Zayn adjusted the strap on his bag and said, "We should take the metro. It'll be faster—and we'll have time to rehearse and clean up any mistakes before we perform."
Aaron nodded, already convinced. "Yeah, smart move."
Insha and I exchanged glances, shrugged, and agreed. "Alright. Metro it is."
Our little group—two guys, two girls, plus a few other classmates we barely knew—set off together. It wasn't a well-organized plan, but it felt spontaneous, a bit reckless, and oddly exciting. Like the start of a weird side quest. Just a group of students trying to make it to a school performance... while the world quietly unraveled around them.
We headed to the station without much thought, tangled in conversations about stage lights, dance cues, and which teacher would freak out the most if we forgot our lines. In all that buzzing chatter, none of us realized we hadn't eaten anything.
Until, of course, we reached the turnstile.
Two of us went straight through. The other two stopped—hunger catching up at the worst time. Insha and I shouted food orders across the gate like maniacs while they grabbed snacks from a nearby kiosk. People stared. We didn't care.
We regrouped on the platform, laughing and juggling packets of chips and soda like we were prepping for a picnic instead of a public performance. That laughter didn't last.
The metro arrived.
And it was empty.
Not just "less crowded." Not a single person inside.
We stepped in anyway.
The train hissed and rolled forward through the city, but it felt like we were moving through a ghost town. The silence was eerie—no footsteps, no murmur of commuters, no announcements over the speakers. Only the low hum of the tracks beneath us and the occasional flicker of overhead lights.
Still, we tried to shake it off. It was probably just a weird time of day. Right?
When we reached our stop, the venue loomed just ahead. We stepped onto the platform.
The stillness followed us.
Even the roads outside seemed oddly... deserted. The stalls were shuttered. The usual chaos of the city was muted. Everything felt like it had stopped breathing. A pause in the middle of a scene that wasn't supposed to pause.
Aaron pulled out his phone.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
He didn't answer. His face said it all.
One by one, we checked our phones. Notifications flooded in.
❗ "Unknown virus outbreak – stay indoors"❗ "Rapid mutations – avoid contact with infected individuals"❗ "Government orders lockdown in affected zones"❗ "Airborne transmission suspected. Secure food, water, shelter."
No symptoms. No explanations. No idea where it started.
Just panic. Just silence. Just us—four kids with snacks and costumes—reading news that sounded more like a movie script than reality.
And then we looked up. We were standing outside. Unprotected. Unprepared.
"Oh, we're doing great," Insha muttered. "Just like the notice said. Outdoors. No supplies. Totally fine."
We ran.
The venue was close. A large auditorium-style building, familiar and comfortable. We rushed through the gates expecting confusion, maybe tension, but instead found something surreal:
Nothing.
Inside, everything was normal.
Students were still rehearsing. Music played through cheap speakers. Teachers barked instructions. Kids ran past in glittery outfits, laughing like they were at a carnival.
It was like the world hadn't gotten the memo.
We stood there, stunned. Did no one else know?
Or worse—did no one believe it?
I looked at Insha. "Are we dreaming?"
Zayn shook his head. "Not unless this dream comes with virus warnings and mass hysteria."
We didn't have time to answer our own questions.
Because suddenly—we saw it.
From the large staircase near the venue's window wall, we had a full view of the road outside.
That's when Insha pointed. "Guys…"
A truck.
Speeding. Out of control.
It slammed into a school bus at full speed. The impact was instant. Metal twisted. Tires burst. A fireball tore through the air, swallowing both vehicles in a deafening explosion. The heat from it reached us, even from across two streets.
The sound. The screams. The silence that followed.
We were thrown backward from the force alone, hitting the stairs, clutching each other in shock. For a moment, none of us moved. Couldn't move. Our ears rang. The world spun.
Then we saw them.
Figures.
Running toward the building.
Not students. Not survivors.
Covered in blood. Faces mangled. Eyes empty. Movements wrong—like broken puppets chasing a sound only they could hear.
Screams erupted.
Security guards raced to close the gates. Panic surged through the hallways as teachers shouted for everyone to get to their assigned rooms.
But something was wrong. As we ran from door to door, desperate to get inside, they slammed them shut.
Locked.
One by one.
We banged. We begged.
Nothing.
Every room was barricaded from the inside.
No one would let us in.
The clawing started. On the outside walls. The windows. The doors.
Something had gotten through.
We were out of time.
"There—storage room!" Aaron shouted.
A small, forgotten room near the back stairwell. No one used it. It was supposed to be locked.
Zayn grabbed a decorative rock from a nearby potted plant and began smashing the padlock. We backed against the wall, our hearts in our throats, as shrieks and guttural howls echoed down the halls.
Finally—the lock snapped.
But just as we opened the door, a figure turned the corner.
It was running. Arms twisted, mouth wide open, covered in streaks of blood and soot. Its eyes locked on us like prey.
We screamed.
Insha shoved us inside.
She slammed the door behind us.
We crashed to the floor, tangled limbs and held breath. A moment passed. Then two. Then silence.
We were safe.
For now.
And then we looked up.
And we saw…