I didn't wait to ask more questions. I pushed myself off the couch and followed Jeremy through the hallway. My legs felt stiff, like I'd aged ten years in just ten minutes.
As I stepped into the living room, the sound from the TV had shifted—no longer the cheesy groans of the zombie movie Jeremy had on previously, but the urgent, uneven breath of a reporter trying to keep calm.
A woman stood on-screen, clutching a microphone in her right hand. Her other hand pressed tightly against her earpiece, like she was trying to tune out the chaos behind her. The background was all too familiar—Metro Central Hospital, just a few streets from here.
She cleared her throat before speaking, her eyes darting between the camera and something happening offscreen followed by a mumbled up expression.
"Good evening. We're reporting live from Metro Central Hospital. Earlier this morning, at approximately 4:07 AM, an emergency patient was brought in following a robbery incident at a downtown bar. The patient, identified as twenty-seven-year-old Raphael O. George, initially responded well to basic treatment for injuries sustained during the attack."
She paused, flipping to the next page...
"However, just a few hours ago, Mr. George's condition suddenly changed. Hospital sources confirm that he began experiencing violent convulsions, followed by sharp joint stiffness that caused several cracking sounds, described by staff as 'snapping pains.' Shortly after, the patient developed a heavy nosebleed that could not be stopped."
The camera shifted slightly to show the double doors of Room 019, now sealed off with red tape. Two security officers in full protective gear stood posted outside, unmoving.
"Though doctors have not confirmed what caused the sudden decline, tests are being carried out to rule out infectious causes. The hospital is taking every necessary step to prevent panic and ensure safety for staff and patients."
The reporter's forced smile which was so obvious she w as hiding more information than she had spewed out. "We're asking parents and close contacts of Mr. Raphael George, especially family members or those who may have been in close proximity from yesterday till this morning he was taken to the hospital to report to Metro Central Hospital for routine investigation paperwork."
Jeremy slowly turned toward me, his face pale as he clicked the off button on the remote. The screen went black, but the silence it left behind screamed louder than any news anchor ever could. His first breath came in drag as he looked around, his head raised high to avoid tears from falling down.
"This is exactly what you saw in your dream, right?"
I shook my head, rubbing my palms together. "No… not exactly. In the dream, I was already on top of a twenty-five-foot building. The world was already wrecked. Smoke, ash… people eating each other like meat on a stick. I didn't see how it started."
Jeremy ran a hand through his hair, backing up a step away from me. "Bruh what the fuck do you mean by you don't know how it all started! That's Raphael! That's our guy! Our friend! We were just drinking with him like two nights ago!" His breath hitched even more "What if he's the first? What if that virus—whatever it is—turns him into a fucking zombie?"
He cursed, flinging the remote toward the floor. It hit the tile behind him before I could catch it with a loud thud breaking into pieces. Then, out of nowhere, Jeremy stormed forward and grabbed the front of my shirt with both hands, shaking me.
"Look at what your fucking bad omen has caused!" he yelled. "Raphael is a sweet guy! He hasn't even had sex, or gotten married, or had a real girlfriend! Dude is literally lonely as hell, and now he has to die as some creepy, nose-bleeding monster!"
"Jeremy!" I barked, trying to pry his hands off before he did anything he would regret later on. "There's no way to fix an apocalypse!"
"You saw it coming!"
"I didn't start it!"
"You should've warned him!"
"I couldn't! You think I like this?" I shouted back at him. "You can't fix the end of the world! You don't end an apocalypse—you just try not to die for a little while. You try to survive. That's all there is. And even that doesn't last long…"
Jeremy's hands dropped. He backed away, breathing hard, like my words had hit him in the chest. He looked like he wanted to punch something—or maybe just cry.
But then his eyes lit up, desperate. "Then do it again."
"What?"
"Go back into that dream."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Lie down. On this table. I don't care if it's crazy. Just go back. Get me answers." He pointed to the bar's wooden counter like it was a damn magic bed where I could get answers to all my problems. "Sleep, vision, whatever. Just go back to that dream and tell me how this shit ends."
Before I could respond, he shoved me lightly toward the bar stand table. My back hit the edge with a sharp pain. Jeremy didn't look at me for once and started pacing like a madman. "You say there's no fixing it, but that means you've given up. I haven't. I'm not letting Raphael die like that. You hear me?"
I looked at him, chest rising and falling, hands balled into fists.
"I don't know if I can go back," I said, quietly. "It's not something I control."
Jeremy stopped pacing and stared at me, eyes locked on mine.
"Then fucking try you asshole!"
"Hey—" I pushed him away, hurt that he spoke to me that way. "Don't talk to me like that. We were just drinking and laughing a few hours ago. Don't take it out on me because this shit is happening now."
Jeremy took a step back, his chest still heaving like he'd just run a mile. His jaw clenched, but he didn't say anything.
I raked my fingers through my hair and turned away from him, staring at the blank TV screen like it could magically show me the answer.
"I can't just go to sleep and land in the apocalypse," I muttered out loud weakly. "The fuck is it even real? We don't know that yet. For all we know, it could just be some random virus or even a setup. That news broadcast might just be trying to mess with our heads."
Jeremy scoffed. "Seriously? You think they sealed off a hospital room and called for family like it's a prank? You saw the guards. You saw the tape. You heard that reporter's voice. She was scared, man. Real scared."
I turned back to him, fists clenched. "Then we go to the hospital."
Jeremy's brows furrowed. "What?"
"We go see Raphael ourselves," I said, my voice rising. "See with our own eyes what the hell is going on. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's just a bad reaction to meds or something. But if it's not…"
Jeremy crossed his arms, shaking his head. "And what if it's not? What if he turns? What then? Huh?"
I hesitated.
Jeremy stepped forward, his eyes wild now. "Have you even thought about it? How the hell are we supposed to stop Raphael if he becomes a zombie? Have you thought of that?! He's going to spread that damn virus to everyone around him—nurses, patients, family, everyone."
A lump formed in my throat.
"Arthur," he said, voice trembling, "what if this is really the beginning of it? What if your dream—your vision or whatever—is showing us the truth and we're just sitting here doing nothing?"
I looked down, hands trembling slightly. "Then we have to kill him. Before he transforms. That's the only way to put him out of the miserable zombie life he's going to become."
Jeremy froze. His arms dropped to his sides. "You're serious?"
I nodded slowly. "It's either him… or everyone else."
He looked like he wanted to argue—but couldn't. Because he knew I was right. Most of the horror thriller we watched over the years all began with a simple symptom like nosebleed and convulsions before blowing up to half the whole world zombified.
"Let's go see Raphael. Come on, let's go!"
I screamed at Jeremy but he just stood there barely moving until he began to move. He went into the backroom just like that and a sudden crash followed. More like metals clanging against the floor. My body jolted at the sound of plates and cutlery scattering like they'd been knocked off the shelves.
"Jeremy?" I called out, moving toward the noise. "What the hell are you doing?"
No response.
I pushed open the swinging door to the backroom, startled a bit that Jeremy was staring at his reflection on a dagger, his body rested against the cellar and in the left hand, a bottle of alcohol whose cap was beneath him broken.
He took a long swig, head tilted back, throat working fast like he needed the burn to stay sane. "Aren't you going to ask me why I have a dagger with me?"
"Um, to kill Raphael?"
"Exactly, my six years of watching thrillers made me realize that silver daggers are known to kill people with some sort of virus or anything!"
"....."