They put Evan in Room Four because it was the smallest.
Not because anyone said it out loud—but because it was easier to control a smaller space. Easier to seal. Easier to watch. Easier, they told themselves, to keep everyone else safe.
Evan sat on the edge of the hospital bed with his feet dangling just above the floor, sneakers still on because no one had thought to ask him to take them off. Or maybe they hadn't wanted to touch him. He was seventeen. Thin. Pale in that washed-out way teenagers get when they haven't slept enough and live on energy drinks and vending-machine food. His hoodie was zipped all the way up, hood pulled low, like he was cold even though the unit was warm.
He kept rubbing his left forearm.
Over and over.
The bite wasn't big.
That was the problem.
It had happened somewhere in the chaos—on the stairs, in the crowd, when people had been pressed too close together and no one had been looking down. The skin around it was already darkening, a bruise blooming outward in ugly purple and gray tones. Teeth marks, shallow but unmistakable, crescented just below his sleeve.
When Sharon had seen it, her stomach had dropped so fast she thought she might vomit.
Now everyone knew.
And the knowing changed everything.
They hadn't handcuffed him at first.
They'd stood in the doorway instead—three nurses, Officer Daniels, Sharon—forming a loose, frightened semicircle like that alone might keep the future from rushing them. Evan's parents weren't there. Neither was anyone claiming him. No one had said that's my son or that's my brother. Which somehow made it worse.
Evan looked at their faces and understood before anyone explained.
"I didn't do anything," he said quickly, voice cracking. "I swear. I didn't even feel it at first."
No one accused him.
That made his breathing speed up.
"I think I just scraped something," he continued, words tumbling. "Or maybe it was a nail. Or—" He swallowed. "You don't know it's from them. You don't know."
Sharon stepped forward then, slow, deliberate, hands visible.
"Evan," she said gently. "We need to keep you under observation."
His eyes flicked past her to the barricaded stairwell door, then back. "Observation for what?"
No one answered.
His hand tightened around the bed rail.
"Am I going to die?" he asked.
The silence that followed was an answer all its own.
They moved faster after that.
Someone produced restraints—real ones this time, not handcuffs but soft medical straps meant to keep patients from hurting themselves. Evan flinched when he saw them.
"No," he said, scrambling backward on the mattress. "No, no, no—you said you were helping me."
"We are," Sharon said, though her voice shook now. "This is for safety."
"For whose?" he demanded.
No one said everyone else.
They didn't need to.
Officer Daniels was the one who approached first. He crouched so he was eye-level, his movements slow, controlled.
"Evan," he said, "I need you to listen to me."
Evan's breath hitched. "You're going to shoot me."
Daniels swallowed. "No."
"You have a gun."
"I do," he said quietly. "And I don't want to use it."
Evan laughed once, sharp and hysterical. "That's not comforting."
The first strap went around his right wrist.
Evan screamed.
Not a loud scream. Not yet. Just a sound ripped straight from panic—raw and childlike and sudden. His body bucked as the nurses tried to secure him, his heel kicking against the bed frame with a metallic clang that echoed too loudly in the quiet unit.
"Stop!" someone shouted.
"Hold him—gently—"
"Evan, breathe—"
The second strap went on.
Then the third.
By the time they finished, Evan was shaking so badly the bed rattled.
"I don't want to die," he sobbed. "I don't want to turn into one of them. Please. Please, I'll be quiet. I won't hurt anyone. I promise."
Sharon stood at the foot of the bed, hands clenched into fists she forced herself to unclench.
"Evan," she said, her voice breaking through the noise. "Listen to me. We're going to help you as long as we can."
He locked onto her like she was the last solid thing in the room. "You're a doctor."
"Yes."
"You can fix this."
Her chest tightened painfully. "I can treat symptoms."
"That's not what I asked."
His skin was already clammy. A sheen of sweat coated his forehead, his hairline darkening.
"Please," he whispered. "I want my mom."
That did it.
One of the nurses turned away sharply, pressing a hand over her mouth. Another stared at the floor like if she looked up she'd break.
Sharon stayed.
Because someone had to.
Evan's breathing changed first.
It went from fast and shallow to uneven, hitching in strange places. He gasped like the air wasn't working right anymore. His fingers curled against the restraints, tendons standing out stark beneath his skin.
"My arm hurts," he whimpered. "It feels like it's on fire."
Sharon moved closer, checking his pupils with a flashlight. They were dilated. Too fast. Too wide.
Fever spiking.
"Temp?" she asked.
"103.8," Angela said, staring at the thermometer like it might lie.
Evan whimpered again, then cried out as his back arched sharply off the mattress.
"Make it stop!" he screamed. "Please—please—"
The sound ripped through the unit.
Down the hall, someone knocked over a cart. A baby started crying. From both secured access points, fists struck metal almost immediately—drawn by the noise like moths to flame.
The barricade shuddered.
"Sharon," Daniels said urgently. "We can't let him keep screaming."
Evan's eyes rolled back briefly, then snapped forward again—focused now, frantic.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," he sobbed. "I don't. I swear. I'll be good. I'll be quiet. Just don't leave me."
Sharon made the call.
"Sedation," she said.
The word landed heavy.
Angela hesitated. "If we sedate him and he—"
"I know," Sharon said sharply, then softer, because this was still her team. "I know."
They prepped the syringe with shaking hands.
Evan watched them, terror flooding his face. "What is that?"
"Something to help you rest," Sharon said, leaning in close so only he could hear her. "It will help with the pain."
"Am I going to wake up?"
Her throat closed.
"Yes," she said anyway. Because anything else would have shattered him completely.
The needle went in.
Evan cried out again—loud, panicked—and the sound set off a chain reaction.
The pounding at the stairwell door intensified. From the opposite end of the wing, something slammed into the locked double doors separating them from the rest of the floor. Metal rattled. Someone screamed.
"Too loud!" someone hissed.
Evan's voice cracked and rose, words slurring now. "Mom—"
The sedation hit fast.
His body slackened abruptly, head lolling to the side, breath evening out into shallow, uneven pulls. His eyes fluttered, then closed.
The unit went deathly quiet.
The moaning outside pressed closer.
Sharon stood there, staring down at the boy she could not save, only slow.
This was incubation.
Not an explosion.
Not a moment.
But a waiting.
They posted two nurses outside Room Four.
No one volunteered.
Officer Daniels stayed nearby, jaw clenched, gun still holstered.
They turned the lights down further.
No one spoke above a whisper.
Time stretched thin.
Evan began to convulse an hour later.
Not violently at first—just small, involuntary jerks that shook the mattress. His breath hitched. His jaw worked like he was chewing something that wasn't there.
"Sharon," Angela whispered.
She was already moving.
His temperature had climbed again. Sweat soaked the sheets beneath him. The bite had turned black at the center, veins spidering outward in angry red lines that pulsed faintly with his heartbeat.
"Evan," Sharon said softly, checking his responsiveness.
His eyes snapped open.
They weren't right anymore.
He looked at her—and didn't quite see her.
Then his mouth opened and a sound came out that wasn't a word.
Low.
Wet.
Hungry.
The nurses recoiled instinctively.
Evan strained against the restraints with terrifying strength, the bed frame creaking as his body fought the limits holding it. Foam gathered at the corners of his mouth. His teeth snapped together, hard enough to crack.
"Oh God," someone whispered.
Sharon didn't step back.
She should have.
But she didn't.
"Evan," she said, voice breaking now. "I'm here."
His head turned sharply toward her voice.
His eyes locked on her throat.
Officer Daniels moved instantly, stepping between them.
"That's enough," he said hoarsely.
Evan screamed.
Not words.
Just sound.
The noise was unbearable—raw, high, continuous. It bounced down the hall, slammed into walls, echoed through vents.
Both barricades shook violently now.
Hands pounded metal.
Something shrieked.
"Sharon!" Angela shouted. "We have to stop this!"
Sharon nodded, heart breaking, hands already moving.
Another syringe.
Stronger this time.
Final.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, not sure who she was apologizing to anymore.
The injection stilled him.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
Evan's body sagged against the restraints, breath rasping, eyes rolling back once more. The screaming cut off mid-sound, leaving a ringing silence behind.
The pounding outside continued.
But softer now.
Less frantic.
The unit exhaled as one.
Sharon sagged against the wall, knees threatening to give out.
No one spoke.
Because everyone understood what they'd just witnessed.
This was only the first.
And somewhere, somehow, someone had missed the bite.
Which meant—
"How did he get bit?" someone whispered.
Sharon closed her eyes.
Another voice followed, shaking. "And if it was him…"
The unspoken question filled the room.
Who else?
And where had it happened?
The moaning outside answered with patient certainty.
The night was far from over.