EVANS
Security was a nightmare. Some guy behind me kept breathing like a busted air pump and the woman in front had apparently never taken a flight in her life. I swore, if I missed this plane because someone didn't know laptops go in a separate bin—
"You look constipated."
I turned.
Killa had somehow followed me past the entrance, arms crossed, looking entirely unbothered by the giant Authorized Personnel Only sign she clearly ignored.
"Security let you in?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.
"Nope. Just walked. You left your passport on the seat, genius."
She held it up like a judge presenting evidence.
I sighed and took it from her. "You trying to sabotage me or just keep the truck?"
"Yes."
"Wow. Thanks."
She smirked and stepped back. "Figured I'd watch you cry at the gate. You know, for science."
"Oh yeah?" I slung my bag over my shoulder. "You gonna write a paper on it? 'The Sudden Emotional Breakdown of a White Guy in Cargo Pants'?"
"I already have the title: 'Good Riddance'."
I barked a laugh, shook my head. "You're awful."
"And you're late. Go."
She actually waved at me. Real slow, like I was a child getting on the school bus.
I flipped her off over my shoulder as I walked toward the gate.
She saluted.
God help my apartment.
And my truck.
And maybe me, because I kinda wanted to turn around and tell her not to do anything stupid while I was gone.
But I didn't.
Instead, I grinned like a jackass and kept walking.
****
The flight wasn't full, which was both a blessing and a curse. Blessing because I didn't have to elbow someone for armrest space. Curse because it left way too much room for thinking. And thinking? Never my strong suit. Especially not at 30,000 feet in the air, stuck between crying babies and people pretending turbulence didn't exist.
Let the chaos begin.
-----
Indeed, the chaos began.
Killa watched the plane disappear into the distance before turning on her heel, heading toward her apartment. The city hummed around her, people moving, cars honking, life going on as usual.
The elevator ride felt slow. She pressed the button for her floor, the 31st, and leaned against the wall, letting her mind wander. She didn't look up when two girls entered, both chatting loudly. She slid to the side to let them have their space, but she couldn't help overhearing their conversation.
"Oh my God," one of the girls gasped. "You've got to be joking. What's this? The apocalypse?" Her voice was tinged with panic, her eyes glued to her phone.
Killa raised an eyebrow, a small smirk pulling at the corner of her lips. Of course. It had started.
The second girl, who had been staring at her own phone, looked up, trying to sound more in control. "Hey, calm down, please. What if this is just AI-generated?"
"Oh, really?" the first girl shot back, incredulous. "All this video popping online? All these deaths, all these disasters... AI-generated? Damn right. I don't care, but I'm heading to a supermarket right now."
The second girl muttered something Killa couldn't quite catch, but she could see the hesitation in her body language as she typed something on her phone. "Fine, I'm coming too."
The elevator doors pinged open with a soft chime. They both paused, confused. "Did we mistakenly press the—"
Killa stepped out from behind them, her face a mask of indifference as she walked past. The girls stood there, staring after her, before one of them murmured, "Who's that?" But Killa didn't hear it. She was already halfway down the hallway to her apartment, her mind racing.
The first thing she did when she entered was go online. Her fingers moved quickly over the keys as she searched for any news about the strange videos, the sudden spike in online chatter. The whispers were everywhere now. Something was happening. Something bigger than she'd expected.
She didn't waste time scrolling through theories or reading the thousands of panicked comments. Instead, she went straight to the practical stuff—local reports, store stocks, surveillance feeds. Evans' laptop made it easier. Guy had better security bypass tools than she did.
She powered it on and logged in—password still the same, "sunnywithaknife." Go figure.
Within minutes, she had six tabs open and one eye on the news, the other on live footage from a downtown traffic cam. People were panicking. Not full stampede mode yet, but definitely not business-as-usual either.
Someone in the comments was yelling that the sky turned red in China. Another said birds were dropping from the air in Spain. Someone else uploaded a video of rats pouring out of the sewers in broad daylight.
And then her phone buzzed.
Unknown number. She let it ring once… twice… then declined.
She didn't have time for that. Not now.
Killa grabbed her bag and keys, tossing a glance around the apartment. She had three places she needed to hit before things got really bad—and judging by the pace of things online, she had maybe a five-hour head start.
She looked at the keys Evans had given her. Truck key. Apartment key. The third one she hadn't figured out yet—it didn't match anything she'd seen at his place. She tossed it into her pocket and made a mental note to ask about it later. If there was a later.
She paused at the door. Just briefly.
With one last look, she locked the apartment and walked out.
Down on the street, people were starting to panic. Phones in hand. Bags on backs. Conversations clipped. Tense.
She climbed into Evans' truck—it felt weirdly roomy without his tall frame filling up the seat—and started the engine. It roared to life like it was ready to run someone over. Fitting.
"Alright, chaos," she muttered to herself. "Let's dance."
And with that, she peeled out of the parking lot and into the mess.
________
Johannesburg, South Africa
By the time Evans arrived in Johannesburg, the airport was already buzzing with unusual tension.
It wasn't immediate—no screaming, no mass panic. But something was off. People clutched their phones too tightly, stared at screens like they couldn't believe what they were seeing. Security was thicker than usual, and flight announcements were being cancelled left and right.
Evans rolled his suitcase through the terminal, brows furrowed. He pulled out his phone. No messages from Killa. Not even a meme. That was weird.
His mom picked up after two rings.
"Ma?" he said, walking briskly toward the pick-up zone. "Everything alright over there?"
"You tell me," her voice was sharp, on-edge. "Evans, where are you?"
"I just landed."
A pause.
"God," she muttered, "Thank goodness. Your sister's been freaking out."
"Why?" he asked, but even as the words left his mouth, a distant siren wailed. Then another.
Traffic outside the airport had jammed. Police cars were weaving between blocked lanes, and someone nearby dropped their bag in a panic and took off running. Just... bolted.
Evans narrowed his eyes. "Okay… not a coincidence."
He turned around and caught a flash of someone on a TV screen near the waiting area. The sound was off, but he could read the headline:
"Worldwide Outbreak? Panic Spreads Across U.S. Cities"
Beneath it was shaky footage of a burning grocery store. And in the corner, a livestream count: over a million people watching.
Evans muttered under his breath, "Sh*t."
Just what exactly had happened in the past few hours.
________
A few blocks out, Killa hit her first stop—a shady little supply shop tucked behind a laundromat. The kind of place you only knew if you knew. She already had her stack of supplies but it wouldn't hurt to have more.
The guy behind the counter looked like he hadn't slept in a week, which made sense now. His eyes flicked to the truck when she pulled up, then to her when she walked in.
"You here for prepper stuff or panic stuff?"
"Is there a difference?" she replied, tossing a roll of cash on the counter. "I want your pre-packed stash. The good one. Don't play with me, Jay."
He blinked, then reached under the counter and pulled out a key. "Basement. You carry, or need help?"
"I'm good." She was already moving.
Twenty minutes later, the truck bed was loaded up.
Second stop: a drugstore. She skipped the line—no time for polite society. Scooped antibiotics, painkillers, first aid kits, hygiene stuff. A kid tried to snatch a pack of water from her cart; she stared him down and he backed off. Smart.
Third stop: a hardware store. She bought rope, tarp, lighters, even a couple of crowbars. The cashier gave her a look. She didn't return it.
By the time she rolled back onto the road, the sky had started to shift. Not red like in the comments—yet—but there was a haze. A weird one. Like the city was holding its breath.
And the streets were starting to clog.
Traffic lights were blinking out. Some cars had just... stopped. Like their batteries died mid-drive. People were getting out. Yelling. Shoving.
Killa turned down an alley and gunned it. No time for gridlock.
She took the long way back to her place, zigzagging through side streets, weaving past the start of chaos. At one point, she passed a man screaming at the sky, and another just sitting cross-legged on the road, whispering something with a bleeding nose.
"Okay," she said to herself, gripping the wheel tighter, "definitely not business as usual."
By the time she made it back to the building, she had to shove her way into the lobby. People were panicking now. Real panic. Some were carrying kids, some had pets, some were just crying.
She didn't stop.
Back in the apartment, she locked the door, dumped the gear, and sat on the floor. Just for a second.
She opened her phone. Signal was choppy.
But there was one bar.
She opened her texts.
Killa:
You land yet?
She stared at the message. Then hit send.
Nothing.
The little gray bubble didn't even try to pretend—it failed immediately. "Message not delivered."
She hissed under her breath, refreshed her signal. One bar. Then none. Then one again.
She tried again.
You land yet?
Still nothing.
For the next ten minutes, she did what any sane person pretending not to panic would do—opened and closed her apps, toggled airplane mode, refreshed the router, paced, then tried one more time.
Still failed.
Eventually, she just gave up and threw the phone on the couch.
She sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by bags of apocalypse-grade loot, while outside, the city started to sound different. Car alarms. Sirens. Screams. An eerie, metallic hum like something was short-circuiting the air itself.
And all she could do was wait.
For Evans.
For a call.
For literally anything.
The power flickered.
Twice.
She didn't move.
Somewhere upstairs, someone was screaming bloody murder. Down the hallway, something heavy slammed against a wall. But Killa sat still, head leaned back against the couch, eyes staring up at the ceiling.
Her thoughts kept looping back to that third key Evans gave her.
The one she hadn't figured out yet.
The one still in her pocket.
______________
JOHANNESBURG, SA
Evans moved outside as he tried to find a taxi,he stopped his mum from sending his sister to pick him up,didn't want to risk it.
Two police vans sped past the terminal, lights flashing. The crowd near the taxi lane started pushing, people shoving luggage and yelling into phones.
Evans ducked into a taxi just before the surge got worse. "Rosebank," he told the driver. "Fast, please."
The driver looked like he had a lot of questions—but didn't ask any. Just nodded and hit the gas.
Evans leaned back and finally opened his browser.
Headlines exploded across the screen:
"Panic Sweeps New York, L.A., Tokyo"
"Mass Disruptions in Major Cities"
"Unconfirmed Reports of Attacks—Stay Indoors"
He clicked into one livestream. People screaming in a supermarket. Someone climbing over shelves. Another video showed what looked like... were those actual rats flooding the streets?
"Man, what the hell…" he muttered.
He tapped Killa's name again.
No answer.
Tried again.
Still nothing.
He stared at the screen, jaw tight, while Johannesburg's skyline blurred past the window.
Whatever was going on—whatever this was—it wasn't just a few viral hoaxes.
Something was happening. Everywhere.
And he had no idea if Killa was okay.