You don't notice the end of the world right away. It's not an explosion, or a siren, or even a scream. It's more like a tension in the air—like the city's holding its breath.
Tacoma had always felt wet and gray. The kind of place where concrete never fully dried and the sky forgot how to shine. But that morning? Something in the clouds felt wrong. Heavy. Almost watching.
I hadn't slept in nearly forty hours. That wasn't new. Caffeine, insomnia, and doomscrolling were my usual breakfast. I was halfway through rereading an apocalypse novel when the power cut out. My laptop screen blinked once, then cracked straight through the center like it had been punched from the inside.
It didn't scare me.
It should've scared me.
But I'd been waiting for this.
I stood up, grabbed my jacket, and slung my duffel over one shoulder. It was already packed—food bars, water, flashlight, knife, trauma gear, tape, and a battered fire axe I kept under my bed like a security blanket.
People made fun of my "bug-out bag."
None of them were laughing when the screaming started.
The hallway outside my dorm smelled like blood.
Someone had smeared a trail of it along the walls in thick, uneven strokes. Like finger painting. I stepped over a shoe—just one, torn at the heel. A broken phone crackled static from under a bench.
Then I heard the first scream.
It wasn't close. It wasn't loud. It came from somewhere outside the building, echoing through wet air like a signal.
And then came another.
Closer.
I moved quickly, past the vending machines, past the laundry room where someone was sobbing behind a locked door. I didn't stop. You stop, you die. That's the rule. At least in the stories.
Outside, the world had changed.
The sky wasn't just cloudy—it was layered, like oil on water. The sun looked sick. Pale orange with a black ring eating into its edges. Rain fell, but it sizzled when it hit the pavement.
And the people…
Some of them had already started changing.
I saw a man collapse mid-step, his arms convulsing as bone pushed through skin. Another person stood in the middle of the road, mouth open wide—too wide—like their jaw had come unhinged.
The worst part wasn't the screaming. It was the silence that came after.
Like something was listening.
I ducked into an alley, breath steady, hands tight around the axe. I moved like I'd trained for it—because I had. Hundreds of stories. Dozens of prep guides. I'd practiced this walk-through a thousand times in my head.
Just not with monsters.
That's when I saw him.
Tyson Marrin.
Debate team. Straight A's. Kind of a smug asshole, but never violent.
He was crouched over a body.
Not helping. Not checking for a pulse.
Eating.
Chewing through muscle like beef jerky, blood soaking his sweater. His jaw… it didn't look like it belonged to him anymore. It had length. The way it moved was too fluid, like his skin hadn't caught up with what was underneath.
I froze.
He didn't.
He stood up slowly, still chewing.
And smiled at me.
I should've run.
Instead, I stepped forward.
I don't know what I expected. Maybe for him to snap out of it. Maybe for him to say something—anything—that made sense.
He didn't.
He lunged.
The axe was heavy in my hands, but the swing came naturally.
I hit him once in the side. He staggered. Came again.
The second swing connected with his collarbone. Something cracked.
The third hit him in the neck.
Blood sprayed. He gurgled. Dropped.
I stood over his twitching body, chest heaving. Everything went quiet again.
And then the pain hit me.
Sharp. Deep. Twisting up from my gut like claws trying to crawl out.
I dropped to my knees, hands shaking. My stomach felt like it was folding in on itself, like something inside wanted out.
I looked down at his body.
And I knew what I had to do.
The first bite wasn't a choice.
It was instinct.
Like blinking. Like breathing.
It tasted wrong. Metallic. Sour. Electric. I gagged—but I swallowed. And almost immediately, the pain stopped.
My vision sharpened.
The ache in my arms faded.
The scratches on my ribs sealed.
It was like flipping a switch. From barely surviving… to something else.
I stumbled away from the body, bile rising in my throat.
What the hell had I just done?
I didn't have an answer.
I just knew I needed more.
The next few hours blurred. I don't remember where I walked or how I didn't die. I moved like a ghost—quiet, alert, starving. I saw people kill each other. I saw things crawling on the walls of the post office. I heard a child laughing from inside a storm drain.
I didn't stop.
Not until I found an abandoned gas station with boarded windows and no power. The roof had caved in, but the back room was dry. That was enough.
I dragged a shelf in front of the door and sat down.
And for the first time all day, I wrote something.
A note. On the back of a receipt. In red pen.
"Lucas Reed. Tacoma. I'm alive. For now.I ate someone. He wasn't human anymore. I don't think I am either."
My fingers were trembling.
Not from fear.
From hunger.
Real hunger. The kind that grinds your bones from the inside.
Normal food made me gag.
Only flesh worked now.
But not any flesh.
It had to be changed. Infected. Mutated. Wrong.
Something inside me recognized it like fuel.
I didn't sleep that night.
I just sat in the dark and listened to the wind.
Or maybe it wasn't wind.
Maybe it was breathing.
Something close.
Something waiting.
By dawn, I knew three things.
One—I wasn't like the others. I hadn't lost my mind. Not yet.
Two—I couldn't go back. Not to school. Not to the old world. It was already gone.
And three—
I was going to survive this.
Whatever it took.