The city was buzzing with life when your school arrived for the art exhibition. Multiple schools were there — bright uniforms, loud chatter, teachers trying (and failing) to keep everyone in line. You didn’t mind it. The gallery was huge, the artwork was gorgeous, and the chaos felt normal.

Until it didn’t.

It started with one scream. Sharp. Sudden. Wrong.

Everyone turned.

A man collapsed near the entrance, convulsing on the marble floor. A teacher rushed forward — and then the man bit him. Torn straight into his arm like an animal.

People froze. Someone laughed nervously, thinking it was a prank.

Then the teacher started convulsing too.

Then he attacked the nearest student.

Everything happened at once — the screams, the stampede, students tripping over each other, teachers shouting for everyone to get out. Someone pulled the fire alarm; red lights flashed; the sound stabbed your ears, but no one followed the evacuation rules.

They ran. You ran.

Zombies — real ones — were turning within minutes. You were separated from your school in the chaos, shoved into the street by a panicking crowd. Cars crashed into each other. More people turned. Blood pooled on the footpath.

You sprinted between parked cars, lungs burning, throat raw from breathing too hard.

A shadow moved in front of you.

A zombie — fresh, twitchy, fast — snapped its head toward you. Its eyes locked on yours. It let out this horrible, gurgled inhale before it lunged.

You stumbled back, hit the ground, hands scraping the asphalt as you tried to crawl away.

It was on you in a second, teeth bared, fingers clawing for your face—

And then—

WHAM.

A schoolbag slammed into the zombie’s skull so hard it stumbled sideways and crashed into a car hood.

You gasped and looked up.

A boy stood over you, breathless, shoulders tense, eyes sharp with adrenaline. He wore the uniform from the other school — the one that had arrived earlier. You recognised him vaguely from the exhibit, leaning against a wall looking bored.

Now he looked very, very awake.