The piercing shriek of her phone alarm ripped Iris from the depths of sleep. Monday. Already? She groaned, swatting blindly at the nightstand until her fingers closed around the vibrating rectangle. Seven AM. Time to face the day, though she'd rather pull the covers over her head and disappear.
Sunlight, a pale New York City gray, seeped through a gap in her curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the stale air of her room. Posters of bands long past their prime clung to the walls, peeling at the corners, a quiet rebellion against the city's ceaseless churn. A pile of discarded clothes formed a dubious mountain on her desk chair. Iris pushed herself up, stretching until her spine popped, and shuffled towards the bathroom.
She brushed out her long, dark brown hair, humming along to the distorted pop song thumping from her phone speaker. In the background, the muted drone of the kitchen TV offered a low counterpoint. Her mom, Sarah, was probably already watching the morning news. Outside, the familiar symphony of the city was tuning up: the rumble of distant subways, the impatient blare of a taxi horn, the faint wail of a siren, a sound so common it barely registered.
In the kitchen, the aroma of burnt toast and her dad's strong coffee hung in the air. David, her father, was already dressed in his crisp military recruiting uniform, looking sharp despite the early hour. Sarah, typically meticulous, was fussing with her purse, her usually neat blonde hair a little askew. The news anchor on the screen, a woman with an unnaturally serene smile, was talking about a "spike in flu cases."
"…officials are urging calm, reiterating that while this new strain is aggressive, there's no cause for widespread alarm," the anchor chirped, the screen flickering to a blurred, distant shot of what looked like Bellevue Hospital, activity swirling around its entrance. "Quarantine zones have been established around the affected downtown area, but residents are advised to continue with their daily routines."
Iris poured herself a bowl of cereal, scrolling through her phone. "You guys hear that?" she mumbled around a mouthful of Cheerios. "More flu. Great."
Sarah sighed, rubbing her temples. "Tell me about it. Johnson from accounting called in sick again. Said he was 'really out of it' yesterday. This bug's going around the office like wildfire." She paused, stifling a small cough into her hand.
David, usually stoic, frowned slightly at the TV, his blue-gray eyes narrowing just a fraction. He shifted his weight, a subtle tension in his broad shoulders. Then, with a dismissive shake of his head, he turned away. "Just another bug, honey. Probably stress."
"Alright, kiddo, we're off," David announced, grabbing his briefcase. "You got your keys?"
"Yep," Iris confirmed, already heading back to her room for her backpack.
"Love you, sweetie! Be careful walking to school!" Sarah called out, her voice a little hoarse. As they headed for the door, Iris caught her mom briefly touching her forehead, a faint grimace on her face, before she plastered on a tired smile and waved goodbye. Iris barely noticed.
The city swallowed her parents, as it did every morning. Iris, backpack slung over one shoulder, walked out of their apartment building and onto the sidewalk. Five blocks. Easy.
The familiar sights and sounds of her neighborhood usually filled Iris with a comfortable sense of routine. Today, though, something felt…off. A faint, almost imperceptible scent hung in the air, metallic and sickly sweet, like old blood mixed with something rotten. She crinkled her nose, dismissing it as typical city grime.
She passed Mr. Henderson, the building super, by the stoop. He was usually gossiping or cursing at a pigeon. Today, he was loudly hacking into a handkerchief, his face pale and clammy, his usually jovial eyes vacant.
He grunted something unintelligible when she said, "Morning, Mr. Henderson," and then seemed to lose focus, staring blankly at the chipped concrete.
Further down the block, a businesswoman in a sharp suit stumbled on the pavement, her expensive handbag spilling its contents. She wasn't drunk, but her movements were jerky, her eyes wide and unfocused as she stared at nothing. She managed to gather herself, mumbling apologies to no one, and shuffled on. Iris skirted around her, a prickle of unease brushing her skin.
More people than usual wore makeshift masks – scarves pulled high over their mouths, bandanas tied across their faces. Their eyes, visible above the fabric, darted nervously, avoiding contact. A small bodega, usually bustling with morning commuters, was dark, its security gate pulled down. A handwritten sign taped to the glass read: "Closed due to unforeseen circumstances."
A discarded newspaper lay crumpled near a trash can. The headline screamed in bold, stark letters: "MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS GRIPS DOWNTOWN." Iris glanced at it, then kept walking. Just more flu, she told herself, trying to shake the growing chill. New York was always dramatic.
By Friday evening, the city's drama had morphed into a horrifying nightmare. The news channels had gone completely silent, their frantic reports replaced by a flat, endless static that hummed like a forgotten heartbeat. Outside, the familiar city symphony was gone, replaced by a terrifying cacophony: distant, desperate shouts, glass shattering, and then, distinctly, guttural moans that no animal on earth could make.
Iris had been alone since school, trying her parents' phones every hour, her frantic calls swallowed by the void. Her stomach clenched with a new kind of fear, cold and sharp. The air in their apartment, usually a refuge, felt thick, heavy with unspoken dread.
Then, the click of the lock.
The front door creaked open, and Sarah Smith stumbled in. Iris gasped, rushing forward. Her mom was ghostly pale, her face slick with sweat, her usually neat hair plastered to her forehead. Her movements were jerky, uncoordinated, as if her limbs weren't quite obeying her. And that smell… the metallic, sickly-sweet scent Iris had noticed Monday was now overwhelming, nauseating.
"Mom? Are you okay? What happened?" Iris's voice trembled.
Sarah swayed, her wide, unfocused eyes staring past Iris, then through her. "The office… chaos," she mumbled, her voice raspy, a low gurgle in her throat. "Chaos… all gone… the office…" Her jaw worked strangely, a compulsive clenching. When Iris reached for her, Sarah pushed her hand away with startling force.
Then, her face contorted. The pupils of her eyes were unnaturally dilated, like black holes, and Iris saw a horrifying network of tiny, broken red vessels spiderwebbing across the whites. A low, guttural growl rumbled from deep within Sarah's chest – raw, animalistic, terrifyingly inhuman.
Sarah lunged.
Before Iris could even react, the apartment door burst open again. David Smith stood silhouetted in the doorway, his eyes sweeping the scene, instantly assessing the horror unfolding. His beloved wife, transformed into a monstrous parody, attacking their daughter.
He didn't hesitate. His special ops training, honed for combat, for survival, for impossible decisions, took over. He threw himself forward, tackling Sarah away from Iris, a desperate, silent prayer on his lips.
In the brutal, desperate struggle, Sarah thrashed. Her head whipped around, teeth bared, and in a horrifying lunge, her jaw clamped down. Pain exploded in Iris's arm, a tearing, agonizing bite.
With a guttural cry of pure anguish and grim resolve, David ended it. A swift, terrible motion. The struggle ceased. Sarah's body slumped, still.
Silence descended. This time, it was absolute, broken only by Iris's gasping sobs and David's ragged, shuddering breaths. He knelt by Iris, his face a mask of unspeakable grief and terror, his hands already tearing fabric to bind her arm. The bite mark was deep, raw, already beginning to swell and fester with impossible speed. He knew what it meant. He knew.
David clutched his daughter, pulling her into his chest, his eyes burning with tears, but his mind already racing. Grief for Sarah tore at him, but an even more primal, desperate drive took over. He could not, would not, let it happen again. He gently laid Iris down, her body already beginning to shiver violently, her skin clammy with fever. He moved with grim, methodical precision, barricading the door, securing the windows, every action fueled by the terrifying knowledge that his daughter was succumbing, and he could not bring himself to make the same impossible choice twice. He watched her, haunted, as the Echo Strain began its devastating work.