EXT. RESORT LAGOON - DAY
The jet skis cut through crystal water, spray arcing in the Caribbean sun. Michael whooped, throttling ahead. Sarah, despite her commitment to teenage indifference, was grinning.
John and Lisa held back, machines idling in the shallows.
“When’s the last time you saw her smile like that?” Lisa asked.
“Authentically? Before freshman year, maybe.”
“She’s been through a lot this year.”
“I know.” John watched his daughter race his son toward a distant buoy. Their wakes crossed and merged. “I should have been around more.”
“We both should have.” Lisa reached across the gap between their jet skis, found his hand. Her grip was strong from years of holding patients through their worst moments. “That’s why we’re here. Reset.”
“Reset.” He squeezed back. “Right.”
But his eyes drifted to shore. Staff members watched from the dock, their expressions failing to commit to friendly. The west wing remained blocked with those polite UNDER RENOVATION signs. A medical transport van had arrived at dawn, windows blacked out, doors unmarked.
“John.”
“I’m here.” He forced his attention to her. “I’m here.”
EXT. LAGOON - FLOATING DOCK - LATER
Michael and Sarah had pulled alongside a floating platform, faces flushed, hair stiff with salt. John and Lisa joined them, all four sitting in a row, feet dangling in warm water.
“Okay, serious question.” Michael had his SERIOUS QUESTION face on. “You’re trapped in a zombie apocalypse…”
“Here we go.” Sarah’s head tipped back.
“…you can only have ONE zombie movie to guide your survival strategy. Pick.”
“Is ‘none’ an option?”
“It is not.”
“Can I pick one where everyone dies? More realistic.”
“Sarah.” Michael pressed a hand to his chest. “The cynicism. The betrayal.”
Lisa laughed. “Shaun of the Dead.”
“Mom!” Michael’s face lit up. “Excellent choice. Practical. British. Demonstrates the defensive value of a proper pub.”
“I just like Simon Pegg.”
“Still counts.”
“Fine.” Sarah pushed her sunglasses up. “World War Z. Brad Pitt figures it out, stays hot while doing it, happy ending. Done.”
Michael stared at her. “World War Z? They just RUN. That’s not survival tactics. That’s cardio.”
“Cardio saves lives.”
“You know what else saves lives? Actual strategy. Like 28 Days Later…”
“The one where everyone dies?”
“The one where Cillian Murphy uses the system against itself. He understands the infected and exploits their limitations. That’s tactical thinking.”
John found himself drawn in despite himself. “Technically, 28 Days Later doesn’t have zombies. They’re infected. Not undead.”
“Dad.” Michael turned to him. “Are you seriously getting into semantics right now? In the middle of a survival debate?”
“Different rules apply. Rage virus creates fast, aggressive targets with limited lifespan. Classic zombie scenario is slow, relentless, indefinite.”
“So what’s YOUR pick?” Sarah asked.
John considered. “Night of the Living Dead. Original Romero.”
“Boring.”
“Classic. It established the rules everyone else follows. Destroy the brain. Stay mobile. Trust no one.”
“Trust no one?” Lisa raised an eyebrow. “Bleak.”
“Realistic. In survival situations, the humans are usually more dangerous than the threat.”
A cloud passed over the sun. The water, impossibly blue moments ago, seemed to darken.
“What about you, Mom?” Michael asked. “Final answer Shaun of the Dead?”
Lisa looked at her family. Her husband who carried the weight of every outbreak he’d failed to stop. Her daughter who hid fear behind sarcasm. Her son who processed terror through pop culture references.
“Actually,” she said, “I’m changing my answer. Train to Busan.”
“The Korean one?” Sarah perked up. “That’s actually good.”
“It’s about a father who’d do anything for his daughter. About people making terrible choices for the ones they love.” Lisa’s eyes found John’s. “About how far you’d go for family.”
The moment stretched. Water lapped against the dock. A bird cried out in the distance, sharp and urgent, almost human.
Michael cleared his throat. “Not to be that guy, but we’ve spent a lot of time discussing zombie survival on an isolated tropical island where the staff keeps giving us weird looks.”
“You’re being that guy,” Sarah said.
“I’m just saying. The vibes are suspicious.”
“The vibes are vacation, disaster goblin.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive!”
John watched his children argue, voices carrying across the water. Normal family noise. Exactly what this trip was supposed to provide.
But Michael wasn’t wrong about the vibes.
INT. EDEN RESORT - WELLNESS CENTER - AFTERNOON
While the kids hit the pool, John slipped away with a muttered excuse about dinner reservations. Lisa gave him The Look but let him go.
One hour, he’d promised. Just enough to satisfy his paranoia.
The wellness center occupied the resort’s lower level, accessible through an elevator requiring a staff keycard. John had borrowed one from an unattended housekeeping cart. Old habits from contact tracing investigations.
The doors opened onto a corridor that smelled wrong.
Not the tropical-floral scent pumped through the rest of the resort. Sharper. Clinical. Underneath it, poorly masked, the smell of sickness. John had encountered it in field hospitals across three continents.
The infirmary Mark Watney had mentioned was at the end of the hall. Through the door’s window, John could see beds. More than expected. A lot more.
Most were occupied.
“Dr. Harrison.”
John turned. Mark Watney stood at the corridor’s other end, watching him with an expression caught between relief and fear.
“Mr. Watney.”
“You came.” Mark approached, voice low. “Wasn’t sure you would.”
“You said people were sick.”
“I said guests were ‘feeling under the weather.‘” Mark’s laugh was brittle. “That’s what corporate calls it. ‘Temporary gastrointestinal discomfort.‘”
“How many?”
“In here? Fourteen as of this morning. We’ve converted two storage rooms, and…” He caught himself. “I’m not supposed to tell you any of this.”
“Then why are you?”
Mark stood still. Behind him, a patient in the infirmary began to cough. Wet. Rattling. The sound made John’s training kick into overdrive.
“Because I’ve seen this before,” Mark said. “Not here. Before. And I’m scared.”
“Seen what before?”
Mark’s hand went to his forearm, rubbing at his sleeve. An unconscious gesture. A tell.
“You’re not just resort staff,” John said. “Are you?”
“PhD in molecular virology from Stanford.” Mark’s smile held no warmth. “I used to work for a company called Nexus Biotech. Heard of them?”
John’s hands went still. “Government contractor. Medical research. They had a lab shut down three years ago after a…”
“After an ‘incident.‘” Mark nodded. “I was there. I saw what their ‘research’ could do. And when I look at these patients…” He gestured toward the infirmary. “It’s happening again.”
“You need to tell me exactly what you’re…”
“Dr. Harrison?” A woman’s voice, sharp with authority. Elena, the guest relations manager, stood at the elevator. Two men in security uniforms flanked her. “There you are. Your family’s been looking for you.”
“I was just…”
“The wellness center is for staff only.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Guest safety protocols. I’m sure you understand.”
Mark had stepped back, expression smoothing into practiced professionalism. “I was giving Dr. Harrison a tour. My mistake.”
“I’m sure.” Elena’s gaze lingered on him. “Why don’t we get you back to your family, Dr. Harrison? Dinner’s starting soon. Your son’s already ordered three desserts.”
John let himself be guided toward the elevator. At the last moment, he caught Mark’s eye.
Meet me, Mark mouthed. Tonight. Atrium bar. 11 PM.
The elevator doors closed.
INT. BUNGALOW 47 - EVENING
“You were gone for two hours.”
Lisa stood in the kitchenette, arms crossed, watching John pretend to search his suitcase.
“I got lost.”
“Lost. In a resort with maps on every wall and staff members every fifty feet.”
“It’s a big resort.”
“John.”
He straightened, meeting her eyes. She deserved the truth. She always did.
“There are sick people here. A lot of them. The resort’s keeping it quiet.”
“What kind of sick?”
“I don’t know yet. The symptoms I saw… fever, hemorrhaging, what looked like neurological deterioration. Doesn’t match anything standard. Not influenza. Not norovirus. Not food poisoning.”
Lisa’s hand found the counter. “The kids…”
“Are fine. I checked. No exposure to infected individuals, no concerning symptoms.” He crossed to her, taking her hands. “But I need to find out more. Tonight. Someone might have answers.”
“The guy from yesterday. The one too interested in your credentials.”
“Mark Watney. He used to work for a biotech company with questionable research. He thinks what’s happening here is connected to his past.”
Lisa said nothing for a count of five. Outside, Michael and Sarah argued about board game strategy, voices muffled through the wall.
“One more day,” she said. “You get one day to figure out what’s happening. If it’s as bad as you think, we leave. No arguments. We grab the kids and go.”
“Agreed.”
“And John?” She held his gaze. “Don’t be a hero. Whatever this is, your job is to protect our family. Not save the world.”
John thought about the coughing patient behind the infirmary glass. The fear in Mark’s eyes. The clinical smell that meant someone was hiding a disaster.
“I know,” he said.
He hoped he was telling the truth.
INT. ATRIUM BAR - NIGHT
The bar was nearly empty at 11 PM. Most guests had retreated to their bungalows, exhausted by sun and luxury. A jazz trio played in the corner, their music absorbed by the artificial jungle surrounding the space.
John found Mark at a back table, nursing a drink he hadn’t touched.
“You came.” Mark looked up, relief washing over his features. “After Elena, I wasn’t sure.”
“She’s watching you.”
“Everyone’s watching everyone. That’s how it works now.” Mark gestured for John to sit. “I’ll tell you everything. But first, you need to understand…”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m not a good person, Dr. Harrison. I did things at Nexus. Helped develop things I can never take back. When I left, I took… insurance. Files. Samples. Evidence of what they were really doing under those government contracts.”
“What were they doing?”
Mark’s fingers drummed the table. “Do you know what makes a virus successful? Evolutionarily speaking?”
“High transmissibility. Low initial lethality. Ability to mutate ahead of immune responses.”
“Exactly. Nature takes millions of years to perfect those traits. Nexus figured out how to do it in a lab.” Mark leaned forward. “They were engineering pathogens, Dr. Harrison. Designer diseases. Not for medicine. For other purposes. Military applications. Population control. Things governments would pay billions for.”
John felt his pulse in his temples. “And Eden Resort?”
“Is owned by a subsidiary that shares board members with Nexus. The medical research wing here, the one blocked off for ‘renovation,’ is a testing facility. Has been for years.”
“Testing on guests?”
“Not intentionally. Not at first.” Mark’s laugh was hollow. “But three days ago, four maybe, containment failed. It started in staff housing. Spread to guests. Now it’s…” He shook his head. “Getting worse. Faster than anything I’ve seen.”
“The patients in the infirmary. What are the exact symptoms?”
Mark met his eyes. “Starts like the flu. Fever, body aches, nothing special. Within forty-eight hours, you see the real progression. Hemorrhaging from eyes and nose. Vascular spasms. And then…”
“Then what?”
The jazz trio finished their set. The artificial waterfall filled the space with white noise.
“Then they stop being people,” Mark said. “And they become hungry.”
Before John could respond, his phone buzzed. Text from Lisa:
Kids in bed. Get back soon. I love you.
He looked at the message. At Mark. At the beautiful, impossible paradise around them.
“Tell me everything,” John said. “Then tell me how we stop it.”
Outside, in the manicured darkness of Eden Resort, a figure that used to be a groundskeeper dragged itself toward the main building.
It was hungry.
It wasn’t alone.