The Unturned
It started with a single case in the heart of the city. A man, feverish and weak, collapsed in a subway station. His blood tests revealed a strange, unidentified virus. The media latched onto it like vultures, crafting sensationalized headlines about an apocalyptic outbreak. The government stepped in with a name that sealed the fear into people’s minds: ZV-1, the “zombie virus.”
In truth, no one ever turned into a zombie.
Still, fear gripped the world. The virus spread rapidly but had only mild symptoms—fatigue, occasional headaches, and an elevated body temperature. Scientists worked tirelessly to understand it, but the public didn’t wait for answers. They saw the word “zombie” and ran with it.
At first, infected individuals were met with sympathy. But as cases grew, so did paranoia. News anchors speculated: What if the transformation takes time? What if it’s lying dormant, waiting to strike? Experts tried to reassure the public, but fear was louder than science.
Hospitals began turning patients away. Landlords evicted tenants suspected of carrying the virus. Jobs were lost overnight. Anyone who tested positive for ZV-1 found themselves cast out of society.
Nathan Cross never expected to be infected.
A construction worker by trade, he had spent his days rebuilding parts of the city damaged by years of economic decay. One day, he woke up feeling feverish. A mandatory workplace test confirmed it—ZV-1 positive.
He didn’t feel like a monster, but his employer saw it differently. He was fired the next morning.
“Nothing personal, Nate,” his boss had said, not even meeting his eyes. “It’s company policy. We can’t take risks.”
Risk of what? No one had turned. No one ever had.
His landlord was next. A notice on his door gave him 48 hours to vacate. “For the safety of our tenants,” it read. Safety from what? He wasn’t dangerous. He wasn’t anything other than a man with a flu-like virus that had never turned anyone into anything.
Still, there was no arguing with fear.
The streets became his home. He wasn’t alone. The homeless population had tripled since the outbreak began. People in tattered clothes huddled in alleyways, some wearing masks, others too exhausted to care. Signs reading “INFECTED NEED FOOD” littered the sidewalks. He met former teachers, doctors, business owners—each of them marked by the same affliction.
One night, as he sat around a barrel fire with a few others, a woman named Carla told him her story. She had been a nurse, one of the first to treat ZV-1 patients before hospitals shut their doors. When she tested positive, her neighbors burned down her apartment complex to “contain the threat.”
“We’re not even sick,” she muttered, staring into the flames. “Not really. Not like they think.”
Nathan looked down at his hands, rough and calloused from years of labor. “So what do we do?”
“Survive,” said an older man across from him. “And wait. Either people wake up or they don’t.”
The government took the next step a few months later.
“All infected individuals are to report to designated facilities,” announced the President on live television. “For the safety and well-being of the nation.”
It wasn’t phrased as a demand, but everyone knew what it was.
Rumors spread fast. The facilities were camps. Prisons. Some said those who went in never came out. Others whispered about mass graves. Nathan had no intention of finding out which was true.
He moved carefully, avoiding areas with heavy police presence. Those who didn’t register were declared fugitives. Some people turned in their own family members for reward money. He saw a man dragged from his home while his wife sobbed in the doorway, swearing he was healthy.
One evening, Nathan found himself in an abandoned warehouse with others who refused to go quietly.
“We need to fight back,” said Carla, her eyes burning with defiance. “We need proof. Something that forces people to see the truth.”
Nathan agreed, but how? Science hadn’t convinced them. Pleas for human decency had fallen on deaf ears. What could they do?
And then an idea struck him.
“What if we expose someone?” he said. “A politician. Someone important. Someone who has ZV-1 but has been hiding it.”
Carla frowned. “You think one of them has it?”
Nathan nodded. “I’d bet on it. It spreads easily. The difference is, people like us don’t have the money to make it disappear.”
They dug. It took weeks, but they found their proof. A high-ranking senator—one of the loudest voices calling for infected individuals to be quarantined—had tested positive months ago.
Unlike them, he hadn’t lost his job. He hadn’t been evicted. He hadn’t been forced into hiding.
They released the evidence anonymously. Within hours, it was all over the news.
The backlash was immediate. Protesters flooded the streets, demanding answers. The government scrambled for a response, but the damage was done. People who had blindly accepted the narrative began to question it. If the infected were truly dangerous, why had this senator continued his life as usual?
Doubt took root. And doubt, Nathan realized, was more powerful than fear.
Change didn’t come overnight. But it came.
The first facilities shut down within a month. Employers were forced to reinstate workers. Landlords, faced with lawsuits, begrudgingly reopened doors. Scientists were given the funding they needed to study the virus without political interference.
And when the final study was released—confirming that ZV-1 was, and always had been, harmless—the world had no choice but to accept it.
Nathan stood in front of a newly reopened diner, reading the “Help Wanted” sign in the window. A year ago, he had been unwanted. Today, he could reclaim his life.
He took a deep breath and stepped inside.
The world wasn’t perfect. The scars of fear and hatred wouldn’t fade easily. But for the first time in a long time, there was hope.
And hope, Nathan thought, was how everything began again.