{TIME: 2:53 a.m.}
The storm didn't just howl—it screamed. Thunder cracked open the sky like a shotgun blast, and each bolt of lightning lit up the alley like we were center stage in some cosmic horror show. Rain pelted the rooftops and concrete like it was trying to wash the world clean—but it was way too late for redemption.
We were crouched behind water filters and moldy storage boxes, barely breathing. Our backs pressed against the walls, the emergency exit we'd just slipped through hanging half-shut, hinges groaning like they hadn't been moved in decades. The air smelled of rust, dust, and something metallic we didn't want to think about.
Insha was gripping that map like it was a holy scroll. And honestly? At this point, it might as well have been.
Opposite the window we'd squeezed out of was an apartment wall—barely a meter away. Narrow like an alley, but tall. No doors. Just the backside of some forgotten building.
"Guys," Zayn whispered, pointing upward, "we climb."
No one argued. Not because it was a great plan—but because it was the only one we had.
With every inch we scaled, the storm cracked louder, like the world was warning us not to hope.
{TIME: 3:06 a.m.}
We dropped into the backside parking of the apartment complex like ghosts—silent, shivering, soaked to the bone. But we were alive. Again. Somehow.
Aaron knelt by one of the old metal fences, wiping rain off his face. "Where now?"
"I say we crash here," Zayn muttered. "Wait out the rain."
"Rain's the least of our problems, Z," Insha said, eyes scanning the shadows.
The wind howled through broken windows. Trees outside bent like they were bowing to the madness. Everything about the night felt like the end of the movie… just without credits.
Then we saw it.
A small maintenance room near the corner of the parking lot, door hanging by one hinge. Inside, cobwebs. Trash. Rotting cardboard.
But also… tech.
Aaron pulled a tarp off a metal shelf and there it was—a dusty, crusty, but still-alive battery-powered radio. No way.
"No freaking way," I muttered. "Does this thing even work?"
Zayn smacked it once. Twice. And on the third time—it sparked to life.
Static.
Then a voice.
"…this is Command Echo-6 broadcasting on open frequency 4.2.7. If you're receiving this message, you are not alone. Repeat, you are not alone…"
The air inside that busted room changed. Our backs straightened. Eyes widened. Heartbeats doubled.
"…we regret to inform all citizens that Camp Delta and Echo sectors have been compromised. Infection rates exceeded containment protocol. All ground safe zones are now classified RED. Survivors are advised to head for primary international airports where allied forces are initiating evacuation protocols…"
The voice crackled and cut out for a second. Then came back:
"Repeat: international airports are now the only functioning extraction points. Survivors are urged to make way via any possible route. You are not alone. Help is above. End transmission."
{TIME: 3:14 a.m.}
We stared at each other in dead silence.
The camps. The ones we were crying over leaving. The ones we thought were just out of reach.
Gone. Infected. Like everything else.
No more illusions. No more waiting around.
Airport. That was it.
That was our Final Act.
Aaron laughed, the kind of laugh that's just disbelief melting into surrender. "So now we've gotta cross, what, 6 kilometers of undead-infested city to get to an airport?"
Zayn snorted. "Basically."
"Doable," Insha whispered, pulling the map out again. "Barely. But yeah."
It was then we saw them.
Bicycles.
Two of them.
Covered in dust and chained up near the far wall under an old rusted sheet. Zayn ran toward them like a kid on Christmas.
"Holy crap. They're intact," he said, touching the tires, testing the pedals. "One's got a basket too."
It was as if the universe threw us a bone.
"Okay," I breathed. "Let's gear up and ride out before the sun remembers to rise."
{TIME: 3:28 a.m.}
We got to work. Fast.
Everything in that maintenance room became part of our survival kit.
Newspapers? Armor padding. Wrapped around arms, calves, tucked into our jackets.
Duct tape? Sealed our makeshift armor, covered our shoes, wrapped our hands.
Chains? Tied them around our waists—could be used as whips or distractions.
Rusted rods? Handheld weapons. Heavy, crude, but they'd do damage.
Old uniform jackets we found in a box? Instant windbreakers. Covered our faces and gave us that Mad Max energy.
And the radio? Wrapped in a grocery bag, shoved into the bike basket with the map and whatever dry snacks we had left.
Every movement felt like final prep before a boss fight. Our eyes didn't meet much. We were locked in, focused, knowing what this next move meant. There was no checkpoint after this. No retry. No respawn.
{TIME: 3:43 a.m.}
We rolled the bikes out, tires crunching broken glass underfoot. Thunder shook the sky again. The rain had slowed, but lightning still tore through the clouds like divine rage.
The parking gate was bent open just enough to slip through.
Before we left, we looked back.
Not at the building.
But at the silence behind us. The people we couldn't save. The jokes we used to crack. The cold dinners. The cramped floor we used to sleep on.
"I hope they made it somewhere," Insha whispered.
We didn't answer.
Because sometimes silence is respect.
And hope… well, that's just pain wearing a mask.
{TIME: 3:56 a.m.}
We hit the main alley.
Bikes rolling through puddles, our makeshift armor rustling with every movement, the city stretched ahead of us like a dark beast, breathing heavy and waiting for us to flinch.
But we didn't.
We rode.
Each pedal was a punch against fate. Each turn of the wheel was rebellion.
The radio crackled again.
"…extractions begin at 5 sharp. Repeat, extraction begins at 0500 hours. Access only through authorized terminals. Airport fences are locked. Reach Gate 3. Only open point…"
We shared a glance.
No more second guesses.
No more waiting for help to arrive.
Help was leaving.
We had just half an hour left.
This was it. The Final Ride.
No red carpet. No guide.
Just two bikes, four souls, and a city that wanted us dead.