
The night became a chain of noises.
A distant scream from somewhere above them, followed by the stampede of feet—people running without knowing where they were going, just knowing they had to move.
The crash of something metal tipping in a corridor far away.
A baby crying until the mother cried too, whispering apologies like the infant could understand the danger of her own lungs.
And—over and over—people pounding on doors.
Not zombies opening them.
Just the living trying to get away from the dead.
The injured and the uninjured kept coming to the barriers.
Sometimes it was the stairwell door—muffled pounding below, voices pleading, then a sudden choking silence.
Sometimes it was the metal double doors—fists and bodies hitting the sealed wing boundary, a chorus of panic that rose and broke like waves.
The building held the sound and threw it back at them through vents and pipes and tile.
People on other floors were alive. Sharon knew that because she could hear them—faint shouts above, a slammed door somewhere below, the distant call of someone trying to find a nurse, a doctor, anyone.
They couldn't see each other.
They could only hear the building's suffering.
No one slept like people were meant to sleep.
They closed their eyes. Drifted. Jerked awake. Listened. Counted breaths. Did math in their heads so their thoughts wouldn't slide into the dark places.
Sharon stood at the nurses' station with Angela and Patrice, whispering over a handwritten census sheet.
"Room six stable," Patrice murmured, tapping the page. "Postpartum bleed controlled, vitals holding."
Angela nodded. "Room two's partner hasn't sat down in hours."
"Make him sit," Sharon said softly. "Water. Chair. Something. We need them functioning."
Angela's eyes flicked down the hall.
Troy again.
Hovering. Pressing. His wife's eyes lowered, shoulders tight like she was trying to take up less space in her own skin.
Sharon's jaw clenched.
A nurse named Claire sank into a chair and didn't move for several minutes. Not rest—shutdown. Her legs trembling.
Angela crouched beside her. "Hey. Look at me. Breathe."
Claire stared at the wall. "I keep hearing that man's voice."
Angela's mouth tightened. "I know."
Claire swallowed. "If I had opened it…"
"No," Angela said firmly. "Don't do that to yourself."
Sharon heard them and spoke without turning fully, voice rough but steady. "You don't think about forever," she said. "You think about the next ten minutes. The next patient. You make the world small enough to hold."
Claire blinked, tears slipping out anyway. "I don't feel strong."
"That's not what strong feels like," Sharon said.
The generator pulsed beneath the floor, indifferent.
A portable radio—dragged up earlier by a family member before the downstairs became impossible—spat out static and, for a few seconds, a voice.
"…avoid contact… do not approach… if bitten—if bitten—separate yourself immediately…"
Someone whispered, "Separate yourself."
A woman started crying in a quiet, broken way. "That's telling people to die alone."
Renee's voice cut in, tight. "It's telling people not to infect others."
The radio fell back into static.
Sharon stared at it like it had spoken directly to her.
Faith first.
Family second.
Patients third.
But the world was rewriting the order.
The world was saying: You will not save everyone.
She thought of her children—not as an abstract fear, but as bodies in real rooms somewhere in the city. Faces. Hands. Voices.
Lord, she prayed silently, guard them.
Around what might've been two or three in the morning, something changed.
Not in a dramatic, announced way.
In the quiet.
The moaning below thinned until it was almost nothing.
That should've been relief.
It wasn't.
It felt like the moment in labor right before fetal heart tones drop. The calm that made every trained instinct stand up and scream: pay attention.
Angela appeared beside Sharon, voice barely a breath. "It's too quiet."
Sharon nodded without looking at her. She already felt it. The building holding its breath.
From the stairwell end, Officer Daniels lifted a hand, palm out.
Everyone froze.
A sound drifted down their hallway.
Not from below.
Not from the sealed double doors.
From their own wing.
A soft scrape—like a shoe sole dragging. Slow. Uneven.
Then a low moan, close enough to raise goosebumps on Sharon's arms.
It wasn't speech.
It wasn't a person trying to talk.
It was just sound.
Daniels whispered, "Lights low. Voices down."
Troy Barlow muttered loudly, "Jesus, y'all are scared of your own shadows."
His wife flinched.
Sharon didn't take her eyes off the dark end of the corridor.
The emergency light there flickered, making the shadows jump.
Another scrape.
Closer.
Someone whispered, "Is that… is that someone hurt?"
Sharon's stomach turned, because she knew exactly how that question got people killed.
A figure shifted at the far end of the hallway—just a movement in the dimness.
Too slow for panic. Too wrong for normal.
A nurse sucked in a breath, sharp enough to be heard.
And the moment that breath sounded—
the figure snapped its head toward them.
Not smart.
Not curious.
Just reactive.
Just locked onto sound.
It started forward with a jerky stumble, feet slapping softly against tile.
And Sharon understood, with cold clarity:
The long night wasn't just waiting outside their barricades anymore.
It had found a way into the same air.
Not because it planned.
Because the building was full of doors and people and noise—
and noise was all it needed.
Sharon's voice came out low and steady, the tone she used when blood pressure dropped and panic rose.
"Everyone back into rooms," she said. "Now. Quietly. Do not run."
Because running was loud.
And loud was dinner.