Not the Apocalypse I Imagined
I always thought the end of the world would be... cinematic. Like in those pirated movies Artem and I used to watch in his basement—cities engulfed in flames, skies split by lightning, crowds of people desperately fleeing toward the last helicopters.
Not this.
Not some dingy school cafeteria with linoleum floors reeking of decades-old canned stew and disinfectant. Not Miss Petrova, our biology teacher, suddenly sinking her teeth into Tamara Ivanovna’s arm like a starved dog tearing into meat.
I get it—this isn’t exactly the kind of scenario you’d expect at your average public school.
But the worst part was her eyes.
Not the way they bulged. Not the glassy, vacant stare. They just... turned blue. Completely, unnaturally blue, like those cheap “Blue Ocean” hard candies she constantly sucked on during class, smacking her lips and driving us all insane.
“Your vinaigrette is spoiled,” she said.
And it was her voice. And yet it wasn’t.
Like three people speaking at once, their voices overlapping into something jagged and wrong. No harmony—just a dissonant chorus that sent shivers down my spine.
Blood gushed from Tamara Ivanovna’s wound, splattering right into the salad bowl. A droplet hit the mayonnaise, and it hissed, like acid.
Then the intercom crackled. The principal’s voice came through—too smooth, missing its usual smoker’s rasp:
“All students to your classrooms immediately. This is an order.”
In the corner, Artem wiped his nose. A blue stain spread across the sleeve of his gray hoodie. When he looked at me, I saw real fear in his eyes for the first time.
“Gleb...” His whisper was hoarse. Thick, jelly-like blue mucus dripped from his nose. “I’m scared.”
My phone buzzed. A text from Mom:
*«Stay in the computer lab. “They” declared quarantine. Wait.»*
I was already running.
From Classroom 10-A came a wet, squelching sound—like someone devouring soup with ravenous hunger.
But today’s lunch menu had been omelets.
One question pounded in my skull:
**Who the hell are “they”?**
