{TIME: 2:15 a.m.}
The wind outside howled like it had a vendetta. Rain began to fall—not soft, not cleansing, but in sharp diagonal slashes that hit the windows like claws. Thunder rumbled deep in the belly of the clouds, growing louder, like war drums from the sky.
A violent flash of lightning tore across the heavens, illuminating the skeletal remains of the city in white-blue brilliance for half a second—just long enough for us to see the ash still falling like snow, the shattered glass glinting, and shadows… always moving shadows.
The building groaned again, metal joints creaking as the wind surged against it. Another thunderclap cracked the air so violently it rattled the rusted frames and made Aaron nearly drop Snap & Crackle.
Zayn stepped forward, his hair damp from the mist blowing through the broken window. He stared out at the storm like it was an old enemy.
"If there's ever a night Hell broke loose," he muttered, "it's this one."
Lightning split the sky again—this time, directly above us. The flicker revealed the dark outline of the bridge in the distance, swaying faintly like it was already unsure we'd make it.
"This storm is no coincidence," I said quietly. "It's like the world's testing us."
Insha didn't flinch. "Then we better pass."
With every roar of thunder, we taped tighter, double-knotted our chains, rechecked our makeshift weapons. With every bolt of lightning, we were reminded just how fragile the world had become.
But beneath all that noise, the fear, the chaos—was something solid.
Hope.Raw.Angry.Unbreakable.
This storm wasn't just a setting—it was a signal.Something was about to change.
And we'd either rise with the lightning or vanish in the thunder.
{TIME: 2:20 a.m.}
The room was silent now—except for the distant groaning of the building and the storm outside tearing the sky open like a warning.
We moved around quietly, collecting the last of our things. Zayn tucked the government message into his jacket like it was a golden ticket. Insha picked up the duct-taped bag she'd reinforced with wires and torn uniform straps. Aaron stood for a moment, staring at the floor where we'd shared so many sleepless nights, before slipping the last homemade spear—a snapped mop handle with scissors wired to the end—into his belt.
I looked around one last time.
The mattress we'd fought over for space. The cracked mirror where we cleaned our wounds.The wall with scratch marks where we tracked time. A bottle cap that had become a game piece. A drawing Insha had made on a napkin. And that one broken chair that nobody ever sat on but always tripped over.
All of it… home. Our weird, chaotic, painful little shelter in the storm.
"Y'all ready?" I whispered.
No one answered. But one by one, we nodded.
We tied the chains around our arms and shoulders like armor. Each of us armed—wires wrapped around rods, rusted scissors on sticks, broken steel rulers duct-taped into handles, glass shards fixed onto planks with melted candle wax.
These weren't weapons.
They were intent.
{TIME: 2:27 a.m.}
A low rumble rolled across the sky—then lightning shattered it in two.
Thunder cracked so loud it shook the floor beneath us. It was time.
Zayn was the first to the door. He held the lock in one hand like a grenade, his other hand clenched in a fist. "No more waiting. No more hiding."
He opened the door.
The hallway stretched ahead like a throat leading into a storm. Shadows flickered. Water dripped from broken pipes. The stairwell yawned at the far end, dark and uninviting.
But that was our way out.
We took one last look behind us, at the room that had protected us, haunted us, healed us.
"Thank you," Aaron murmured softly, almost too low to hear.
And then—We stepped out. Down the hall. Toward the stairs. Thunder boomed above, louder than anything we'd ever heard.
It was as if the storm was shouting: RUN.
And we did. One step. Then two. Then all of us, moving as one.
No turning back. Just lightning, courage, and the sound of four hearts beating toward something bigger.
Not safety.
Not survival.
But freedom.
We even prepared some signs:
1: It's safe let's move
2: Stop at your place
A long Whistle : Run
A clap: Abort the plan ( which now is not going to be used)
{TIME : 2:31 a.m.}
We huddled just outside the room, backs against the wall, storm crackling above like angry gods arguing in the sky.
Zayn unfolded the half-burnt map he had tucked inside a chemistry textbook months ago. He'd marked it with blood-smudged highlighters and whatever he could find—chapstick, juice, and at one point, ketchup.
"This... is our way," he whispered.
THE ESCAPE ROUTE (aka: Our Chance at Breathing Again):
Checkpoint 1:Ground Floor Corridor. We'll descend four flights of stairs. Risk level: Medium. Most of the infected rarely climb higher floors. But the noise from thunder might keep us masked.Weapon readied: Rods + chains.
Checkpoint 2:The Canteen Window Exit. We're not going through the front gates—they're probably swarming. Instead, a shattered canteen window leads to the west backyard. Risk: High. Wide open, easy target zone.Distraction plan: Throwing wired metal to trigger motion sensors.
Checkpoint 3:The Alley of Burnt Vans. It's tight, it smells like death, but it's cover. Risk: Medium to High. Any sound echoes.Caution: Move silently, don't trip on glass.
Checkpoint 4:Overpass near the City Library. A military supply post was spotted here weeks ago. We might find something… or someone. Risk: Unknown. Could be abandoned—or worse, bait.Backup weapon: Molotov made from perfume bottle and fabric.
Final Destination:Sector 9 Army Base Camp. Marked 3.4 km from the overpass.
Insha traced her finger down the route.
"If we stay sharp, stick to shadows, and don't fight unless cornered—we can make it."
Aaron nodded. "One wrong sound, and it's over."
I folded the map and shoved it into my pocket. "Then we better move like ghosts and fight like devils."
The storm outside answered with a deafening thunderclap.Our journey had begun....!