Luke and I looked up. The unmistakable small red flash of a plane flying above, a tiny dot in the darkening skies. It looked too close to the ground.

Then, I noticed two little planes flying alongside the aircraft as if herding it.

They were F-22s.

Fighter Jets.

"What on earth is that thing doing?" Luke asked as we watched the plane turn in circles like flies.

It wasn't only us who began to notice. Some people on the road did, too. They began recording it on their phones. On the ground, we didn't know what was happening. It was comical and yet scary at the same time to watch the plane hovered above a city that had a history of being a victim of terrorism.

However, at five thousand feet in the air, a new terror emerged.

A female patient from New York-Presbyterian Hospital, who was released a few minutes after Dr. Krasinsky's death, managed to board a flight back to San Francisco after a successful vocal cord surgery days prior. Though, she suddenly fell ill.

It was the same plane she boarded flying above the city.

Her condition worsened after take-off, and the plane was forced to land back to LaGuardia Airport in Queens when the CDC found the origin of her surgery back to the Presbyterian hospital, which was under full quarantine. Then, the plane was quarantined five thousand feet in the air for hours. Hours before the businessman attacked our bus driver on the street.

Things turned for the worse.

The infected woman attacked the doctor on board overseeing her. And minutes after, like a cascading wave, that same doctor attacked the other passengers on board.

It was a domino effect.

In minutes, half of the passengers on the plane got infected. Others were dead, too mangled and torn up to turn.

The cabin became a death trap.

The pilots couldn't land nor open the door to the cockpit for the survivors on board.

Before the hour finished, all one hundred and fifty souls on board were infected, all clamoring to get into the cockpit where the last two remaining survivors--the captain, and his co-pilot--desperately pleaded air traffic control for their lives.

With fuel running low, they'd eventually have to go back down.

As we watched the plane fly above us, not knowing the horror that gripped inside its cabin, the CDC had no choice but to enact their last countermeasure, hoping to save the city.

The two F-22s sent to escort the plane above were given an order.

And as I continued to watch the dance between the three of them—the plane and the two fighter jets—on the night skies, two successive missiles shot out from the F-22s.

The plane blew up into a cloud of yellow and orange, illuminating the sky for a second like a second sun against the night.

No moment of respite came after.

A second after the plane blew up, the chaos from above violently seeped down on the streets.

All at once, a cacophony of screams arose from the pedestrian crossing. The crowd backed away and started fleeing, and then I heard the familiar screech of a man in agony. The same sound the bus driver made when the businessman had him between his teeth.

I whirled around and saw the bus driver was alive.

He had his teeth latched deep onto Mr. Ramirez's arm. The bus driver took a big chunk of his flesh, tearing it wide open. Mr. Ramirez wailed. People stood rooted, a few tried to help, while the cop was too stunned to do anything.

And before I could help him, it was too late.

The bus driver grabbed Mr. Ramirez's arm, pulled the English teacher closer, and bit his nose.

Mr. Ramirez screamed. He violently pulled himself off the man's grip, but his nose was missing. Mr. Ramirez scrambled, clutching his noseless and bleeding face, and staggered to the side. The police officer, finally gaining his senses, tried to grab his gun in his holster, but the bus driver reached to him first. He fired his gun at his chest, but it was no use. Just like the businessman before, it did nothing to stop his attack.

The bus driver took a bite out of the cop's ears, wrestling the cop to the ground.

The people who once crowded around the intersection began to scatter away from the carnage.

Logan tried to run and help Mr. Ramirez, but Natalie stopped him, pulling his arm back to the sidewalk in a fit of panic. Carson seemed like he was about to bolt out of there while Aria hid behind a street post, her face drenched with tears and runny makeup.

I finally moved my feet, heading straight toward Mr. Ramirez who was groaning and crying on the pavement. But a hand shot out and grabbed my arm, pulling me back.

It was Luke.

"Don't!" He bellowed.

I turned back to Mr. Ramirez, and a sliver of doubt crawled in. Should I help or not? A part of me went against the idea, and yet he was my teacher and gravely wounded. I didn't dare move.

Suddenly, two men who tried to help Mr. Ramirez started screaming. Out of nowhere, a haggard woman came out of nowhere and jumped on one of the man's back and sank her teeth on his right cheek. Then another attacker, a man in torn-up hospital scrubs, tackled the other Good Samaritan and pounced.

Then another.

And another.

They were like a flood, storming from a back alley. They shared the same hateful look as the businessman, snarling at the fleeing crowd and attacking those who weren't fast enough. They all streamed out of the street to my right; in the direction where the reported riots broke out.

I was frozen on my spot. It was surreal to watch the chaos unfolding, especially coming out of watching a plane exploded above us. People were screaming on the streets as the rioters rolled in like a tide. People were punching and beating each other.

They flooded the intersection into chaos.

Three attackers had jumped on Mr. Ramirez. Bones and flesh tore off of his bones, and there was nothing I could do to save him. From the bus's headlights, I saw his eyes glazed over.

The police officer a few feet away from him now lay dead on the pavement as well. Half of his face was missing. Bullet casings scattered around him.

The bus driver who killed him took off after an old woman, chasing her back into the bus. After they both struggled inside, an abundant amount of blood splattered on the windshield.

Then, those who died started stirring.

Time for me to get the fuck out of there.

When I turned around, Carson, Aria, Logan, and Natalie were already gone. I saw them disappear inside a coffee shop a block down.

Luke and Yousef stayed behind, ready to run, and shouting at me to move.

I started running.

But I didn't run toward the coffee shop.

I bolted to the police car, clamoring for the gun.