Most stories about the apocalypse start with a bang. Explosions, sirens, news reports.
Mine started with hunger.I woke up wanting Maggi.
My hostel room smelled like socks, dust, and regret. Kabir—my roommate—was drooling on his pillow, snoring like he was auditioning for a tractor commercial. I was about to shake him awake when I heard it.
A scream.
Not the "Oh no, I failed my exam!" scream. Not the "My ex texted me at 3 AM" scream. No. This was wet. Raw. Like something tearing.
Kabir shot up, rubbing his eyes."What the hell was that?"
"Relax," I muttered. "Probably some couple fighting. Free entertainment."
I opened the door.Big mistake.
The corridor was chaos. Students sprinting, shoving, slipping over their own slippers. A guy clutched his bleeding arm. Someone else was sobbing.
And then—her.A girl crouched over another student, tearing at his face with her teeth.Not biting.Not kissing.Tearing.
She lifted her head. Her mouth glistened red, her eyes glazed.
You'd think I'd scream. Or panic. Or heroically run to save someone.Nope.My first thought? Great. Now I'll never get my security deposit back.
Kabir gasped. "Z-Zombies?"
"Don't say that word."
"Why not?"
"Because the moment you call them that, this turns into a cliché. And if I'm going to die, it won't be in a bargain-bin Netflix knockoff."
Then the girl screeched. And we ran.
Running, by the way, is not cinematic. It's not slow-motion badass shots. It's sweat. It's gasping lungs. It's me tripping on my own flip-flop while Kabir called me a dumbass.
We burst into the common hall. A dozen students were shoving chairs against doors, yelling like wannabe generals. Someone vomited in the corner. Perfect apocalypse starter pack.
Kabir bent over, panting. "Bro… what's happening?"
I looked at him. Really looked. His face pale. Hands trembling. And then I saw it—The bite mark on his wrist.
I froze.
He noticed me staring and yanked his sleeve down."Don't," he whispered. "Please."
My chest tightened. This was Kabir. My roommate. My brother-in-everything-but-blood. We'd shared food, secrets, exam answers. And now he had the apocalypse's version of a death sentence inked on his skin.
I wanted to say something. Anything. "You'll be okay."But lies tasted like iron in my mouth.
So I laughed. Small. Broken. Bitter.Because if I didn't laugh, I'd scream.
Oh, you expected a hero? Sorry. Wrong novel. I'm just the idiot who hides his best friend's bite mark. Welcome to the end of the world.