From the Pen of Thomas Miller

The sun had barely climbed over the flat Florida horizon when the first scream came from the hospital in south Orlando.

It wasn’t a tourist scream. Not the kind that came from roller coasters or overpriced hotel surprises.
This one was wet. Human. Real.

Donny Row had heard plenty of sounds in his life — the hum of power tools, the whistle of air compressors, the sweet grind of metal under pressure. But nothing like that.
He stood in the hallway outside the patient wing, still wearing his construction uniform, still thinking this would be a quick job — a few hours fixing drywall after “some minor incident.” That’s what the call had said.

But then the alarms started.
Then the doors locked.

Inside, the “vaccinated” patients were convulsing, breaking bones they didn’t seem to feel, veins pulsing black beneath the skin.
The government nurse shouted for help.
Then she started biting.

Donny bolted. He didn’t wait to see what came next. The security lights flickered as he crashed through the stairwell door, the smell of antiseptic and fear chasing him down.

Out in the parking lot, the morning light burned too bright, too normal. He could still see the skyline — Disney’s castle spire in the distance, Universal’s globe gleaming under a tourist sun.
But something was wrong.
Something deep in the air.

He fumbled for his phone, called his best friend, Kevin McCorm.

Kevin was already at the Universal gates, ambulance parked sideways across the entrance, red lights flashing against the archway like a warning beacon to the world.
He answered on the second ring.

“You seeing this on your end?” Donny panted.
“Yeah,” Kevin said. “We got ‘em here too. The ones from the shot.”
“How bad?”
“You ever seen someone smile while their eyes rot out?”

The line went dead.

By noon, the highways were closed. Every news station said the same thing: “Stay calm. The situation is contained.”
But Orlando was already lost.

Disney fell first.
Families trapped inside, waving from balconies as the infected stormed the gates. The news drones caught glimpses before the feed cut — Mickey ears floating in bloodied water, the castle burning from within, a voice over the intercom still saying, “Have a magical day.”

Down I-4, Universal fought back. They used the props, the barricades, the old movie sets. The gates of hell had opened — and Universal turned itself into base camp.
It was messy, desperate, and loud.

Donny made it there by sunset. His truck rattled across the empty parking lot past crushed strollers, abandoned suitcases, and one lone balloon that drifted across the asphalt like a lost prayer.

Kevin met him at the barricade. His paramedic uniform was torn, his face streaked with soot and fear. Behind him, the old Horror Make-Up Show theater had become a command post.
The park map sign had been spray-painted: “BASE CAMP U.”

“You made it,” Kevin said, gripping his shoulder.
“Barely.”
“They’re calling it Stage Three Infection.”
“I’m calling it the end.”

They stood there for a moment — two men who used to laugh on these same streets, who once stood in line for butterbeer, who cheered when the fireworks exploded over the lake.
Now the only fireworks came from gunfire.

Night fell fast. The screams got closer.

From somewhere deep in the ruins of Disney, a red glow rose like a dying star.

Kevin stared at it, whispering, “They said it was safe.”

Donny tightened his grip on the crowbar hanging from his belt. “Yeah,” he said quietly.
“They said a lot of things.”

And with that, the first shot of the new war echoed through the empty streets of Orlando.