(Year 2040 — Rainy Season)
The cathedral had forgotten the sound of prayer.
Rain drummed softly on the broken roof, slipping through cracks and dripping onto the stone floor in slow, rhythmic taps. The air was cold and damp, carrying the scent of wet pine drifting in from the mountains. Moss clung to the pillars. Water pooled in shallow depressions on the floor, reflecting the fractured colors of shattered stained glass.
Baguio Cathedral had survived storms, quakes, fire, war, and things far worse.
But it had not survived untouched.
Neither had Blake Ong.
He stood in the center aisle, breathing slowly, quietly, like a man who had learned to move without disturbing the world around him. His boots made no sound on the wet stone. His eyes scanned every shadow, every corner, every possible entry point.
Habit.
Instinct.
Survival.
Fifteen years of it.
He walked toward the altar, passing pews warped by moisture and time. Some were cracked from earthquakes. Some were scorched from the wildfire that swept through the city years ago. Some were stained by the acidic rains that fell after the nuclear exchange.
He didn't look at them.
He couldn't.
Not today.
Not when the memories were already clawing at the edges of his mind.
He reached the front pew and sat down, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. His knuckles were scarred. His palms were calloused. His fingers trembled only when he allowed them to.
Today, he allowed them to.
The cathedral was cold, but his chest burned.
Fifteen years since the outbreak.
Fifteen years since the world collapsed.
Fifteen years since he lost them.
Marie.
Mikaela.
Aer.
Their names were carved into him deeper than any wound.
He closed his eyes.
And the silence broke.
Not with sound.
With memory.
---
The Quiet Outbreak
It hadn't started with screams.
It had started quietly.
A strange fever in a few hospitals.
Odd behavior in patients.
People disappearing from wards.
Governments insisting everything was under control.
Blake remembered watching the news with Marie, Mikaela curled beside him, Aer asleep on his lap. The reports were vague, dismissive. "Localized incidents." "Under investigation." "No cause for alarm."
People believed it.
He had believed it.
Until the world gave them something else to fear.
---
The War That Distracted the World
A distant conflict in Iran.
Then a larger one.
Then alliances forming overnight.
Countries choosing sides.
Fuel prices skyrocketing.
Economies trembling.
Blake remembered the panic buying.
The long lines at gas stations.
The sudden shortages.
The fear in people's eyes.
Everyone thought the war was the real threat.
They didn't know the virus was already spreading.
Slow at first.
Harmless-looking.
Easy to ignore.
Until it wasn't.
---
The Mutation
A drop of water fell from the cracked ceiling and landed on Blake's hand.
Cold.
Real.
He opened his eyes.
The cathedral's walls were damp, darkened by years of rain. Moss crept up the stone like green veins. The air smelled of mildew and old incense.
He reached into his jacket's inner pocket.
His fingers brushed against cold metal.
The Blizz Pin.
A small stylized snowflake, worn smooth from years of being held. Mikaela had given it to him on his 35th birthday, wrapped in a tiny box with a hand‑drawn card.
"Daddy, so you always remember your favorite games… and us."
He had laughed then.
He had hugged her.
He had promised he would keep it forever.
He had kept that promise.
Even after the world ended.
He closed his hand around the pin.
He remembered the day the virus changed.
When infection went from slow to instant.
When hospitals overflowed.
When cities fell in hours.
When the world realized it was fighting the wrong enemy.
The infected became the real war.
Governments panicked.
And then—
---
The Nuclear Exchange
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Blake looked up at the cracked ceiling.
Rainwater dripped steadily through a hole scorched black around the edges.
He remembered that glow.
The sky had turned faintly orange for nights after the detonations.
Not bright enough to burn.
But bright enough to terrify.
Nations, desperate and cornered, launched nuclear strikes at infected megacities.
The world population dropped to thirty percent.
Radiation drifted across continents.
Acid rain followed.
He remembered the hiss of it hitting metal roofs.
The way it melted signboards.
The way survivors hid indoors for days.
He remembered the smell of the air afterward—
sharp, chemical, wrong.
---
The Natural Calamities
He stood slowly, breath steadying.
He walked toward the side door and pushed it open.
Rain fell in sheets outside, turning the courtyard into a shallow pool. The stone steps were slick with moss. The air was cold, heavy, and thick with the scent of wet earth.
Baguio was a graveyard of disasters.
Pine trees grew through cracked pavement—
remnants of earthquakes that split the city.
Icicles still clung to broken roofs—
remnants of the freak blizzard that froze Baguio overnight.
Metal signs were warped—
remnants of heatwaves that melted asphalt.
Ash clung to gutters—
remnants of wildfires that swept through the mountains.
Meteor craters dotted the outskirts—
remnants of the sky falling apart.
Blake inhaled deeply.
Cold.
Crisp.
Familiar.
---
The Monster Evolution
He descended the cathedral steps.
A deep claw mark scarred the stone railing—jagged, unnatural.
He remembered the first mutated animals—
deer with bone plates,
boars with glowing eyes,
birds with metallic feathers.
Some were edible.
Some were poisonous.
Some were radioactive.
Survivors learned the hard way.
Then came the evolved infected.
Stage 1—slow, shambling.
Stage 2—fast.
Stage 3—climbers.
Stage 4—screamers.
Stage 5—burrowers.
Stage 6—pack hunters.
Stage 7—armored.
Stage 8—night stalkers.
Stage 9—giants.
Stage 10—apex horrors.
Blake had survived them all.
But he had not survived the tunnel.
---
The Memory That Never Faded
He reached the bottom of the steps and paused.
Rain pattered softly on his hood.
The world was quiet.
Too quiet.
He closed his eyes.
Dust in the air.
Cold wind.
Marie's hand slipping from his.
Mikaela's trembling voice.
Aer crying into his shoulder.
The world shaking.
The silence that followed.
His fingers brushing the Blizz Pin.
His whisper—
"I'm sorry… I couldn't protect you."
His chest tightened.
He opened his eyes.
Rain blurred the ruined city before him.
---
The Shift
He continued walking, steps steady, expression cold.
He had survived fifteen years.
He would survive today.
But as he walked, the Blizz Pin in his pocket pulsed faintly—just once, like a heartbeat.
He froze.
He looked down.
The pin was still cold.
Still metal.
Still ordinary.
But something had changed.
Something he couldn't name.
Something he couldn't ignore.
For the first time in fifteen years…
Blake Ong felt the world shift.