The Astronaut

The emergency alert kept repeating on every channel.

**“Remain inside. Await assistance. Do not attempt evacuation.”**

Commander Alex Ryder muted the television, eyes fixed on the chaos outside his window. Cars sat crooked in driveways, and a dog barked nonstop. Down the street, a woman ran, tripped, and vanished into a crowd moving with terrible purpose, pulling his attention away from safety.

Alex touches the mission patch stitched onto his sleeve.

It’s Launch day. It’s the most important day of his life. 

He was supposed to report to Kennedy Space Center in two hours for a transfer flight to the International Space Station. It’s his first mission. 

Space meant airlocks. Sealed hatches. Distance.

Space meant not being trapped on Earth.

A crash sounded from the kitchen as the back door splintered inward.

Alex didn’t think. Astronauts are trained for emergencies. Move. Breathe. Execute.

He grabbed his helmet and sprinted out the front door.

The sky was the color of bruised peaches, thick smoke drifting low over rooftops. The air reeked of burning plastic and something far worse, pressing down on him with every breath.

He ran. What other choice did he have?

The launch tower stood far off beyond the trees, white against the darkening sky, if he could just get there. If he could just make it to the shuttle.

A man staggered into his path. His shirt was soaked dark. His eyes were cloudy.

“Sir?” Alex called automatically.

The man lunged. 

Alex dodged, heart, slamming into his ribs. The infected didn’t move the way they're supposed to; it’s not like the movies! They were fast. Jerky. Hungry.

He vaulted a fallen trash can and sprinted through a backyard, hurdling a kiddie pool. He kept the tower in sight like a north star.

Behind him, feet pounded, More than one.

He cut between houses and nearly collided with a chain-link fence. He scrambled over it, metal biting into his palms. Fingers snagged at his pant leg as he dropped down the other side.

They were gaining.

The tower loomed closer.

“So close,” he whispered. “Just a little farther.”

He burst into the street that led straight toward the coast. In his mind, the shuttle waited there, fueled and gleaming, access arm extended just for him.

He pumped his legs harder, trying to run just a bit faster.

A shadow fell across him, hands grabbing his backpack with inhuman strength. They yanked him backward toward hungry mouths, and he hit the ground hard, pain shooting through him as he fought to stay upright.

The helmet flew from his grasp and rolled across the asphalt, stopping against a curb.

He twisted, kicking and clawing, but there were too many. Hungry faces crowded his vision. Teeth flashed. Fingers dug into his arms. 

“I have to get to the shuttle!” he screamed, desperation clear in his voice. “I can’t be trapped here!”

Something tore at the patch on his sleeve as the fabric ripped.

The helmet lay on its side nearby, dented and bright red—plastic, with a hand-drawn NASA logo in black marker.

The launch tower shrank into a water tower at the end of the block. The roar of engines became the distant wail of sirens. The mission patch was just a sticker peeling off a small blue T-shirt.

Alex kicked and screamed as small sneakers scraped helplessly against pavement.

From inside the house, the television still played the emergency broadcast.

The infected bent over him, blocking out the sky.

The shuttle was never going to launch. And he was never going to leave Earth.