Chapter One: The First Patient
The deafening hum of Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus echoed with the clamor of thousands of voices—hawkers shouting their wares, train announcements blaring over ancient speakers, the rhythmic clatter of steel wheels rolling over iron tracks. The sheer magnitude of movement was dizzying; a river of people rushing past one another, briefcases clutched tightly, children pulled along by frantic parents, the scent of sweat, fried snacks, and diesel thick in the humid air.
Amidst this orchestrated chaos, a man staggered.
Rajat Malhotra, 38, an investment banker, felt his body betray him. His vision blurred at the edges, his head spun as though he had stepped off a violently rocking boat. He reached for a pillar to steady himself, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Beads of sweat gathered at his brow despite the evening cool. Then, suddenly, his knees buckled.
A strangled cry escaped his lips as his body convulsed. His arms flailed, hitting a metal railing with a dull clang. His fingers curled into unnatural angles, his spine arched off the ground, and then, foamy saliva frothed from his mouth. His eyes, wild and unfocused, rolled back into his skull, leaving only the whites visible.
Screams erupted around him. Travelers froze mid-step, drawn toward the horrific spectacle. Some instinctively backed away, fear flashing across their faces. Others raised their phones, capturing the nightmare unfolding before them. A woman clutching a toddler gasped as Rajat’s body jerked uncontrollably on the station floor. A fruit vendor murmured a hurried prayer under his breath.
The railway police were the first to act, pushing through the crowd with urgency. “Move back! Give him space!” one of them barked, waving his arms. Two paramedics, summoned by an onlooker, rushed forward. Their latex-gloved hands pressed against Rajat’s clammy forehead, his skin hot to the touch.
“He’s burning up,” one of them muttered, checking his pulse. It was erratic, thready. The other paramedic checked his pupils—dilated, and non-responsive.
The station’s PA system crackled to life. “Attention, passengers. Please remain calm. Medical assistance is on-site.” But calm had long abandoned the station. Whispers spread like wildfire.
“Is it a seizure?”
“Heart attack?”
“Maybe rabies?”
“God help us if it’s something contagious.”
The paramedics wasted no time, hoisting Rajat onto a stretcher and strapping him down to control his violent spasms. Within moments, they wheeled him through the station’s exit and into a waiting ambulance. The sirens screamed as they sped through Mumbai’s congested streets toward KEM Hospital. No one in the vehicle could have guessed that this single patient would become the first domino in a chain reaction that would engulf the world.
KEM Hospital, Mumbai
Dr. Meera Iyer had been on duty for fifteen hours when the emergency call came in. A seasoned infectious disease specialist, she had seen her share of medical anomalies—tuberculosis strains that defied known treatments, dengue fevers so severe they drained the body of life in mere days, and antibiotic-resistant infections. But nothing had prepared her for what came through those hospital doors that night.
The moment Rajat was wheeled into the ER, chaos erupted.
“Patient male, 38, collapsed at CST. Fever spiking at 104, severe convulsions, unknown cause!” The paramedics rattled off his vitals as nurses swarmed in.
Dr. Iyer stepped forward, eyes sharp behind her glasses. She pressed two fingers to Rajat’s neck—his pulse was rapid but weak, fluttering like a dying moth. His breathing came in ragged bursts, his chest heaving with effort. Beneath his sweat-slicked skin, veins darkened, threading like ink through his flesh.
“What the hell is this?” she murmured.
She ordered an immediate blood draw. Within minutes, the lab reports came back, and what they revealed sent a cold shiver down her spine. Severe clotting. Hemolysis—his red blood cells were breaking down at an alarming rate. The signs pointed to some kind of hemorrhagic fever, yet nothing fit the known profiles. The deterioration was too rapid.
Broad-spectrum antivirals, fluids, fever reducers—everything they administered seemed to do nothing. Rajat’s body rejected all attempts at stabilization. His organs were shutting down one by one, as though his own biology had turned against him.
At that moment, her phone buzzed. A nurse at reception.
“Doctor, his wife’s here.”
Bandra, Mumbai
Hours earlier, Neha Malhotra had felt an unease settle in her bones. Rajat always called if he was running late. By 10 PM, her unease had transformed into outright dread.
She had tried his phone repeatedly. No answer.
Their eight-year-old daughter, Riya, stood in the hallway, her stuffed elephant clutched to her chest. “Mama, where’s Papa?”
Neha forced a smile. “He’s just late, beta.”
When the call from KEM Hospital finally came, the floor seemed to vanish beneath her feet.
Now, standing at the entrance of the hospital, she was ushered in by a nurse who avoided her gaze. That alone set off alarms in her head.
When she entered Rajat’s room, she gasped.
Her husband lay motionless, his face pallid and gaunt, as if he had aged ten years in a single night. His veins, once hidden beneath his golden-brown skin, now stood out like darkened roots. His chest rose and fell in uneven, painful motions. The machines monitoring his vitals beeped in warning tones.
“Mrs. Malhotra,” Dr. Iyer began, her voice measured yet urgent. “Your husband is in critical condition. We are trying everything we can, but his symptoms are… unusual.”
Neha barely heard the words. She gripped Rajat’s hand. It was ice-cold. “Rajat, wake up. Please.”
He stirred at the sound of her voice, his lips parting as if to speak. But all that emerged was a whisper of breath before his body convulsed again, setting off a chorus of alarms.
And then, at precisely 5:42 AM, Rajat Malhotra exhaled his last breath.
The room fell into stunned silence.
Dr. Iyer clenched her jaw. “Time of death, 5:42 AM.”
Neha screamed.
The Beginning of the End
Rajat’s samples were rushed to the Enterovirus Research Centre. Within hours, a team of virologists led by Dr. Arun Sharma hunched over microscopes and petri dishes, trying to decipher the enigma. The pathogen was unlike anything they had ever seen. It wasn’t bacterial. It wasn’t viral—not in any conventional sense. It behaved as though it had intelligence, adapting to its host at an accelerated rate.
By noon, the National Institute of Virology in Pune had been alerted. Within twenty-four hours, two nurses at KEM Hospital began showing symptoms.
By the end of the week, Mumbai had its second confirmed death.
And then a third.
What started with one man was now a specter looming over the city. The world had yet to realize it, but Patient Zero had already set the wheels of a catastrophe in motion—one that would redefine life as humanity knew it.
SURBHI SINHA