The question didn't fade.
It infected the hallway the same way whatever was happening downstairs had infected bodies—quietly at first, then all at once.
Whose family member was this?Where did he come from?How many others could be bitten?
Sharon felt the shift before anyone spoke. People stepped back from one another without realizing they were doing it. Hands crossed over arms. Parents pulled children closer. Partners stopped touching.
The floor didn't feel shared anymore.
It felt divided.
Angela broke the silence, her voice steady but tight. "We're doing a full check. Everyone. Staff, patients, family members."
Immediate pushback.
"No.""You can't do that.""That's insane."
A man shook his head violently. "I'm not infected."
Renee snapped, "You don't get to decide that."
Daniels stepped forward, scanning faces now instead of doors. "We also need a head count."
That got their attention.
"A full census," Sharon said. "Patients. Families. Staff. And the nursery."
A ripple of unease moved through the hallway.
Angela turned sharply. "The babies."
Patrice was already moving. "I'll take two nurses and check the nursery now."
"No," Sharon said immediately. "Four. Lock the doors behind you."
Patrice nodded once and motioned. "Claire. Yvette. Marisol. With me."
They moved fast, sneakers squeaking softly against tile as they disappeared down the hall.
Sharon turned back to the group. "We do this in parallel. Bite check and head count. One at a time. In rooms, not the hallway."
A woman near the wall started crying. "This feels like we're being accused."
"It's not an accusation," Sharon said. "It's containment."
"That's worse," someone muttered.
Daniels raised his voice just enough to cut through the murmuring. "If you were bitten and you don't tell us, you're putting everyone here at risk."
That did it.
The bite check began.
At first, it was controlled.
Patients lifting sleeves. Nurses checking ankles, forearms, shoulders. Partners reluctantly pulling back collars. Most injuries were mundane—scratches from panic, bruises from falls, IV marks mistaken for something worse.
But fear distorted everything.
"That scrape wasn't there before.""Yes it was.""No, it wasn't."
A woman accused her husband of hiding something. A mother refused to let anyone examine her teenage son. A man backed into a corner when asked to remove his jacket.
And then there was the boy.
He sat on the floor near the nurses' station, knees pulled tight to his chest, hoodie sleeves dragged over his hands. He looked about seventeen—skin pale, eyes darting, jaw clenched so tight it trembled.
Renee crouched in front of him. "What's your name?"
He hesitated. "Evan."
"Evan," she said gently. "I need you to lift your shirt."
"No."
"Evan—"
"I'm fine," he snapped, voice cracking. "I feel fine."
Daniels stepped closer. "We just need to check."
Evan's breathing sped up. "I don't want everyone staring at me."
Angela softened her voice. "We'll step into a room."
Evan shook his head harder. "No. I'm not infected."
"Then show us," someone said from behind.
Evan stood abruptly. "I'm not doing this."
He tried to push past Renee.
Daniels blocked him, reflexive and fast. "You can't leave."
Evan shoved him.
The movement yanked his hoodie up.
And everything stopped.
The bite was on his side, just below the ribs.
Angry red. Swollen. Teeth marks unmistakable.
Fresh.
A woman screamed.
Evan froze, eyes wide, looking down at himself like he was seeing it for the first time.
"No," he whispered. "No. I—I pushed them off."
"When?" Sharon asked quietly.
"Downstairs," Evan said, panic flooding his face. "Someone grabbed me near the ER doors. I didn't think—"
"Why didn't you say something?" Renee asked.
"Because you'd lock me up!" Evan cried. "Because you'd treat me like a monster!"
Daniels tightened his grip. "We need to isolate him."
"No!" Evan screamed. "I'm still me!"
Sharon stepped closer, meeting his eyes. "Evan. Listen to me. We don't know what this does yet. We need to keep everyone safe—including you."
Tears streamed down his face. "I don't want to die."
The words hit harder than the screaming.
They escorted him to an empty room.
The lock clicked.
No one spoke.
At the same time, Patrice returned from the nursery.
Her face said everything before she spoke.
"All babies accounted for," she said. "Sixteen infants total. Fifteen patients on postpartum. Three active labors. Two scheduled C-sections postponed. Nursery doors were locked. Nurses never left."
Relief swept the hallway in a fragile wave.
"And staff?" Sharon asked.
Patrice glanced at her clipboard. "Fourteen nurses. Three doctors. One security officer."
Daniels nodded. "Matches my count."
Sharon exhaled slowly.
Then Angela asked the question that brought the fear rushing back.
"And families?"
They went quiet again.
One by one, names were called. Numbers tallied. People accounted for.
Until they weren't.
Angela frowned at the list. "We're missing one."
A woman near the wall went pale. "Who?"
Sharon's throat tightened. "The man who was just killed."
Silence.
"He wasn't listed as a patient," Angela said slowly.
"He wasn't staff," Patrice added.
"And no one claimed him," Renee finished.
The realization spread.
He had walked in with them.
Unnoticed.
Uncounted.
Already bitten.
Sharon looked around the unit—at the closed doors, the crying babies, the people watching one another now with open suspicion.
Her voice was low when she spoke.
"If we missed him…"
She didn't finish.
She didn't need to.
The hallway felt smaller.
Tighter.
And everyone understood the same thing at once:
They hadn't just failed to catch it early.
They had no idea who else might already be carrying it.
And that knowledge—that doubt—was far more dangerous than the dead outside the doors.