Chapter 4: The First Deaths
Mumbai was a city that never slept, a place where life moved at an unrelenting pace. The honking of rickshaws, the chatter of street vendors, the rhythmic clatter of the local trains—these were the sounds of a city alive. But something was different now. The streets weren’t as crowded as they used to be. People moved with unease, their eyes darting around as if the air itself carried danger. Conversations were whispered, phone calls filled with concern.
Something was wrong. Everyone could feel it.
At KEM Hospital, Dr. Meera Iyer stood in the dimly lit corridor, rubbing her temples. The past few days had been a nightmare. Patients were flooding in faster than they could be treated. The emergency ward had long since exceeded its capacity, forcing doctors to set up makeshift beds in hallways, storage rooms—anywhere they could find space. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and something far worse—the unmistakable metallic tang of blood.
It had started subtly. A few patients with high fevers, their bloodwork showing abnormalities. Then the symptoms escalated. Internal bleeding, organ failure, rapid deterioration within hours. Now, the hospital was drowning in cases, and no one knew how to stop it.
A nurse rushed in, her face pale. "Doctor, we have a situation," she said, breathless.
Meera’s stomach tightened. "What happened?"
The nurse hesitated. "One of the ICU patients... she’s one of us. A nurse from the isolation ward."
Meera felt her heart skip a beat. The virus wasn’t just attacking the old, the weak, or those with pre-existing conditions. It had crossed the line. It was taking the strong—the ones who were fighting to save lives.
She turned away for a moment, swallowing hard. This changes everything.
A City in Panic
By dawn, the fear had spread faster than the virus itself. Mumbai woke up to headlines that screamed disaster:
UNKNOWN VIRUS CLAIMS DOZENS – IS THIS A NEW PANDEMIC?
HOSPITALS OVERFLOW AS MYSTERY FEVER SPREADS
DEADLY OUTBREAK—DOCTORS SOUND THE ALARM
People panicked. Pharmacies were swarmed, shelves emptied in hours. Fever medicines, masks, even hand sanitizers disappeared. Commuters on Mumbai’s local trains covered their faces with whatever they could—scarves, dupattas, even handkerchiefs. In the packed slums of Dharavi, families shut themselves inside their tiny homes, hoping the illness wouldn’t find them.
But fear wasn’t enough to stop the inevitable.
Across the country, the virus moved like an invisible shadow.
In Chennai, a seven-year-old girl was rushed to the ICU. She had been running a fever for two days, but by the time her parents brought her in, she was barely conscious. Doctors surrounded her, trying everything—ice packs, IV fluids, high-dose antivirals. Nothing worked. That night, her tiny body stopped fighting.
In Bangalore, a software engineer collapsed at work, his face drenched in sweat, his breath ragged. His coworkers thought he had just skipped lunch, but then they saw the blood seeping from his nose. He was rushed to the hospital, but he never made it.
In Delhi, a bride-to-be tried on her wedding lehenga when a sharp cough wracked her body. Her mother told her to rest, assuming it was exhaustion from the wedding preparations. The next morning, she was burning with fever. By the time she reached the hospital, her vision was blurring, her skin cold to the touch. Her wedding never happened.
The virus was no longer an isolated outbreak. It was a storm sweeping across the nation.
The Government Responds—Too Late
Inside the walls of the Indian Council of Medical Research (ICMR) in Delhi, scientists huddled around glowing screens, their faces tight with exhaustion. The latest case map looked like something out of a disaster movie—red dots spreading across India like wildfire.
Dr. Rajan Menon, a senior virologist, slammed his fist against the desk. “We’re behind! We don’t even have a proper classification yet, and people are dying by the hour.”
“We’re calling it CRV-24 for now,” another scientist muttered, but the name felt hollow. Just a string of letters and numbers. It didn’t capture the fear in people’s eyes, the bodies piling up in hospital corridors.
The government scrambled to react. Meetings were held behind closed doors, officials debated containment strategies, but by the time a nationwide advisory was issued, it was already too late.
The Prime Minister addressed the nation, his expression carefully controlled. "This is a time for caution, not panic," he urged. "Our top scientists and medical professionals are working tirelessly to control the situation."
But outside the walls of government buildings, the truth was stark. Hospitals were overwhelmed. Doctors were breaking down from exhaustion. The number of bodies arriving at crematoriums far outnumbered the available pyres. Families had no choice but to say their final goodbyes from a distance.
The Virus Crosses Borders
At Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport, the sleek hallways bustled with travelers, oblivious to the unseen killer moving among them. No one noticed the man in seat 18C on a Singapore-bound flight, sweating profusely beneath his business suit. By the time he landed at Changi Airport, his face was ashen, his body trembling. He collapsed at immigration, blood dripping from his nose onto the gleaming white floors.
In London, a woman sipped her morning cappuccino in a crowded café near Oxford Street. She had just returned from a business trip to Mumbai and dismissed her sore throat as jet lag. But within minutes, she doubled over, gasping for air, her hands clutching her stomach as blood spewed from her lips. The café erupted into chaos as people screamed, chairs overturned, and someone frantically called an ambulance.
In Dubai, a flight attendant stood near the aircraft’s galley, preparing for landing. Her vision blurred for a moment, but she shook it off. She was used to exhaustion. But then her hands started trembling. A deep, searing pain tore through her chest, and before she could call for help, she collapsed in the narrow aisle. Passengers screamed as blood pooled around her motionless body.
In New York City, a taxi driver picked up a businessman who had just landed from India. The ride was silent except for the occasional cough from the backseat. Hours later, the driver parked his cab outside a Queens hospital, too weak to move, his forehead burning with fever.
By the time world leaders grasped what was happening, CRV-24 had already sunk its claws deep into five continents.
Mumbai on Its Knees
Back in Mumbai, Dr. Meera Iyer had stopped counting the bodies.
The city of dreams—her city—was falling apart before her eyes. She had spent years in medical school, worked long hours in the ER, and seen people survive the worst of illnesses. But this was different. This was relentless. Unforgiving.
One night, a newlywed couple was wheeled into the hospital, both burning with fever. Their fingers intertwined even as their bodies writhed in pain. By dawn, they were gone—still holding hands in death.
Meera turned away, gripping the cold steel counter for support. The weight of it all threatened to crush her. The beeping of monitors, the distant cries of families, the cold, sterile smell of the ward—it all blurred together.
For the first time in her career, she wondered if there was any hope left.
But there was no time for despair. Not yet.
She straightened her back, wiped her eyes, and turned toward the next patient.
The fight wasn’t over.
Not yet.
SURBHI SINHA