{TIME: 12:47 a.m.}
The night was silent—too silent. We were all fast asleep, wrapped in exhaustion, when suddenly—
BEEP! Zayn's phone buzzed.
Just one small beep in the dark… but it might as well have been thunder.
He rubbed his eyes, probably thinking it was a glitch, but then—his eyes widened. His breath hitched.A red message flashed on the screen.
EMERGENCY BROADCAST – GOVT. OF INDIA"ALL SURVIVORS: REPORT TO NEAREST BASE CAMP. ARMY SUPPORT AVAILABLE."
Zayn jumped up. "GUYS!! WAKE UP!! We got something—we got a message!!"We blinked awake, dazed. "What? Now?""Yes—yes! It's the government. They're calling survivors to a base camp!"
{TIME: 12:55 a.m.}
In a second, sleep left our bodies like smoke in wind. We were moving—thinking—packing.
"We're not wasting this," I said, yanking open our bag stash.
We all saw the message one-by-one and got to know that the camps are majorly apartments ( 4-6 buildings), no one knows wether they are safe or not but it can somehow help us stay intact and alive.
BUT THE QUESTION IS TILL WHEN AND IS IT TRUE?
{TIME: 1:07 a.m.}
We began grabbing everything that could possibly help us make it to that base alive.
Newspapers to line our sleeves. Duct tape to seal up openings. Old school uniforms? They became our armor—padded with torn bedsheets and bound tight. Rods, chains, wires, brooms, glass shards—anything that could stab, block, or slow something down.
{TIME: 1:23 a.m.}
The broken locks? Pocketed. The curtain rods? Weapons. The mop handles? Reinforced batons.
It was madness—but it was focused madness. We weren't just survivors now. We were strategists. Scavengers. Warriors.
No more waiting. No more hoping someone would save us. We were going to make it to that camp—even if we had to walk through hell to get there.
{TIME: 1:41 a.m.}
Backpacks on. Shoes laced. Weapons clutched.
We stood at the door, barely breathing.
Tomorrow... we move. !!!!
{TIME: 1:43 a.m.}
We stood still—five shadows at the threshold, barely more than whispers in the dark. Outside, the wind howled like a warning. The sky cracked with lightning, a flash revealing the ashen world we'd soon step into.
Zayn's voice broke the silence."Once we open this door, there's no pause button. No undo." He was right.
That government message felt like a rope thrown into a pit—thin, maybe frayed, but it was hope. And when hope knocks in a place like this, you don't ignore it. You answer with fire in your lungs.
{TIME: 1:47 a.m.}
Insha triple-checked the locks on her custom tape-and-rod shield. Aaron tightened the wires wrapped around his arms like bracers. I stuffed one last energy bar into my side pocket—not for now, I reminded.
{TIME: 1:55 a.m.}
The door clicked shut behind us like a full stop in the middle of an unfinished sentence. There was no turning back now.
Our armor? Newspaper-wrapped limbs taped tight with duct tape. Our war paint? Smudged ash and tired eyes. And our weapons? Whatever the apocalypse didn't take.
Zayn slung a chain over his shoulder, the kind used for rusted-up bikes downstairs. He had welded it with a metal rod, turning it into a brutal flail he dubbed "The Karma Chain."
Aaron grabbed two broken chair legs, wrapped the ends in wires twisted so tight they could cut flesh. He named them "Snap & Crackle."
Insha taped kitchen knives to a long pipe, secured with lock wires and broken zip ties. It looked like a crude spear but held deadlier promises. We called it "The Whisper." You wouldn't hear it coming—until it was too late.
Me? I had a busted umbrella handle sharpened into a jagged blade and strapped it across my back. We nicknamed it "Raincheck." A reminder to anything undead—I wasn't dying today.
{TIME: 2:10 a.m.}
The plan wasn't perfect. But it wasn't supposed to be.
We had mapped our route on the dusty floor using old newspapers, drawing arrows with charcoal and ink from a dried-out pen. Zayn, constantly checking his phone for signal flickers, pointed to a broken bridge two blocks down—it was our best bet to reach the base.
{TIME: 2:17 a.m.}
The building creaked, metal groaning from the wind outside. Lightning flashed again—and in its brief light, our junk-forged weapons gleamed like relics of a forgotten world.
"We're not soldiers," Insha said quietly, "but tonight… we're gonna fight like ones."
Aaron nodded. "And if we fall…"
"We fall loud," Zayn finished, gripping Karma Chain tighter.
We stood there, surrounded by broken furniture, torn uniforms, metal scraps, and a world that didn't care if we lived or died.
But we did.
And we were about to show it—one step, one strike, one scream at a time.
The war had already started. Now, it was our turn to write the next act...