The Care Home.

The television mounted high in the corner of the dining room was usually ignored.

Most afternoons, the residents of Hawthorne House preferred their own conversations. Some talked about grandchildren. Others watched rain gather on the garden windows while the clock ticked above the fireplace.

That Tuesday felt ordinary.

Rachel Martin carried a tray of tea through the room while Arthur Finch stared at the television.

“The news is on,” Arthur said.

Rachel smiled.

“It usually is.”

“No.”

His brow tightened.

“They’re scared.”

She glanced up.

A reporter stood outside a hospital. Ambulances crowded the entrance. Police barriers blocked the road.

“…unconfirmed reports of violent incidents…”

The channel changed before the report could continue.

A game show replaced it.

The room relaxed.

Arthur did not.

“They’re scared,” he repeated.

By evening, three staff members had called in sick.

By morning, seven more had failed to arrive.

Rachel stood in the office with manager Judith Holmes and maintenance supervisor Tom Barrett.

Judith held a silent phone against her ear.

“No answer,” she whispered.

“Anywhere?” Rachel asked.

Judith shook her head.

Council offices. Police. Emergency planning teams.

Nothing.

Tom appeared in the doorway.

“You need to see this.”

Outside, smoke rose beyond the town center.

Several dark columns against a grey sky.

A siren sounded in the distance.

Then stopped.

The town felt abandoned.

At lunchtime, a delivery driver arrived.

He refused to leave his van.

Rachel approached the open window.

“You all right?”

The driver looked exhausted.

“They’re attacking people.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re biting people.”

His voice trembled.

“In the streets.”

The van pulled away before she could ask another question.

That afternoon the internet failed.

The phones followed.

Television channels vanished one by one until only emergency broadcasts remained.

The final message arrived just after sunset.

Remain indoors.