POV: Jeremy Sandoval
Location: East Wing–Grade 11 Hallways, Meadow Hill Academy
Jeremy Sandoval wasn't what you'd call popular. Not invisible either—just somewhere in the blur between. He had the kind of face that teachers rarely remembered unless he raised his hand and the sort of silence that made classmates forget he was sitting in the same group. But Jeremy preferred it that way. He didn't like noise, especially not today.
The hallway buzzed with its usual midday din: students swapping answers for quizzes they hadn't studied for, someone sneaking in an earbud, and others giggling at the latest TikTok trend. Jeremy's eyes weren't on them, though. They were fixed on the window.
The sky looked…wrong.
A thick gray haze hung low like a dirty smear across the skyline. It wasn't smoke, not exactly—it didn't rise or twist, just lingered. The sun, partially choked behind the murk, cast long, odd shadows that made everything feel off-balance.
Behind him, someone slammed a locker shut.
"Have you seen Carla today? " said a voice behind him.
Jeremy turned to see Rica Mendoza, her ponytail bouncing slightly as she approached. She looked a little concerned, more so than her usual "I forgot my homework" kind of stress.
"No," Jeremy said. "Why? "
"She didn't show up for Chem. That's not like her. And she hasn't been answering messages either."
Jeremy shrugged, but he felt that same strange chill crawl up his spine.
"She might be sick."
"Yeah," Rica said, though her voice held little conviction. "Sick."
That was the third student who hadn't shown up today in Grade 11 alone. There was Carla. Before that, it was Nico from ICT and Aaron from STEM-B.
They were probably just sick.
Probably.
The intercom crackled suddenly, cutting through the hallway hum. Everyone froze. It wasn't time for announcements.
"Students and faculty, please remain in your designated classrooms until further notice. This is not a drill. Repeat—this is not a drill."
Students murmured.
"What the hell? "Rica said, her brow furrowed.
"Fire drill? " someone asked, hopefully.
"Didn't say fire," Jeremy muttered.
Teachers began poking their heads out of doors, confusion painting their expressions. Sir Dominguez, the school guidance counselor, was already moving down the corridor with brisk urgency.
Jeremy and Rica exchanged looks. Not fear. Not yet.
But something was definitely wrong.
Location: Faculty Lounge—Ground Floor, Meadow Hill Academy
POV: Ms. Ramos (English Teacher)
The coffee in her cup had gone cold.
Ms. Ramos stared at the TV screen in the faculty lounge, which someone had hastily unmuted the moment the school announcement hit. What they saw was a news anchor, eyes wide, voice shaky but trying to hold composure.
"…initially believed to be isolated cases in central Manila are now confirmed in multiple urban districts. Residents are advised to remain indoors and avoid contact with anyone exhibiting violent or erratic behavior. Emergency response teams are—"
The screen froze. Signal lost.
"Shit," whispered Coach Danilo. It was the first time Ms. Ramos had ever heard him swear.
The room went quiet. Even the air conditioner's hum seemed to fade.
"What do we do? " someone asked.
Principal Ignacio's voice came through the PA again, more composed this time. "All exits are temporarily sealed. Please lock all classroom doors. Teachers, perform a headcount. This is not a drill."
A few teachers began whispering prayers. One of the maintenance workers, Mang Lito, stood frozen with his mop, eyes darting between the unplugged TV and the staff.
Ms. Ramos placed her cup down. For the first time in years, she felt a pang of helplessness. Then, a scream echoed faintly from the far building.
Then another.
Not over the intercom. Real.
From outside.
Location: Grade 11-B Classroom—East Wing
POV: Jeremy Sandoval
The scream jolted Jeremy like a slap.
Rica stood up so fast her chair fell back.
"Was that…? "
"I think it came from the gate," Jeremy whispered.
Sir Alvarez, their substitute teacher, stood frozen. He clutched his phone, pale and shaking. "No signal," he muttered.
Outside the window, several students gathered by the far gate. They weren't supposed to be there—yet no teacher was stopping them. Something writhed beyond the bars. The gate rattled.
Then it happened.
A student screamed as someone—or something—lunged from behind the shrubs and tackled her to the pavement. Jeremy couldn't see clearly, but the sound—a wet, crunching sound—made his stomach twist.
"Get away from the windows! "Sir Alvarez! shouted.
A boy ran past the field, arms flailing, blood trailing from his leg. Someone grabbed him, tried to help—but then fell with him. Another scream. A blur of motion. Panic.
The classroom erupted.
Someone tried the door—it was already locked, but that didn't stop three boys from trying to wedge desks in front of it.
"What's happening?! "
"It's zombies," someone whispered. "It's the zombie thing from the news."
Rica looked at Jeremy.
He didn't laugh. He didn't roll his eyes.
Because deep down, he knew.
Something in the wind had changed.
And it wasn't going away.