Day 2
Xenia curled up on the cold floor, her back pressed to a dented locker, flashlight in hand like it was Excalibur. Her stomach made a noise that sounded like betrayal.
She hadn't eaten. Hadn't slept. Her phone was gone. Her flashlight battery blinked like a dying Tamagotchi.
"If you go out," she whispered to the flashlight, "I go with you."
It was ridiculous. She knew that. But when everything else had left—dignity, cell signal, most of her blood sugar—this flashlight was all she had.
Then the thought hit her. The photo.
She didn't get it. Her graduation photo.
No proof she made it. No digital memory. No artsy slow-motion cap toss for her Instagram story. She'd literally survived four years of group projects and open-note quizzes only for the world to explode before she could even post a carousel.
Her lower lip wobbled. A single tear fell.
She tried to stop herself. But the thoughts came in fast:
What if the zombies find my phone and upload my drafts? What if I become a meme? What if I die and my last profile pic is from 2019?
She ugly-cried in silence.
Then snapped herself out of it with a loud sniff. "Get it together, Xenia," she muttered, swiping at her face. "This is no time for an emotional breakdown. That was yesterday."
She forced herself to move. Up the ladder. Onto the rooftop. The world outside looked like someone had turned down the color saturation and cranked up the despair.
Then—movement. Across the courtyard. A guy on a rooftop waving both arms.
A survivor. A real one. Not a hallucination or a possum in a trench coat.
He held up a giant sign: SAFE. 4 PEOPLE. WATER. SUPPLIES.
Her heart did a double backflip. Then he flipped the sign: ZOMBIES ON MAIN ROAD. USE SKYLIGHTS.
She squinted in the direction he pointed: a rough parkour path of rooftops and gaps and just enough chaos to make her question her life choices.
But hey, she taught herself some parkour moves on YouTube. She could do this. Probably. Maybe.
"Alright, Xenia," she whispered, psyching herself up. "You studied physics. You once beat a Just Dance leaderboard. You're a survivor now. Technically."
She took a deep breath, ran, and jumped.
The landing hurt. Her legs screamed. Her lungs protested. Her graduation gown caught on a pipe and tried to assassinate her. But she survived.
One rooftop down.
The second was a little easier. She crouched low, used a rusty AC unit as cover, and shuffled across like she was sneaking snacks past airport security.
Then came the old library.
The roof creaked under her steps, littered with torn-out book pages and half-eaten squirrels. A broken antenna leaned at an angle like it had given up on TV. One of the pages stuck to her shoe.
She peeled it off. It was from a romance novel. The line read: *"She had never known passion until the Duke showed her his hidden sword."
Xenia blinked.
"Well, okay then."
She shoved the page into her satchel. For morale.
The next jump was harder—from the library to the staff dorms. A loading dock yawned between them, maybe four meters wide. Someone had placed a narrow plank across, reinforced with rope and very questionable optimism.
Xenia looked down at the alley. Zombies clustered beneath, moaning like hungover party guests who couldn't find their Uber.
She gritted her teeth.
"You studied angles. You watched MythBusters. You didn't survive Chem 101 just to become brunch."
She crossed.
Halfway through, the plank groaned. Her right foot slipped and she let out a tiny squeal that sounded less like a warrior and more like a malfunctioning tea kettle.
She scrambled the rest of the way and collapsed on the rooftop like a kid after the P.E. mile run.
And then she lay there.
For a moment. Maybe a lifetime.
Face pressed to the gravel. Eyes closed.
Until a pigeon landed next to her and cooed.
She opened one eye. "Seriously? Even birds are judging me now?"
The final rooftop was within sight. The gymnasium. A solid-looking place with a solar panel array, an actual antenna, and the promise of people who maybe hadn't eaten each other yet.
Between her and salvation? A slick metal pole.
Of course.
She took a deep breath and swung her leg over.
"This is fine. This is totally fine. I always wanted tetanus anyway."
She crawled inch by inch, the pole wobbling beneath her weight. Halfway across, a breeze hit her and the metal shivered. She froze.
Don't look down. Don't look down.
She looked down.
Zombies. One was gnawing on what might've been a diploma. Another was fighting a traffic cone. One particularly gross one was staring right at her like she was a walking piñata.
"No pressure," she muttered. "Just your life. Just gravity. Just an undead audience."
She made it.
Dropped onto the rooftop. Legs shaking. Arms dead. Sanity at 12%.
Then the man from earlier appeared.
He looked like someone who once had a LinkedIn. Hoodie. Tool belt. Tired eyes but still human.
He reached down. "You made it."
She grabbed his hand. "Barely. That pole was personal."
"Nice jump, though. Crazy—but nice."
"Thanks. I used to be an honor student. Now I'm just... extra credit."
He laughed. A real one. Like it had been a while.
"I'm Rafe. The others are inside. Don't worry. We're not psychos."
"Xenia. And I'm definitely not useful."
"We'll see about that."
He opened the hatch. Warm air hit her face. Light. Voices. The sound of canned soup being stirred.
She stepped inside.
Someone handed her a water bottle. Someone else handed her a half-crushed protein bar.
"Is it poisoned?" she asked.
"Only with calories."
She ate.
And cried.
Not just because of the food.
Because she was alive.
And for the first time since the shutter snapped and blood splattered her face, she wasn't alone.
No graduation photo. No last phone scroll.
But maybe a second chance.
And honestly?
She'd take it.