The growl sent a chill down their spines.
A voice of the breaking of glass came from deep inside the woods.
Reis turned sharply, gripping Amara's wrist as Seraph pulled out the small camping knife he always carried. Their breaths were ragged, hearts pounding as the shadows shifted around them.
"Run."
They bolted through the trees, feet slipping over dirt and blood as they made their way back to where their school bus was parked. The field trip had started as an educational excursion about underground bunkers, but now it felt like a cruel joke—no amount of theoretical knowledge could prepare them for the horror unfolding around them.
The school bus was still there, its doors wide open, but the driver was gone. A few students had already climbed aboard, screaming at the others to hurry. Reis and the others pushed forward, scrambling up the steps.
"Where are the teachers?" Amara gasped.
Seraph turned, scanning the chaos behind them. Students were still running through the trees, some making it while others—
A guttural scream. A body being dragged into the darkness. Flesh tearing. A boy's face contorted in terror before his throat was ripped open, arterial spray painting the trees crimson.
No time to grieve. No time to stop.
Reis slammed his fist against the bus window. "Close the doors! We need to go!"
Someone was in the driver's seat, a senior named Devon. His hands were shaking, but he nodded, shifting the bus into gear. The engine roared to life, and the bus lurched forward. Through the windows, they saw the field turning into a graveyard, bodies strewn across the grass, blood seeping into the soil.
Then came the pounding.
Zombies hurled themselves at the bus, slamming against the windows with sickening force. Their faces were wrong—jaws unhinged, eyes sunken and rabid, some missing patches of flesh where something had gnawed them raw. One girl, a classmate, her name lost in the chaos, threw herself at the door, blood bubbling from her lips as she screamed without words, her nails clawing deep gouges into the glass.
"Shit!" Seraph cursed, moving toward the aisle. "They're getting in!"
The emergency exit in the back was rattling violently. Then, with a loud crack, the glass shattered. A pair of hands, skeletal and drenched in gore, reached in, grabbing at the nearest student—a freshman named Caleb. His scream was brief, cut off as he was yanked backward. The sound of tearing meat followed, and his severed arm was flung inside the bus like a discarded toy.
"MOVE!" Reis roared, stepping up. He grabbed a fire extinguisher and swung, crushing a zombie's skull against the window frame. The sound was wet, a sickening crunch as bone splintered and brain matter splattered across the seats.
Seraph wasn't far behind. He swung his bat, shattering teeth, sending bodies sprawling backward. But they kept coming. For every one they put down, more replaced them.
"Get them off the door!" Amara cried, shoving at a body trying to wedge itself through.
Devon jerked the wheel. The bus swerved sharply, throwing everyone against the seats. The zombies outside tumbled away for a brief moment, giving them space.
"We can't stay here!" Reis yelled.
The radio crackled to life. Static filled the bus before a frantic voice cut through. "This isn't just here! The outbreak—it's everywhere! The whole country is going dark! Stay inside, stay together—"
The voice was drowned out by more static, then silence.
"No..." Amara whispered, gripping her seat. "This can't be real." as she saw her father being one of the infected. "How did he even come here…Why is he here… What is going on…"
Seraph ran a trembling hand through his hair. "It's spreading way too fast. How—how does something like this even happen?"
Before anyone could answer, a voice came through another radio, the one used by the teachers. This time, it was clear. "Students, if you're out there—listen to me! There's a bunker near the campsite. It's secure! Make your way there now!"
A chance.
A way to survive.
Devon turned the wheel sharply, nearly throwing them out of their seats as he redirected the bus. It wasn't far, but the road was blocked with abandoned cars, some with broken windows, some still stained with blood.
They had no choice but to abandon the bus and run.
The bunker entrance was hidden near a rocky outcrop, just beyond the remnants of their camp. The heavy steel door loomed in front of them. Students were already inside, ushered in by the teachers who had managed to make it there first.
But not all of them.
"Where's Gideon?" Seraph's voice was tight with panic.
Reis felt his stomach drop. "He was—he was just with us, wasn't he?"
A sinking realization hit them. He hadn't been on the bus.
Seraph turned to the others. "Stay here."
Reis grabbed his wrist. "We can't leave him."
Seraph's eyes burned with determination. "Then we find him."
The teacher at the door shouted after them, but Reis wasn't listening. He didn't even stop to think before yanking the gun from her holster. She gasped, but by the time she could react, he was already sprinting back into the nightmare, Seraph right beside him, clutching a baseball bat.
The night was alive with movement—shadows twitching, limbs dragging. Reis held the gun tightly, though his hands were slick with sweat. He had never fired a gun before, but right now, that didn't matter.
They found him in the clearing where they had last seen him.
Gideon was standing still, his back to them.
Relief hit Reis like a wave. "Gideon!"
Gideon turned.
His face was pale. Blood dripped from his mouth, staining his shirt.
Reis' breath hitched. "No..."
Seraph gripped his bat, stepping forward, but Reis grabbed his arm, shaking his head.
Gideon was gone.
Then, a flashback surged through Reis' mind—
They were back in school, skipping class, hiding on the rooftop. Gideon grinned, lighting a cigarette, passing it to Seraph. "If we get caught, you're taking the blame, Reis."
Reis laughed. "Oh, fuck you, I always take the blame."
Seraph snorted, exhaling smoke. "You're the responsible one, though. Teachers expect better from you."
Now, here they were, in a world where none of that mattered. Gideon lunged.
Seraph pulled the trigger.
Gideon's head exploded, skull fragments and blood splattering across Reis' face.
The body crumpled, lifeless.
Seraph lowered the gun, hands shaking. Reis collapsed to his knees, staring at what was left of their friend.
Neither of them spoke.
They turned away, leaving Gideon behind.
They made it back to the bunker, breathless and broken. The door sealed shut behind them, locking them away from the horrors outside.They survived twenty four days inside the bunker, even though they did went out some times since the bunker did had plenty of food supplies but not water, which they collected from the rivers outside, QUIETLY....
Then, on the twenty-fourth day, salvation seemed to arrive.
The government rescue team came."We are an official rescue team deployed by the government, and we're here to save as many survivors as we can. If you come with us, we will ensure your safety. There are millions of teams like ours across different countries, working to evacuate and protect civilians. Our soldiers are highly trained to eliminate these inhuman creatures, and our mission is to rescue, regroup, and prepare survivors for what's ahead. There's nowhere left to go—but together, we can survive."
Reis narrowed his eyes. "You think we would survive with their help ?, and not only that but are they really sent by the government or ARE they really even trying to help us ???"
Seraph didn't answer.
The rescue team told them to wait for another day or so...
The Next Day
The sun had barely risen when the rumble of armored vehicles shattered the eerie silence of the apocalypse-ravaged world. A convoy of black-clad soldiers, bearing the insignia of the Global Emergency Response Initiative (GERI), stormed the outskirts of the city, their weapons trained on the undead horde shambling through the streets.
Reis Aldrin, Seraph Laurent, and a handful of survivors had been holed up in a derelict high-rise for weeks, rationing their dwindling supplies. When the soldiers arrived, mowing down the undead with tactical precision, it felt like salvation had finally come.
"Stay down! We're here to extract survivors!" one of the soldiers barked, motioning for the group to come forward. A brief hesitation passed between Reis and Seraph before they emerged, hands raised.
They weren't alone. Among them was a ragged boy—silent, watching everything with analytical eyes.
"What's your name?" Reis asked as they moved towards the armored trucks.
The boy hesitated, as if the question was foreign to him. "I don't know," he admitted.
"Then I'll call you Felix," Reis decided, gripping his shoulder. "Let's survive together."
The soldiers took them to a secured outpost where other survivors had gathered. At first, everything seemed structured—organized. Each newcomer was trained: how to wield a weapon, how to kill a zombie with maximum efficiency, how to scavenge for supplies. The soldiers were ruthless, but they were also effective. Under their guidance, the survivors became fighters.
Yet, beneath this order, something was... off.For the first few weeks, the training felt like salvation—structured, methodical, and brutal. The government rescue team drilled them relentlessly, forcing them to master precise headshots on moving targets, execute close-combat kills with makeshift weapons, and adapt to unpredictable ambush scenarios. Each day began before sunrise with endurance runs through the ruined streets, dodging stray zombies as if they were part of the routine. They learned to construct barricades in minutes, ration supplies efficiently, and navigate infested zones with military precision. The soldiers demonstrated tactical formations, emphasizing teamwork over individual survival, but as time passed, their methods grew harsher. Disobedience was met with immediate consequences—food rations were cut, punishments became physical, and the idea of "expendability" was drilled into them. Reis, Seraph, and the others quickly realized that survival wasn't just about killing zombies—it was about proving their worth to those in control. Those who lagged behind weren't just left for dead; they were eliminated before they could become liabilities.
As months passed, the initial kindness of the government troops gave way to strict regulations. Food distribution was controlled. Dissent was not tolerated.
"You fight, you work, or you starve," was the new mantra.
Survivors were forbidden from leaving designated zones. Every personal possession had to be registered and surrendered. The once-friendly soldiers now carried themselves with an air of authority rather than duty.
"This isn't a rescue," Seraph whispered to Reis one night. "This is a takeover."
By the time they were relocated to the main base, it was clear—this wasn't about survival.
It was about obedience.
The camps were no longer temporary shelters. They were industrialized labor zones. Survivors were assigned tasks: construction, resource gathering, and—most disturbingly—dissections of infected subjects. The soldiers no longer called themselves "GERI." They now answered to a different name: The United Front.
And then people began to disappear.
One by one, those who questioned orders vanished in the dead of night. No one ever saw them again. No explanations were given.
"They're not rescuing people," Felix murmured, his calculating gaze fixed on the soldiers. "They're collecting them."
Reis, Seraph, and Felix sat together by a dying fire, exhaustion deep in their bones. Around them, the camp stretched for miles—thousands of people, all gathered under the promise of safety, now bound by fear.
Then, one night, an announcement echoed across the refugee zones:
"From this moment forward, all nations no longer exist. The governments of the world have unified under one banner. The United Front will lead humanity to a new era."
The world hadn't been saved.
It had been claimed.
End of Chapter 2-A.