The Heroine

  Emilia stared out the window of her tiny apartment, her mind replaying last night’s odd news segment. The anchor had reported on videos making the rounds online—details vague, but impactful enough to stick with her. “Or maybe… just maybe… it’s the dawn of New York’s very own zombie apocalypse,” the news anchor had said as the segment had finished.

  The words lingered in her head, ridiculous as they were. There’s no way that could actually happen… right? She shook her head, trying to brush off the creeping doubt that had wormed its way into her thoughts. Still, the what-if clung stubbornly to the edge of her mind.

  “Hey, Emilia. Are you even listening to me?”

  Her neighbor Matt’s voice pulled her back to reality. She blinked, realizing she had been zoning out while he leaned casually against the wall, sipping from a cup of coffee.

  “Sorry, what did you say?” she asked sheepishly.

  “We were talking about the news junk last night, and I said you’re gullible if you’re seriously buying into that zombie nonsense. It’s probably just some whackos on drugs,” Matt replied with a smirk. “Seriously, you can’t believe everything you see on TV.”

  Emilia pouted, crossing her arms. “I wasn’t saying I believe it. I just think it’s… interesting!”

  “Interesting? Yeah, okay,” Matt chuckled. “I swear, sometimes you’re too innocent for your own good. Don’t go scaring yourself over nothing.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him, but his teasing tone did the trick. She decided to drop the idea, her cheerful demeanor quickly returning as she grabbed her backpack.

  “You’re right. I’m being silly. Anyway, I need to catch the train before class. Thanks for the coffee!”

  “Don’t mention it. Just keep your head on straight, Emilia,” Matt said as he followed her out.

  With a playful wave, she locked up and left, letting the ominous news segment from the night before slip to the back of her mind as her day carried on.

  The rest of the day unfolded like any other. Emilia found herself immersed in her lectures, taking notes diligently, though her professors’ voices occasionally drifted into background noise. Definitely occasionally.

  At lunch, she joined a group of friends at their usual spot on campus. They laughed and chatted about everything—from weekend plans to upcoming assignments.

  “Hey, what happened with Jason?” one of her friends asked, nudging her.

  “What about him?” Emilia asked, tilting her head.

  “Well, apparently, he confessed to you last week, and you totally ignored him!”

  Emilia blinked in shocked surprise. “What? Confessed what?”

  “You know, like, a confession! As in, ‘I like you,’ or ‘I want to go out with you,’” another friend clarified, grinning.

  “Oh…” Emilia trailed off, her expression blank. Then, as if a light bulb went off, she laughed. “I thought he was just being nice!”

  Her friends erupted into laughter, and she joined in, entirely unfazed by the revelation.

  “That poor guy,” one of them teased. “You’re so oblivious, Emilia.”

  “I’m not oblivious! I just didn’t think he meant it like that,” she defended with an innocent smile.

  By the time her last class ended, the sun was dipping below the horizon, casting the city in warm, golden hues. The subway ride home that evening was uneventful—at first. Emilia sat by the window, idly scrolling through her phone, while two or three other passengers occupied the otherwise empty car. An odd sight in the usually busy NYC subway system.

  As the train doors closed, her attention shifted outside. On the platform, a disheveled man staggered toward a lone commuter, his movements jerky and unnatural. Emilia squinted, trying to make sense of what she was seeing on the otherwise empty platform.

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  The man lunged, grabbing the commuter by the shoulders, and—

  Bit them.

  Her eyes widened. “What the…?” she whispered, pressing closer to the glass.

  The other passengers didn’t seem to notice, too engrossed in their own world. Emilia’s heart pounded as she watched the bitten commuter struggle, their panicked scream muffled by the subway doors.

  Then, just as quickly as it began, the train picked up speed and pulled away, leaving the scene behind.

  Did that really just happen? She thought, her fingers gripping the straps on her backpack tightly. For a moment, panic bubbled up inside her, but she pushed it down.

  Maybe I imagined it… or maybe someone will come and help. Yeah, someone else will handle it, she reassured herself, forcing her breathing to steady.

  As the subway sped away toward her stop, she shook her head, naively convincing herself it was nothing.

  After all, things like that don’t happen in real life…

  Right?

  Tanya

  It’s been a couple of days since I woke up in the hospital, and things haven’t exactly slowed down. My time off from work has turned into a race to start getting things ready, and the clock is ticking louder every second. I’ve been bouncing between tasks, making phone calls, collecting supplies, and scheming. Sometimes, I catch myself wondering if maybe I’ve lost my mind.

  The first thing I did was drain my savings. Not that the original Tanya was much of a big spender. She’d been frugal, almost annoyingly so. Most of the money had been set aside for emergencies—which, in retrospect, is pretty hilarious. The end of the world is definitely an emergency, right? My remaining balance is decent, but nowhere near enough to buy everything I need.

  I had to get creative.

  I hadn’t planned on draining my savings at first. It seemed reckless. But now? It was the only option. Money wasn’t about comfort anymore—it was about survival. I can't just wait around for the apocalypse to ask permission to start. I need to prepare, and fast.

  That’s where the loans came in.

  The thought of going into debt was terrifying on it's own, but what choice do I have? Stay stagnant and wait for everything to fall apart, or do whatever it takes to be ready for the worst?

  I couldn’t afford to be passive. If there’s one thing the original Tanya learned in that failed novel, it’s that when the end starts, you either act or get crushed under the weight of things—or die trying—which she did.

  I swear, after the first couple of banks, I feel like I 'm interviewing for a job I don’t even want. Every time they asked me what the loan was for, I had to come up with something new. I never even blinked, just spitting out the lies I’d been rehearsing in my head.

  The first one: “Business startup investment.” That almost made me laugh out loud. Yeah, I’m starting a new business—a business of zombie survival.

  Next: “Home improvement.” Sure, that worked. Who doesn’t need a bunch of furniture and security upgrades when the world’s going to hell?

  The third bank was a little trickier, but I was one smooth criminal—literally—as this was definitely illegal.

  “To pay for a car.” I wasn’t even sure where that one came from, but the woman at the counter didn’t seem to care. I had a perfect credit score, and as long as they were making money off me, they didn’t ask questions.

  By the time I got to the fourth bank, I was mentally exhausted. “To purchase a new house,” I said, just a little too quickly.

  They didn’t even bat an eye.

  After a few more loans, I ended up walking away with a nice pile of debt, which should be fun to deal with if the apocalypse doesn’t come. I’ll be paying that off for the rest of my life.

  At least I’ll have a nice supply of food to go with my debt.

  I don’t even know how, but all the loans were quickly approved, and I didn’t have a plan for how to pay them back, let alone question the process.

  That’s future me’s problem—if it comes to repaying it all that is.

  Right now, it’s all about securing the resources that’ll keep me alive when the world turns to shit. I need those two buildings that conveniently went on sale near the police station—and fast. If I can make those work, I’ll have a solid base of operations. And if things go well, I’ll have everything in place by the time everything goes to hell. My goal is to stake a claim on the station once the concept of authority goes down the drain, combined with the two buildings I plan to stock up with everything I need.

  The properties are just the beginning. Once I have them locked down, I’ll need a fallback for when the initial hordes start to close in. Those loans might buy me the buildings and a good amount of supplies, but it won’t cover everything. It’s one thing to have a place to stay—it’s another to make sure it’s all fortified and ready for whatever comes shambling by.

  Of course, there’s one problem: guns. I’m a cop, so I have a badge and some authority, but New York isn’t exactly the Wild West. Weapons are hard to come by, and trying to buy them illegally is a surefire way to land in a cell before the real trouble even starts.

  But I’m resourceful.

  I know the evidence lockers better than I know my own desk. After a couple of quick conversations with people I trust—people who won’t ask too many questions—I can start making a plan to smuggle out some confiscated firearms. They’re just sitting there, gathering dust. Who’s going to care if they disappear when the world goes up in flames?

  That gang raid provided so many guns and so much ammunition—almost enough to outfit a small army. And they were just sitting there for the taking.

  In the chaos of an apocalypse, all those guns and all that ammo would become a lifeline.

  I have to remind myself I’m someone doing whatever it takes to survive. Survival doesn’t care about the rules. It only cares about results. If I have to break the law to make sure I don’t end up as a snack for the undead, so be it.

  In the meantime, I’ve kept in touch with a few of my fellow officers, staying “in the loop” despite my time off. Some of them have been reporting strange, apocalypse-related things, though they mostly brush it off. “A crazy drug addict,” “another crackhead," and “someone who’s just off their rocker,” they’d say. Some of them had watched the news, and they’re starting to get a little paranoid. They talk about the zombie rumors like it’s a bad joke.

  They’re laughing now, but I doubt they’ll be laughing when the real thing starts.

  I just have to keep moving forward. I can’t afford for anyone to get suspicious.

  The last thing I need is to be seen as a crazy person, especially when I’m the only one who knows what’s coming.

  If they only knew.

  That evening, a knife sliced through vegetables with precision as a simmering pot sent tendrils of steam into the air. For a moment, I just stood there, staring into the steam wafting up from the pot. I hadn’t really stopped for the past few days—between the hospital, the preparations, the phone calls and reports... It was a whirlwind of constant motion. But now—I'm cooking.

  This was the first moment I’d had time to sit back and breathe.

  I leaned against the counter, letting the warmth of the stove seep into my tired bones. My mind wandered back to the reports I’d heard over the last few days—reports that were being brushed off as drug overdoses or the like. Everyone else was so... normal about it.

  But I know better. I had read how this all ends up, and it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows.

  I shifted my focus back to the task at hand. I still needed a plan—something concrete that would keep me and anyone else I could gather alive.

  As the sound of chopping filled the silence, I stopped and tasted the broth, a nearby spoon dipping in automatically. Without thinking, I adjusted the seasoning, just a little. A bit of salt, a dash of pepper, and... wait, am I cooking?

  I looked down at the pot. What was I doing? I hadn’t even thought about the cooking. It’s like my hands knew what to do without my brain needing to acknowledge it. A part of me knew that I couldn't cook up anything decent in my past life, yet here I am...

  The broth was already perfect—rich and flavorful. I absentmindedly stirred it and then tasted another spoonful, surprised by the depth of the flavors. It's... good. Really good. I was cooking like a five-star chef.

  I paused, the spoon hanging in mid-air.

  Since when could I make something like this?

  Who is this person cooking right now?

  It’s me!

  After a mental "Thank you" to the original Tanya, I couldn’t help but laugh. Well, at least I had cooking down.