I trudged home that evening, my shoulders aching from a long day of wrestling with rusted pipes and stubborn drains. The familiar creak of our front door in Toronto's Roncesvalles neighborhood greeted me, a small comfort after hours of labor. Inside, the rich smell of Sarah's lasagna curled through the air, causing my stomach to growl at me.

  "Daddy!" Emily's voice piped up, bright and eager, as she barreled into me, her eight-year-old arms squeezing my legs.

  I tousled her dark curls, grinning despite the exhaustion. In her hands, she clutched the little brass pipe fitting I'd given her—her "treasure," she insisted on polishing every week. Said it reminded her that her daddy could fix anything.

  If only that were true.

  Jake, my sixteen-year-old, lounged across the couch, his phone glowing in his hands.

  "Hey, Dad," he mumbled, barely glancing up.

  Under his typical teenage indifference, I knew there was a good kid. The prior weekend I caught him slipping his allowance into Emily's piggy bank—he got more than she did.

  Sarah stepped out of the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour, and flashed me a smile that still makes my chest tighten after all these years. Sixteen years together, and that smile hadn't changed since the day we met in school. She'd been the steady one when I'd nearly dropped out and the practical force behind my decision to learn plumbing.

  "Dinner's almost ready," she said, pecking my cheek. Her fingers lingered on my arm a moment longer than usual—a small gesture, but I noticed.

  "Everything okay?" I asked softly.

  She hesitated. "The news today has been...strange. Nothing concrete, but—" She shook her head. "Let's eat first."

  I dropped my toolbox by the door, the thud muffled by the hum of the TV, and that's when I noticed it—muted images flickering across the screen, creating a sense of unease.

  Crowds downtown near the CN Tower, people running, screaming.

  I turned my attention towards the broadcast and asked, "What's going on?"

  Sarah's smile vanished. "They're saying there's some kind of outbreak. A virus. People are...attacking each other."

  Jake snorted, rolling his eyes. "Sounds like a conspiracy, to be honest. I think it's just a bunch of junkies."

  But the footage showed more.

  A man lunged at a woman, teeth sinking into her arm. Blood sprayed. The camera shook, then cut to a frantic anchor. I felt a cold prickle crawl up my spine.

  "We should get some supplies packed," I said, keeping my tone even. "Stay on the safe side, you know?"

  Sarah nodded, her hazel eyes darting to the kids. "I'll call Lisa and Tom. They can come here. Better to be together, right?"

  As she dialed, I noticed something out the kitchen window—Mrs. Baker, our seventy-year-old neighbor, stumbling oddly across her backyard. Her movements were jerky, like a marionette with tangled strings. Blood stained the front of her cardigan.

  A police siren wailed nearby, followed by another. And another—Mrs. Baker disappearing, following the sound.

  As I closed the curtains, Jake called from the living room, his voice suddenly tense.

  "Dad, look!" he waved me over. "The supermarket."

  The news had switched to the local grocery store. People clawed at each other; shelves toppled. A shopping cart, pushed by hands unseen, rolled through a spreading pool of dark blood.

  "Mommy?" Emily tugged at Sarah's sleeve, her innocent expression looking up at her. "Do I have to go to school tomorrow?"

  Sarah pulled her close, stroking her hair. "I don't think so, sweetie."

  "Good."

  "I don't like school," Emily added.

  "I know, baby."

  I took a deep breath. "Jake, help me get the emergency kit from the basement. Sarah, what did Lisa say?"

  "They're on their way. Tom heard gunshots near their apartment."

  As Jake and I descended the basement stairs, his voice dropped low. "Dad, is this real? Like, actually real?"

  I wanted to lie, to reassure him. The way his eyes searched mine reminded me of when he was five, asking if monsters were hiding in his closet.

  "I don't know," I admitted. "But whatever's happening, I'll protect you."

  He swallowed hard, then nodded. For a moment, he was my little boy again, not the teenager who thought he knew everything.

  We hauled up the emergency supplies we'd gathered after that ice storm three years back—flashlights, blankets, a first aid kit, and batteries. Sarah filled containers with water while Emily clutched her teddy bear, watching the darkening sky outside with wide eyes.

  An hour later, my sister-in-law and her husband arrived, their faces pale and drawn. Lisa embraced Sarah, trembling slightly. The sisters had always been close—different temperaments but the same steady backbone. While Sarah was practical, Lisa was impulsive; while Sarah planned, Lisa jumped right in. Tom, a burly guy who worked construction, rubbed his jaw.

  "Traffic's insane. We saw three accidents on the way. And people..." He glanced at Emily, lowering his voice. "People eating each other, Vince. Just tearing into them on the goddamn sidewalk."

  I remembered Tom and Sarah's wedding four years ago, for some reason. Tom got sloppy drunk and confessed he never thought he'd find someone who saw past his rough exterior. He sobbed and thanked me for introducing them.

  That memory feels like it belongs to another lifetime now.

  We gathered in the living room, the TV now blaring warnings.

  "The infected exhibit extreme aggression and appear to be deceased yet reanimated," the anchor stammered. "Stay indoors. Avoid all contact with infected individuals."

  "Ghouls?" Jake scoffed, but his voice wavered. "That's literally a lie."

  Tom squeezed Lisa's hand. "Lie or not, something's seriously wrong out there."

  He was right.

  Outside, the buzz of a helicopter cut through the evening air. The distant crackle of what might have been gunfire drifted from the direction of downtown. Then there was a scream—high, terrified—from somewhere down our street.

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  "Mrs. Reynolds," Sarah whispered, recognizing our other neighbor's voice. She moved toward the door, but I caught her wrist.

  "Don't," I said, the word coming out sharper than I intended.

  Another scream was abruptly cut short. Then nothing.

  ——————————————?—————————————

  As night fell, the city unraveled. Sirens wailed endlessly, their echoes bouncing off the brick houses lining our street. The power flickered once, twice, then died, plunging us into shadow.

  The temperature inside dropped, our house feeling colder than it ought to.

  We lit candles, their frail light dancing across the walls, casting monstrous shadows. "We need to secure the house," I said, already moving.

  I hauled plywood from the garage, my plumber's hands steady as I drilled boards over the windows. The wood was rough against my palms, splinters digging in, but I barely noticed. Tom braced the front door with a bookshelf while Sarah and Lisa raided the pantry for canned goods and water. The acrid smell of smoke wafted in—something burning nearby. Jake distracted Emily, playing a quiet game of cards, but her attention kept flicking to the barricades.

  "Daddy," she whispered, clutching her teddy bear, "are there monsters outside?"

  I crouched beside her, forcing a calm I didn't feel. "No, sweetheart. We're safe here. I promise."

  The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.

  She studied my face with those solemn eyes—Sarah's eyes—that always seemed to see more than they should.

  "You fixed Mrs. Baker's sink the other day," she said suddenly. "Remember? She gave you cookies."

  My throat tightened. The image of Mrs. Baker stumbling across her yard, blood-soaked, flashed in my mind.

  "I remember."

  Emily nodded, as if confirming something to herself. "If she gets sick, you'll fix her too, right? Like you fixed our Xbox?"

  I pulled her into a hug, unable to answer, feeling like I was drowning. Over her head, I met Sarah's gaze across the room. The weight of her silent fear matched my own.

  Could I really protect them?

  ——————————————?—————————————

  The night deepened, and the noises grew worse—crashing glass, guttural moans, the occasional gunshot. The sickly-sweet smell of rot seemed to seep in through the walls—like roadkill baking in summer heat, but worse.

  Then, a sharp bang rattled the back door. We froze, breaths held.

  "I'll check," I murmured, gripping my heaviest wrench. The metal was cold against my palm, solid as I entered the kitchen.

  Peeking through a gap in the boards, I noticed three figures had staggered in the yard, their movements jerky and unnatural. One turned, showing its face—its skin pale, torn apart, one of its eyes milky white, the other hanging out of its socket. Its jaw, barely attached, snapped with hunger. My stomach lurched.

  It wore a Blue Jays cap—the one I'd seen on Mr. Keegan, who ran the corner store. Who'd given Jake his first job stocking shelves on weekends.

  Ghouls? Really? How is that possible?

  I slipped back to the group, keeping my voice low so Emily couldn't hear me. "They're in the yard. Three of them...I think they're the neighbors."

  "Jesus," Tom whispered. He grabbed a kitchen knife, testing its weight.

  Lisa squeezed her sister's hand. "Remember when we used to watch those zombie movies with Dad?" she said, a weak smile on her lips. "He'd always say, 'Only in Haiti.'"

  Sarah squeezed back. "And Mom would get so mad at him."

  This small moment between them—a fleeting connection to before—made my chest ache.

  We snuffed the candles and sat in tense silence, praying they'd pass. But the banging came again, harder, relentless. The front door groaned, wood splintering under the weight. The sound of glass breaking downstairs made Emily whimper. Jake moved closer to her, one arm around her shoulders. I caught his eye—saw the fear there, but also determination. He nodded slightly, and I felt a surge of pride through the terror.

  "Upstairs!" I hissed as a crash from the kitchen signaled the undead had breached our home.

  We scrambled to the master bedroom, shoving the dresser against the door. My heart hammered as I scanned the room. The window was our only way out, but the drop was steep, and the kids couldn't make it—not with those ghouls below. The pounding intensified, a rhythmic assault that shook the walls.

  "What do we do, Dad?" Jake asked, his voice trembling.

  I gripped his shoulder, then Emily's. "We'll hold them off. Together. We can do this," but my mind raced.

  How long could we last against so many?

  The metallic smell of blood suddenly filled the room; then, with a deafening crack, the bedroom door buckled. They were in.

  "Get behind me!" I roared, raising my wrench.

  The first ghoul stumbled through, its throat torn open; blood soaked its clothes. I swung, the metal crunching into its skull. It dropped, but more surged forward, a tide of rot and rage. All I could hear were the guttural sounds of the dead, my family yelling for each other, and my little Emily continuously howling in the corner.

  I fought desperately, the wrench growing slick with gore in my hands. Two ghouls came at Jake simultaneously—he kicked one back but couldn't evade the second. I tried to reach him, but three of the creatures blocked my path, their dead eyes fixed on me with mindless hunger.

  "Jake!" I shouted, smashing one ghoul's head, then another's. But there were too many—they swarmed me, clawing and pushing. I watched helplessly as they dragged Jake down, his eyes meeting mine in a moment of pure terror before they tore into him.

  Sarah grabbed a bedside lamp, smashing it across a shambler's head. The creature snarled, unfazed, and latched onto her arm. Its teeth sank deep, ripping flesh. She screamed, a sound that still claws at my soul.

  "Sarah!"

  I lunged, but a ghoul slammed into me, pinning me to the floor. Its weight crushed my chest, its stench—decay and copper—flooding my senses. I thrashed, shoving my forearm against its throat as its jaws snapped inches from my face. With a grunt, I heaved it off and scrambled up.

  The room was a nightmare.

  Lisa and Tom fought back-to-back near the window. Tom swung a chair leg, causing his face to splatter with black blood after each blow. "C'mon! Get to the window!" he shouted at us.

  As Lisa turned, a ghoul seized her hair, yanking her backward. Tom reached for her—too late. They pulled her down, teeth ripping into her shoulder, her screams mingling with Tom's bellowing rage. He dove into the mass of undead, trying to pull her free, but they swarmed him too, dragging him under.

  Sarah was on her knees, blood streaming from the bites on her flesh. Her eyes, glassy with pain, found mine across the room. She held Emily, trying to shield her with her body as the ghouls closed in.

  "Vince..." she rasped, her voice barely audible over the chaos. "Go."

  I fought my way toward them, desperation giving me strength I didn't know I had. But a wall of the dead separated us, and for each one I struck down, two more stumbled forward.

  A ghoul lunged at Sarah, tearing into her stomach. Blood spilled out, slick and steaming, and her body went limp. Emily screamed as her mother's arms fell away, leaving her exposed. A ghoul seized her; her cries shifted to a wet gurgle—teeth ripped into her neck and forehead, her teddy bear falling limp in a spreading stain of red before tumbling before me.

  "No!" I bellowed, swinging wildly.

  My wrench shattered skulls, yet the sheer number of them—dozens now—flooded the room. I staggered back, my family's blood under my boots, the copper smell overwhelming me.

  I couldn't save them.

  The realization struck me sharply, yet my survival instinct took control.

  Casting one final, anguished look at my family's mangled, lifeless forms, I smashed the window. Glass shattered and cut into my skin as I climbed onto the roof, the cold night breeze stinging my lungs. The shingles slid beneath my weight, sending me tumbling down to the ground with a thud. Despite the searing pain that erupted in my ankle, I forced myself up and limped toward the street.

  Behind me, the house echoed with moans and the wet sounds of tearing flesh—my everything, devoured.

  I stumbled into a neighbor's shed, barricading the door with a rusty shovel. There, in the dark, I tore my sleeve to wrap my bleeding arm, blood soaking through. My hands shook as I sank to the floor, sobs ripping from my throat.

  They're gone. All of them.

  The memory of Emily's words flooded back: "You'll fix her too, right?"

  But I couldn't fix this. Couldn't fix them. The weight of my failure crushed me more thoroughly than any ghoul could.

  I thought of Jake and how I'd promised to teach him to drive this weekend. I thought of Sarah, who had whispered plans for our anniversary next summer as we fell asleep last night. And of Emily's small brass fitting, meticulously polished by tiny, devoted hands. She always looked at me as if I were a god of some kind—but I wasn't. Not then.

  ——————————————?—————————————

  Dawn crept in, gray and silent. I ventured out, wary of every shadow. I could still hear the groans emanating from my home, bringing back the horrifying images of my loved ones. The street was a graveyard—cars abandoned, bodies strewn across lawns. A lone ghoul shambled near High Park, too far to notice me.

  I was alive, somehow. Alone. Sarah's last words echoed in my skull:

  Vince... go.

  I had to keep moving—for her, for Jake, for Emily...

  The weight of that night clung to me—a haunting I'd never escape.

  But as the sun climbed higher, something else took root beside the grief. A coldness. A hardening. The man who had trudged home that evening—the plumber, the father, the husband—also died in that bedroom. What remained was something else. Someone who failed to protect what mattered most.

  Someone who'd never fail again.

  I fingered the wrench still clutched in my fist, sticky with blood and brain matter. The border to the south was on my mind. The guns, the people.

  I could start over—becoming whoever or whatever I needed to be in this new world.

  I'll come back for you, I promised the ghosts of my family as I shut the front door to our home.

  I'm going to fix it all. Whatever it takes.

  And as I turned south, toward the United States, I felt something I never thought I'd feel again: purpose—cold, calculating purpose.

  The world had taken everything from me. It was time to return the favor.