Let me make one thing clear: I'm not built for heroism.
I'm not a fighter. I'm not a genius. I'm not even good at cardio. I once threw up from laughing too hard during PE.
So when I turned around and saw a zombie in a nurse uniform standing behind me—with blood in her hair and teeth like a discount vampire—I did what any sane person would do.
I screamed.
But not just any scream.
This was a full-body, high-pitched, glass-shattering banshee shriek. I didn't know I was capable of it. Somewhere, a dog howled in sympathy.
The zombie nurse tilted her head like she wasn't sure whether to eat me or prescribe something.
I panicked and grabbed the nearest thing I could find.
Which, for some reason, was a **plastic Christmas reindeer**.
Yes. In July.
---
I don't know if the condo forgot to pack up their holiday decor or if this was divine intervention, but I swung that reindeer like Thor swinging Mjolnir—except it bounced harmlessly off her face and snapped in half.
She blinked.
Then moaned.
I screamed again.
"WHY DO YOU FEEL NO PAIN?!"
She lunged.
I ducked and accidentally headbutted a side table. I think I concussed myself. Either that or my ancestors briefly visited me in a vision and said, *"You're dumb. But we love you."*
I scrambled to my feet and ran back to the elevator, which was still open.
But it had blood in it now.
**Great. Just great.**
I took the stairs.
---
By the time I reached the basement parking lot, I was drenched in sweat, pizza sauce, and possibly someone else's blood. My lungs felt like microwaved jelly.
I spotted my scooter. Glorious, duct-taped, one-mirrored scooter.
But between me and freedom stood **three more zombies**, all in pajamas, looking like the worst slumber party ever.
One of them had rollers in her hair.
They saw me. They hissed.
I did what came naturally.
I threw my wallet at them.
Then my phone.
Then, weirdly, one of my shoes.
Did it stop them? No.
Did it buy me two seconds to sprint to my scooter and pray it would start?
**Yes.**
---
I kickstarted that thing like my life depended on it—which it did—and shot out of the parking garage, swerving past a literal zombie dog gnawing on a Crocs sandal.
I didn't stop until I was seven blocks away, out of breath, out of adrenaline, and fully questioning my life choices.
I pulled over next to a 7-Eleven, parked my scooter, and sat on the curb like a broken action figure.
What the hell just happened?
Did I really just fight off a zombie with a Christmas reindeer?
Am I infected?
I sniffed myself.
No bite marks. Just the smell of despair and melted cheese.
---
That's when a hand tapped my shoulder.
I jumped so hard I almost launched into the stratosphere.
It was a kid. Maybe eleven. Hoodie. Backpack. Suspiciously calm for someone witnessing society's collapse.
"You good, kuya?" he asked.
"Define good," I wheezed.
He squinted. "You're bleeding."
I looked down. My elbow was scraped. Probably from where I body-checked a ficus earlier.
He handed me a pack of band-aids.
I blinked. "You just carry these around?"
"I'm a Boy Scout," he said, dead serious. "And a prepper."
"A what?"
He pointed at the building behind him. "That's my dad's bunker. Wanna hide in there?"
Now, normally, I wouldn't take shelter with a child who casually says "bunker" like it's a normal Tuesday word.
But zombies.
So I said, "Yeah. Sure. Why not. Let's go."
---
The bunker was real.
And terrifyingly organized.
Shelves of canned food, bottled water, solar chargers, even a crossbow hanging on the wall like it was a decorative spoon.
The kid's dad—who introduced himself as **Tito Edgar**—had a beard, aviators, and energy that screamed *"retired action star turned conspiracy vlogger."*
He handed me a bottle of water and asked, "So. How long you been awake?"
"…What?"
"You're not infected. I can tell. Your eyes are clear. You're lucid. That means you're awake."
I looked at the Boy Scout, who just shrugged like this was normal.
Tito Edgar leaned in. "Have you seen the signs?"
"What signs?"
He tapped his temple. "Voices. Déjà vu. Weird dreams. People you've never met calling you by name?"
I paused.
Because yes.
Mr. Lee said something earlier. Something weird.
You've done this before.
I sat up straighter. "You… you've heard that stuff too?"
He nodded solemnly. "You're part of it."
"Part of *what*?!"
"The reset," he whispered.
The Boy Scout added: "He thinks time keeps restarting. Like a broken DVD."
"I'm telling you," Edgar said, "This isn't the first outbreak. It's happened before. The world resets every time we fail. The virus doesn't kill you. It loops you."
"…What kind of Netflix original are you living in?!"
He opened a file folder labeled **"Project Eden"**.
It had photos. Charts. Diagrams. A zoomed-in image of something that looked suspiciously like *pizza sauce under a microscope.*
"Darren," he said, "Do you remember what you were doing right before this all started?"
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it.
Then opened it again.
"…I was delivering a Hawaiian pizza."
His eyes went wide.
The boy gasped.
"You idiot," Tito Edgar said, pointing a dramatic finger at me.
"You're the delivery guy?!"
"YES?! What does that even mean?!"
He flipped through more pages. "That wasn't a pizza. That was the trigger. The virus was inside the crust. They used thermal-activated packaging. You microwaved it, didn't you?"
"…only for, like, thirty seconds!"
"You FOOL. YOU ACTIVATED THE PATHOGEN!"
The Boy Scout whistled softly. "Wow. You started the apocalypse."
---
I stared at the wall.
There was a motivational cat poster that said *Hang in there!* and I've never related to anything more.
"I just wanted tips," I whispered.