Dawn never came. The sun looked like it had been stuffed into a trash bag, refusing to leak a single ray. The whole world was frozen, as if some unknown director had shouted "CUT!"—but the extras, also known as humankind, kept running around cluelessly.
On the streets, corpses outnumbered the living. The absurdity was breathtaking: some people died in their dreams, their bodies collapsing in reality in ridiculous poses. One squatted as if still on a dream-toilet; another grinned so hard their teeth cracked, blood dripping from the corners of their smiling mouth; yet another clutched a phone screen frozen on the message: "Nightmare update in progress, please wait."
News still aired, though the anchor's voice trembled like a windchime drowning in debt:
"Please, citizens, remain calm. Death is not frightening… at least it's easier than paying taxes."
Behind her, a global death chart flashed across the screen—over a million in less than a day, numbers climbing faster than a stock market crash.
The government released an official "Rational Death Guide":
If chased by a monster in a dream, attempt polite communication.
If dying in a dream, please maintain dignity—avoid screaming.
If confirmed deceased, carry your ID card to assist in cremation registration.
I nearly choked laughing. Humanity, true to form—even with bones piling high—still demanded paperwork and stamps.
My friend leaned against a wall, face grim. "This isn't a disaster anymore. It's a massacre."
"Wrong," I corrected him, savoring the black humor. "A massacre at least needs a butcher. Here, the butcher's unnecessary. People scare themselves to death. Efficiency to die for."
At the corner, a group in pajamas shuffled by, eyes blank, like sleepwalkers. Among them were city officials we'd seen in meetings just yesterday—now drooling and mumbling: "Nightmare is the only anthem." A second later, they all collapsed together, bodies neatly aligned as if rehearsed.
Hospitals were slaughterhouses. Emergency rooms overflowed with unconscious bodies. Doctors scrambled—defibrillators, IV drips, even caffeine infusions—yet one by one patients flatlined, or else laughed themselves into asphyxiation. Finally, nurses shoved corpses aside to free beds for the next "soon-to-die dream traveler."
"This is a plague," my friend whispered. "Faster than the Black Death."
"Don't underestimate the Black Death," I shot back. "At least it needed rats and fleas as delivery boys. This time? Humanity grew its own rats and fleas inside their skulls—free shipping included."
Global broadcasts linked surviving leaders. One suggested lockdowns. Another, nationwide sleep bans. I almost burst out laughing. Lockdown the dreams? Outlaw sleep? Any minute now, they'd propose canceling the "right to dream," forming a "No-Dream Ministry" to collect dream taxes.
Night fell again. Death tolls rolled like a runaway countdown timer. Cities sprouted corpse stockpiles. Factories turned into crematoriums. Billboards blared: "Green, eco-friendly cremation—enjoy your last low-carbon lifestyle." Merchants cashed in with coffin bundles: buy three, get one free, complete with plastic "anti-nightmare amulets."
The streets stank of burning flesh, mixed with nightmare rot. Some swore they could hear death laughing in the air.
I stood high above the city, emptiness gnawing my chest.
"Death everywhere," I murmured. "The world looks like an insomniac who finally decided to sleep forever."
My friend, staring at the corpse-sea, suddenly chuckled. "If this is the apocalypse, at least it's got creativity."
I went silent, then laughed too. Humanity never guessed the end wouldn't come from nukes or wars—but from dreams swallowing them whole.
The storm kept dissolving reality. The living dwindled. The dead multiplied. Cities turned into vast cemeteries without headstones—beds, chairs, street corners all doubling as graves.
Death everywhere. Absurd, grotesque. And to the very end, humanity still tried to clap, waiting for a curtain call.
But this performance had no curtain.