Chapter 2

2.

Three years ago, before the world turned upside down, my friend Sam had warned me, his face grave. He said the respiratory virus back then was just a warm-up and the real crisis was yet to come.

He told me to hoard supplies, masks, and sanitizer.

Because of his advice, my family had actually survived those dark, suffocating months.

One hand on the wheel, the other shaking, I tried to call him.

He hung up. Again, and again.

My anxiety curdled into a cold, trembling sweat.

As I hit a red light, a message from Sam finally pinged through. It was only two words.

"Run now."

Sam was a two-hundred-pound guy who usually moved at the speed of a sloth. For him to be this urgent, things must be catastrophic.

At the red light, I frantically searched for terms like Chicago, biting incident, and SWAT on social media. The videos were everywhere.

At first, some people joked about living through a literal apocalypse right after finally getting our lives back.

Someone commented that they'd just paid their rent that morning and had three hundred dollars left, so they might as well treat themselves to a lobster dinner before they died.

Others replied that a lobster cost five hundred, but they could go halves―one person eats the meat, the other sucks the shell.

Before I could scroll further, the videos vanished. I searched for the word that haunted my nightmares: "Zombie."

The screen turned white.

My account had been nuked.

It was a sunny afternoon, and the road to O'Hare wasn't crowded. I could see a little girl running with a balloon in the plaza, completely oblivious.

A guy in a sports car in the next lane was bobbing his head to music.

Everything looked normal.

It was as if the hellish video I'd seen was just a hallucination.

I was the only one panicking about survival.

If the end was truly here, I wouldn't fear death itself―I'd only regret my life.

I'd spent years in the city, slaving away for a hollow dream, pretending to be some corporate elite while my bank account bled dry.

I'd ignored my parents, visiting home fewer times than I had fingers on one hand.

I ignored the agent's desperate calls and dialed my parents.

My mom was a gambling addict who treated her phone like a paperweight; she never knew where it was.

It took a few tries, but my dad finally answered.

I told him I was coming home for the holiday to pay respects to our ancestors, but I didn't want to see my Aunt Clara's family. I asked him to prep my late aunt's empty house.

I made sure to tell him not to tell Grandma or the cousins, fearing they'd beg for money again.

My dad was thrilled his daughter was coming home, but his tone chilled the moment I mentioned the cousins.

He told me not to worry, that he'd guard the door and they wouldn't get a single cent.

I stopped him from planning a grand feast and asked about the beef and lamb in his delivery truck.

He was a meat wholesaler, and he laughed, saying his truck was fully stocked.

I urged him to find my mom, bring her back, and meet me at the airport.

I reached the O'Hare parking lot, but it was gridlocked. Horns blared everywhere.

Normally, I would've worried about my Audi, but I didn't care.

I slammed the brakes, ignored the guy behind me screaming curses at my "funeral-bound" driving, hopped the curb, and sprinted toward the terminal.