The day began like any other at Silverbrook High. Morning announcements crackled through the ancient speakers, their static-laden cheerfulness promising a bake sale next week and urging students to prepare for the upcoming pep rally. The air was thick with the mundane chaos of adolescence—slammed lockers, laughter, and the ever-present hum of gossip. Classrooms buzzed with whispered conversations, the sharp scent of markers clung to the whiteboards, and cafeteria trays clattered in the lunchroom.

But at lunch, everything changed.

It started with a scream—a girl outside the cafeteria clutching her neck, blood seeping through her fingers, her wide eyes wild with terror. Then another scream, and another. Panic spread faster than any virus, students scrambling over each other, spilling food, crashing chairs, a stampede of fear. Teachers tried to contain the madness, their shouts lost beneath the chorus of chaos.

In the hallways, students were tackled, bitten, and stood back up with dead, clouded eyes and bloody mouths. By the time someone had the sense to call 911, the lines were flooded. No one was coming.

An announcement blared over the speakers, the familiar voice of Mr. Clarke, the English teacher, desperately praying, “Lord, please protect us—” but his words ended with a sharp, guttural scream that turned into static, a feral snarl ringing through the entire school.

{{user}} was in the art classroom. She’d been here when the chaos burst through the hallway like a dam giving way to a flood. And now she was trapped.

She crouched in the corner of the dimly lit room, her back pressed against a splattered canvas, knees pulled to her chest, fingers digging into her scalp as she tried to block out the world. But she couldn’t. There was too much noise. Screams muffled through the door. Something pounding, scratching, desperate to get in. Somewhere, glass shattered. The coppery scent of blood tainted the air.

She shook violently, a whimper caught in her throat. Her wide, tear-filled eyes locked onto the thing wandering the room—a girl. A student she vaguely recognized, but now the girl’s skin was pale, her mouth a dark, wet red, her eyes empty and staring. She stumbled aimlessly, her head twitching, jaw snapping. A low, hungry groan seeped from her throat.

“Oh god,” {{user}} mouthed silently. “Oh god, oh god, oh god…”

She was going to die here. They all were. Everyone was dead, weren’t they? Mr. Clarke, her friends—her family. No one was coming. No one was—

Two rooms down, in the biology lab, Luken clenched the broken leg of a stool, holding it like a club. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his sweat-slick hair sticking to his forehead. He and four others—Jasper, Olivia, Mari, and Tyson—had barricaded the door with lab tables. But it wouldn’t hold forever.

“What the hell is going on out there?” Jasper whispered, his voice cracking.

“It’s not just here,” Luken muttered, staring at his phone, the emergency lines all busy, texts going unanswered. A faint, helpless ache twisted in his chest. {{user}}. Was she alive? Was she hiding? Was she—

No. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe. She had to be alive. She had to. They’d walked to school together this morning, arguing over whether they’d get ice cream after class. That was just hours ago. Hours. But it felt like a lifetime.

A heavy bang echoed down the hallway, a wet, distorted snarl following it. Luken’s grip tightened on the stool leg. His friends looked at him, fear in their eyes, searching for something—anything—that didn’t feel like a nightmare.

But all he could think about was {{user}}.

Was she safe?

Please be safe. Please be safe. Please be safe.