The night pressed down on us—thick, silent, too still. We were deep in exhaustion, caught between sleep and nightmare, when suddenly—
A sharp BEEP cracked through the darkness.
Zayn's phone buzzed.
One small beep, but it hit us like thunder ripping through the sky.
He rubbed his eyes, thinking it was a glitch. But then his breath hitched, eyes widening as a bright red message flashed:
EMERGENCY BROADCAST – GOVT. OF INDIA"ALL SURVIVORS: REPORT TO NEAREST BASE CAMP. ARMY SUPPORT AVAILABLE."
Zayn jolted upright. "GUYS! WAKE UP! We got something—a message!"
We blinked awake, hearts pounding, adrenaline flooding in.
"What? Now?" someone groaned, disbelief thick in their voice.
"Yes! The government's calling survivors to a base camp! This could be our chance!"
Sleep fled like smoke in the wind as we scrambled to prepare.
We tore open our bags, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion. The message was vague—camps in apartment clusters, four to six buildings each. Safe? No one knew. But it was a thread to hold on to.
The question thudded louder than anything—how long would it last? Was it even real?
We grabbed everything that might keep us alive: newspapers to wrap our arms, duct tape to seal every crack, old uniforms torn into armor, bedsheets padded as makeshift shields.
Rusty rods, chains, twisted wires, broken broom handles, shards of glass—anything sharp or heavy that could slow down the nightmare chasing us.
We fashioned weapons with desperate creativity.
Broken locks pocketed like treasures. Curtain rods repurposed as clubs. Mop handles reinforced into batons.
Madness—pure, raw—but focused.
We weren't just survivors anymore. We were warriors.
No more waiting for salvation. No more praying for rescue.
We'd make it to that camp—even if the road was paved with hell.
Backpacks strapped tight, shoes laced, weapons clutched like lifelines—we stood at the door.
Outside, the wind screamed warnings. The sky cracked open with lightning, jagged shadows flickering across the ruined city we were about to step into.
Zayn's voice broke the silence—low, deadly serious.
"Once we open this door, there's no pause. No turning back."
That message was a lifeline thrown into a pit of darkness—thin, frayed, but hope nonetheless.
And when hope knocks, you don't ignore it.
You answer.
Insha checked her makeshift shield, every lock and tape strip secured tight. Aaron twisted wires around his forearms, turning them into lethal bracers. I slipped one last energy bar into my pocket—not for now, but for later.
The door clicked shut behind us with finality that shook through our bones.
No second chances.
Our armor was crude—newspaper and duct tape wrapped tight. Faces smeared with ash, eyes burning with exhaustion and determination.
Our weapons were scavenged relics from a dead world.
Zayn swung a rusty bike chain welded to a metal rod—his brutal flail, "The Karma Chain."
Aaron gripped two broken chair legs wrapped in razor wires—"Snap & Crackle."
Insha wielded a spear crafted from kitchen knives taped to a pipe—"The Whisper."
I carried a jagged umbrella handle strapped across my back—my blade, "Raincheck."
A warning to the undead—I wasn't dying tonight.
The plan wasn't perfect. It was raw survival.
We mapped our route on the dusty floor with newspapers marked in charcoal—arrows pointing to a broken bridge two blocks away. Our only hope to reach the base camp.
The building groaned as the wind clawed at it.
Lightning flashed, illuminating our ragtag arsenal—relics of a world lost.
"We're not soldiers," Insha whispered, voice steady but fierce, "but tonight, we fight like we are."
Aaron nodded grimly."And if we fall…""We fall loud," Zayn finished, gripping Karma Chain tighter.
Surrounded by ruins and silence, in a world that didn't care if we lived or died—
We cared.
And we were ready.
One step.
One strike.
One scream.
The war had already begun.
Now it was our turn to write the next chapter.