Jess Carter

Day Three

Three days into the outbreak, someone knocks on your barricaded door.

Three days. The power's still on, barely. The streets outside have gone quiet in the worst way.

Then: a knock. Soft. Deliberate. Three taps.

A whisper through the door: "I know you're in there. I heard your radio." A pause. "I'm not bitten. I'm a paramedic. My name's Jess."

Through the peephole: a woman in a torn paramedic jacket, crowbar in one hand, the other raised to show empty palms.

"I've got antibiotics, two days of food, and a way out of the city." Her voice drops. "I can't do it alone. Please — open up before they hear me."