When I opened my eyes, the ceiling was made of rust.
Steel beams, peeling paint, and sunlight sneaking through shattered glass — nothing looked familiar. My body ached like I'd been thrown off a building, and for a second, I didn't remember why.
Then I saw him.
Noah sat beside me, head lowered, one arm draped across his knee. His jacket was torn, streaked with grime and blood, but he was breathing — steady, calm, like always.
"What…" My voice cracked. "Where are we?"
He looked up, eyes sharp but tired. "Warehouse. Outskirts of the city. You've been out for sixteen hours."
"Sixteen hours?" I sat up too fast, my vision swimming. "You brought me here? In this—this dump?"
He didn't answer right away. His expression didn't change, but I could feel his patience thinning.
"It was the safest place I could find," he said evenly. "You were unconscious. Bleeding. I didn't have much of a choice."
I scoffed, swinging my legs off the cot. "You could've taken me home."
"No."
That one word stopped me cold.
He stood, moving to the window — the glass was covered with a piece of metal, but he lifted it just enough for light to pour through. His face stayed in shadow.
"Home isn't safe anymore."
"What are you talking about?" I snapped. "You're exaggerating again—"
"Xeania."
The way he said my name — quiet, deliberate — made my chest tighten. He didn't sound like my bodyguard. He sounded like someone standing on the edge of something broken.
"I need you to listen," he said. "The city's gone. Roads are blocked. People…" He paused, the words catching on his tongue. "They're not the same."
I frowned, crossing my arms. "Not the same? What's that supposed to mean?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he pushed the metal sheet aside a few inches.
And through that narrow crack, I saw the world outside — streets littered with wrecked cars, smoke curling into the sky, and bodies… moving.
Not walking. Not running.Dragging.
My breath caught in my throat.
"Noah…" I whispered. "All this happened while I was out?"
His jaw tightened. "It started not long after the crash. By the time I got you out, the streets were chaos. People turning on each other. No one knew why."
I stared through the slit in the metal again, my stomach twisting. The figures outside weren't just wandering — they were searching, twitching, their heads jerking toward every sound. One stumbled into another, and instead of speaking, it bit.
The motion was so fast, so animal, that I stumbled back from the window.
"This isn't real," I breathed. "It can't be."
Noah lowered the metal sheet back into place and turned to me, his expression unreadable. "It's real enough. Whatever this is, it's spreading fast. And we need to move before it reaches here."
He reached for his duffel bag and checked his weapon. I just stood there — frozen, numb, staring at my trembling hands.
Sixteen hours.
The world had ended in sixteen hours.
I quickly grabbed my phone from my bag, my fingers trembling as I unlocked it. Maybe there was a signal — maybe someone had posted updates, or the police were saying something, anything.
But before I could check, Noah reached over and snatched it from my hands.
"Hey!" I hissed, but he'd already pressed the side button, turning the screen black and setting it to silent. Then he handed it back to me without a word.
"What the hell was that for?" I whispered.
He glanced toward the door, eyes narrowing. "Sound carries."
I unlocked my phone again, this time keeping it muted.
The signal was weak, but somehow still alive. My feed loaded slowly — fragmented videos, blurry news clips, panicked livestreams. I scrolled through them in disbelief.
One video showed a crowded street — people screaming, running — then the camera jerked toward someone collapsing on the sidewalk. The person convulsed, then snapped upright, blood streaming from their mouth. They lunged at the nearest bystander. The footage cut off with a muffled scream.
Another clip was filmed inside a hospital — chaos everywhere. Nurses barricading doors. Someone shouting that "they're not dying, they're changing." Then static.
Every video was worse than the last. Cities burning. Military blockades. People begging for help that wasn't coming.
My hands were shaking by the time I locked the phone again.
"This isn't possible," I whispered. "It can't be everywhere…"
My hands were shaking by the time I locked the phone again.
"This isn't possible," I whispered. "It can't be everywhere…"
My throat tightened. "W-what about Dad? Any news from him? Is he okay?"
Noah didn't answer right away. He glanced toward the dark windows before finally meeting my eyes. "I tried," he said. "Right after the crash. The networks were already unstable. Couldn't get through."
I forced a weak laugh. "Unstable? Come on, Noah. It's probably just temporary. The city's had outages before."
He didn't respond. He just looked tired — not the kind of tired that comes from lack of sleep, but the kind that comes from knowing something you can't fix.
Outside, the wind moved through the broken glass above us, whistling faintly. The world beyond the warehouse felt too quiet — like the city was holding its breath.
I checked my phone again. The signal flickered between bars. Social media was still alive — a flood of shaky videos, desperate updates, and rumors. The words "outbreak", "infection", "lockdown" were everywhere. Nobody seemed to know the truth.
"How long do you think this will last?" I asked.
Noah took a moment before answering. "I don't know. But the government can't contain something like this forever. Power and networks won't hold much longer — maybe four days, at best."
Four days.
Four days until silence.
I looked down at my phone, watching the screen glow against the dark. It felt like holding a tiny piece of civilization — fragile, flickering, and almost gone.
I glanced down at myself — my school uniform, wrinkled and streaked with dirt and dried blood. The white fabric was torn near my sleeve, and the faint scent of smoke clung to it. Sixteen hours, and I still looked like I'd just stepped out of fencing practice… if fencing practice ended with a car crash and the end of the world.
My stomach growled loudly, breaking the silence.
"Ugh," I muttered, pressing a hand against it. "I feel like I haven't eaten in days."
Noah, who'd been checking the ammo in his sidearm, looked up. "You haven't. You were out for sixteen hours."
"We'll have to wait until sunrise before I can get you something to eat," Noah said, glancing out the window where the darkness still clung to the horizon. "The convenience store isn't too far from here. As soon as the sun's up, I'll go and grab you something."
Noah stood up and began opening the crates scattered around the warehouse, rummaging through their contents. He was probably searching for something to eat.
I stood up and followed Noah as he unlocked the crates. But inside, all we found were cleaning supplies and hygiene products—nothing even remotely useful.
"Guess we really have to wait," Noah said, handing me a half-empty water bottle from his duffel bag.
"Thanks," I muttered, taking a slow drink from the bottle. The water was warm and tasted faintly of plastic, but I didn't care. "Noah, I'll pay you double if you can keep me safe."He didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted toward the shattered windows, where the faint glow of dawn struggled to break through the dark.
"Money's useless now," he said finally. "I'm not doing this for cash. I'm just trying to keep myself sane… by having you here, at the end of the world."
He's not wrong. If the world doesn't return to what it used to be, then money will be just paper—useless, forgotten, like everything else we once cared about.
Noah stood up, holstering his weapon. "I'm going to the store to get you something. You stay here and don't make a sound."
The words barely left his mouth before I was on my feet.
"I—I'm going with you," I said, grabbing his sleeve before he could move away. My fingers tightened instinctively, like letting go would mean being left behind in a nightmare.
He turned to look at me — calm, steady, unreadable. "Xeania, it's not safe."
"Neither is sitting here waiting for you to come back," I shot back. "What if something happens? What if you don't—"
"I'll be fine," he interrupted, voice firm but quiet. "You're safer here. The streets aren't what they used to be."
I hated the way he said that — like I was still a child, like I needed protecting. Maybe I did. But I wasn't about to admit it.
"I'm not staying," I said stubbornly. "You said it yourself — it's not safe. So why would you leave me alone?"
For a moment, he didn't move. His eyes softened just slightly, the smallest crack in his composure.
"Fine," he finally muttered, exhaling. "But you stay close. You listen to everything I say. No arguing."
I nodded, grabbing my jacket from a nearby crate. "Deal."
Noah slung his bag over his shoulder, pausing before opening the door. His voice dropped lower, almost like he didn't want the walls to hear.
"Xeania… there's something you need to understand before we go out there."
I froze. The tone of his voice — quiet, grim — made my stomach twist.
He looked at me then, really looked at me. "Those people outside… as I've observed, they can't see. Their eyes are grey, clouded over. Their flesh is—" he hesitated, jaw tightening, "—rotting. But they can hear. Any sound, any noise… it draws them in."
I swallowed hard, the reality starting to sink in.
"They run fast," he continued. "They bite — and after a minute, you turn into one of them."
My throat went dry. "That's impossible," I whispered. "A minute?"
He didn't answer right away. The silence was louder than any confirmation.
Then he said softly, "Don't test it."
He pushed the door open a few inches, scanning the alley outside.
"Stay behind me," he said again.
And for once, I didn't argue.
I clung to his arm, my fingers tightening around his sleeve as he slowly unlatched the warehouse door. The hinges creaked faintly — too loud, it felt — and I held my breath.
Noah moved with the kind of caution that came from experience, pushing the doors open just enough for us to slip through. The air outside hit me immediately — damp, heavy, and thick with the faint stench of smoke and decay.
The streets were empty. Abandoned cars sat at odd angles, some with their doors hanging open. Broken glass glinted under the gray sky. For a fleeting second, it almost looked peaceful — until I saw them.
Not far down the road, a group of them crowded around a car, drawn by the blaring alarm that echoed through the silence.
Dozens of them.
Their movements were jerky, unnatural — heads twitching, bodies staggering as they slammed against the vehicle, smearing it with blood and filth. The sound of their growls mixed with the alarm's shriek in a nightmarish rhythm.
My grip on Noah's arm tightened until my knuckles turned white.
He didn't look at me. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead, scanning for a clear path.
"We move quiet," he murmured, barely audible. "One sound, and we're dead."
I nodded, afraid even to breathe.
We tiptoed across the street, moving in sync — every step deliberate, every sound swallowed by the still air. My heart pounded so hard it felt like even that might draw their attention.
The convenience store stood at the corner, its fluorescent lights still flickering weakly through the grimy glass. It looked almost normal — like the world outside hadn't ended, like people would walk in any minute to buy snacks or coffee.
But no one did.
Noah motioned for me to stay behind him as he approached the door. He scanned the interior first — eyes sweeping over every shadow, every aisle. Then, with a careful push, the door creaked open.
The faint jingle of the bell above the frame made my breath hitch.
We stepped inside.
The place was a wreck. Shelves knocked over, snack wrappers and spilled noodles littering the floor. The cash register hung open, the drawer empty except for a few scattered coins. A smell of stale air and something faintly metallic hung in the room.
Nobody was there.
Noah kept his gun raised as he moved deeper inside, eyes darting toward the backroom door. I followed close, careful not to step on broken glass.
It looked like people had looted in a panic — but weirdly, some things were untouched. There were still a few cans on the shelves, some bottled water, a box of protein bars under a fallen rack.
I crouched down and started gathering what I could into a plastic bag, hands shaking slightly.
It was too quiet.
Even the hum of the refrigerator felt unnerving, like the store itself was holding its breath.
I glanced at Noah, whispering, "Why is the power still on?"
He didn't answer right away — just looked toward the street through the cracked window.
"Because the city hasn't died yet," he said finally. "But it will, probably in 5 days"
"Grab everything you need," Noah said, his tone clipped but calm.
The sound of items clattering on the floor felt too loud in the silence. I winced and glanced toward the door, but the street outside stayed still.
I moved quickly through the aisles, scanning what was left. Most of the shelves were stripped bare — only crumbs of normal life remained. I grabbed what I could find: packets of chips, canned food, energy bars, bottled drinks. In the small pharmacy section, I found bandages, painkillers, and a few boxes of antibiotics that hadn't been taken.
Every item I stuffed into my bag felt like a stolen breath of time.
Noah moved with purpose — checking the exits, refilling ammo, scanning through the store's front window every few seconds. He was calm in a way that made me realize this wasn't the first time he'd dealt with danger.
I zipped my bag closed and slung it over my shoulder. "I'm done."
He looked back at me, gave a short nod. "Good. We move fast."
We made it back to the warehouse without a word. Every step felt heavier than the last. When Noah finally locked the door behind us, the click of the bolt sounded louder than it should've — like safety, or something close to it.
We headed deeper inside and sat down on a stack of crates. The air was cold and smelled faintly of rust and dust.
I pulled my backpack off and dumped everything onto the floor — the sound of plastic and metal clattering echoed softly through the space. "What did you get?" I asked, brushing dirt off my sleeve.
Noah crouched beside his own pack and started unpacking in that methodical way of his — neat, deliberate, like every motion mattered.
"I knew you'd prioritize food," he said with the faintest hint of a smirk. "So I packed the things you didn't think of — batteries, flashlights, some gas butane, and a few cans I found near the counter."
I frowned a little. "Well, excuse me for wanting to eat."
He shrugged. "You're not wrong. But we'll need more than food if we're staying alive."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward — just heavy. The kind that settles in when both people are too aware of how much has changed.
I looked down at the scattered supplies between us — a strange mix of normal and desperate. Chips, flashlights, medicine, and a small bottle of water that already felt too precious.
For a moment, I thought about how yesterday, this would've just been a lazy afternoon after class. Now it was survival.