Chapter 9: The Collapse Begins - Part 1
Sunday Morning
The power came back at 3 AM, flickered for twenty minutes, then died again for good. I woke to complete darkness, hand automatically reaching for the Glock under my makeshift pillow.
The cafeteria was quiet except for breathing. The group had settled into an uneasy sleep around midnight—Madison and Alicia on one set of pushed-together tables, Travis and Chris on another, Liza on a third. Nick had claimed a corner on the floor. I'd taken watch position near the main entrance, dozing lightly with my back to the wall.
The emergency lights came on, casting everything in sickly yellow. Nick stirred in his corner, sat up.
"Power?" he asked quietly.
"Gone for good, probably."
"How long do the backup lights last?"
"Battery powered? Maybe twelve hours if we're lucky."
He pulled himself up, moved to sit beside me. For a while, we just listened to the silence. No traffic sounds. No sirens. The city held its breath.
"You killed Matt pretty efficiently," Nick said finally.
"Yeah."
"That wasn't your first time killing someone."
"No."
"Calvin?"
"And others." A lie, but necessary. "Medical residents see a lot of death. Sometimes we have to make hard choices about end-of-life care."
"That's not the same as stabbing someone in the brain."
"Close enough."
He absorbed that. "You're scary, man. You know that?"
"Better scary and alive than nice and dead."
"That's depressing."
"That's reality."
Madison woke at dawn. She checked her phone—no signal—then moved around the cafeteria, checking on everyone. The teacher in her couldn't help but count heads, make sure all her students were accounted for.
"We need water," she announced quietly, not wanting to wake the others. "The school's tanks probably still have pressure, but we should fill every container we have before it runs out."
We spent the next hour filling bottles, buckets, pots from the kitchen. The water pressure dropped by half before we'd finished, but we got enough. Maybe a week's worth if rationed.
Travis woke around seven, checked his phone for the same nonexistent signal, cursed under his breath.
"We're cut off," he said.
"Yeah."
"No communication with the outside world."
"Not until the cell towers come back online. If they come back online."
"What about emergency broadcasts? AM radio?"
I grabbed the battery-powered radio from our supplies, tuned through the static. Most stations were dead air. A few had automated messages repeating on loop:
"—remain indoors—avoid contact with infected individuals—authorities are working to—"
"—National Guard has been mobilized—all citizens should—"
"—quarantine zones being established—do not attempt to—"
Nothing useful. No real information, just institutional reassurance while the system collapsed.
I turned off the radio. "They don't know what to tell people. They're making it up as they go."
Alicia appeared from the bathroom, hair pulled back, face washed but still showing yesterday's trauma. She grabbed a water bottle and sat at a table alone.
Madison started to approach her, then thought better of it. Give her space. Let her process.
Chris woke next, followed by Liza. The group assembled gradually, nobody rushing, everyone moving with the slowness of people who'd slept badly and woken to nightmares made real.
"We need a plan," Travis said once everyone was awake. "We can't stay here indefinitely."
"Why not?" Nick asked. "There's food, water, defensible position—"
"No long-term supplies. No way to grow food or sustain ourselves. This is temporary shelter, not permanent housing."
"The cabin," Madison said. "That's still the plan. Once the roads clear—"
"The roads won't clear." Liza's nurse pragmatism cut through. "Not for weeks, maybe months. Whatever this is, it's not going away quickly."
[ TIMER: 24:37:19 ]
I watched the number tick down, felt the pressure building. Twenty-four hours. Less than a day before I'd lose control.
"How much food do we have?" I asked, redirecting.
Madison opened the cafeteria kitchen's walk-in pantry. Industrial-sized cans of vegetables, pasta, rice, dried beans. Enough for the eight of us to eat for maybe two weeks if careful.
"The freezers are already warming up," she said. "Whatever's in there, we need to cook and eat today."
"Then we cook. Use the gas stoves while they still work."
We spent the morning preparing food—breakfast first, then immediate cooking of everything from the freezers. Meat, frozen vegetables, whatever would spoil. It felt absurd, having a cookout while the world ended, but waste wasn't an option.
Around ten AM, we heard vehicles outside.
Everyone froze. Travis moved to the window first, careful to stay behind cover. "Military. National Guard, looks like. Three trucks. Maybe twenty soldiers."
"Are they stopping?" Madison asked.
"No. Driving past. Heading downtown."
We watched them disappear. No one came to check the school. No evacuation orders, no rescue. We were on our own.
The news—what little we could get through the static on AM radio—painted a grim picture. The infection had spread to every major population center on the West Coast. Quarantine zones were "being established" in San Francisco, San Diego, Las Vegas. The military was "containing" outbreaks.
All lies. Or if not lies, then wishful thinking. You couldn't contain something that spread through every person who died. Every cardiac arrest, every car accident, every natural death—they all came back.
Exponential growth. That was the math we were facing.
By noon, the neighborhood around the school was showing signs of collapse. We could see smoke from multiple fires. Hear occasional gunshots. Once, a car tore through the parking lot, driver panicked, passenger screaming. They didn't stop.
"We should've left yesterday," Travis said. "Gone to the cabin when we had the chance."
"We'd be stuck on the highway right now," I countered. "Trapped in traffic, surrounded by infected. This is better."
"Is it?"
"We're alive. That's better."
Alicia stood at a different window, watching the street. "Someone's out there."
We all moved to look. A figure shambled down the middle of the road—former postal worker, still wearing the uniform. Walker. It moved with that characteristic jerky gait, arms hanging loose, head turning side to side as if searching.
"Stay quiet," I said. "Don't draw attention."
The walker continued past the school without noticing us. Two more followed minutes later—a woman in a nurse's uniform, a teenage boy in a basketball jersey. All dead, all walking.
"They're everywhere now," Nick whispered. "This is really happening."
"Yeah."
My phone buzzed—startling in the silence. Unknown number. I answered.
"Jax?" A man's voice, stressed and frightened. "This is Daniel Salazar. Travis gave me your number. We need help."
Travis grabbed my arm. "The barber shop family. They sheltered us yesterday. Good people."
"What's the situation?" I asked Daniel.
"My family—my wife, daughter—we're trapped. Military blocked off our neighborhood, but they're not protecting us. They're just containing. We've got infected on three sides, and we can't get out."
"Where are you?"
"East LA. Near First and Soto. The barber shop."
[ TIMER: 22:15:44 ]
I checked the time. If we moved now, in daylight, we could maybe reach them and get back before dark. Maybe.
"How many people?" I asked.
"Three. Me, my wife Griselda, my daughter Ofelia."
"Can you hold out until tonight?"
"I don't know. Maybe. But the infected are getting thicker. I don't think we have much time."
Travis was watching me, waiting for a decision. This was a test. Would I risk the group for strangers? Would I stick to my pragmatic selfishness or try to be a hero?
Daniel's useful. Former military, if I remember the show correctly. Dangerous, competent, exactly the kind of ally worth having.
"We'll come," I said. "But it won't be until dark. Better visibility for us, worse for the walkers. Can you last that long?"
"We'll have to."
I gave him instructions—barricade, stay quiet, don't use lights. Standard survival protocol. He thanked me and hung up.
"We're really going?" Madison asked.
"Yeah."
"Why?" Alicia's voice from across the room. "You don't know them."
"Travis does. And we need allies."
"Or you need people who owe you."
"That too."
She shook her head but didn't argue further. Smart enough to know we needed numbers, even if she didn't like my motives.
The afternoon stretched long and tense. We prepared for the rescue mission—checking weapons, mapping routes, distributing supplies. Travis knew the area, having spent time there yesterday. The Salazars' barber shop was on a main street, exposed but accessible.
"Two vehicles," Travis suggested. "Madison's SUV and my truck. Leave one car here as backup."
"Who goes?" Liza asked.
"Travis, Nick, and me," I said. "Three people. Quick in, quick out."
"I'm going," Madison said. "That's not negotiable. If we're picking up a family, they'll respond better to a woman."
"And I'm going," Alicia added. "I'm not sitting here while you play hero."
"You're staying here where it's safe," Madison countered.
"Safe?" Alicia gestured at the windows. "Nowhere's safe anymore, Mom. If you're going into danger, I'm coming too."
"Alicia—"
"I'm eighteen. You can't stop me."
They stared at each other, mother and daughter locked in silent battle. Madison broke first.
"Fine. But you stay in the vehicle. No getting out, no heroics."
"Deal."
We loaded up at five PM—two hours before sunset. Travis drove his truck with Madison riding shotgun. I took my car with Alicia and Nick. Liza, Chris, and the remaining supplies stayed at the school.
"If we're not back by midnight," I told Liza, "assume the worst."
"What's the worst?"
"Dead or trapped. Either way, you take Chris and run. Head for the cabin."
"I'm not abandoning—"
"You are if it comes to that. Chris matters more than any of us."
She nodded, hating it but understanding. Some choices had to be made in advance, before emotion could cloud judgment.
We drove out at 5:30 PM. The streets were different from yesterday—more abandoned cars, more bodies, more evidence of panic. A grocery store with every window smashed. A gas station on fire. Two police cars crashed into each other, officers nowhere to be seen.
And walkers. Everywhere.
They congregated at intersections, drawn by sound or maybe just random movement. Some were fresh—newly dead, clothes intact, injuries visible. Others were older, more decayed, barely recognizable as human.
"Stay in the car," I reminded everyone through the phone connection. "Don't engage unless necessary."
The drive took forty minutes instead of fifteen. We had to detour three times around blocked roads. Once, we drove past a pack of maybe thirty walkers surrounding a car. Someone inside was screaming. We didn't stop.
Can't save everyone. Pick your battles.
Alicia was pale in the passenger seat. "We just left them."
"We did."
"That's—"
"Practical. We go in there, we die too. Then we can't save the Salazars."
"You're cold."
"I'm realistic. There's a difference."
She turned away, jaw clenched. Nick reached forward from the back seat, squeezed her shoulder. Silent support.
We reached the barber shop at 6:15 PM. The sun was low, painting everything orange and red. The street was chaos—abandoned cars, broken windows, bodies in the gutters. A walker noticed our vehicles and began shambling toward us.
Travis parked directly in front of the shop. I pulled in behind him. Through the shop's windows, I could see movement—someone waving.
"There," Madison pointed. "Second floor."
Daniel appeared at the window, gesturing urgently. The walker was getting closer. More were converging from down the street, drawn by the engine noise.
"We need to move," Travis said through the phone. "Now."
I opened my door—
My hands started shaking. Not much, just a tremor, but enough to notice. The pressure behind my eyes intensified. A headache building, sharp and insistent.
[ TIMER: 20:00:00 ]
Twenty hours.
The symptoms were starting. Stage one—irritability, tremors, heightened aggression. It would get worse from here.
Not now. Not during a rescue. Just hold it together.
"Jax?" Nick's voice. "You okay?"
"Fine. Let's go."
But I wasn't fine. And everyone in the car could tell.
The walker reached Travis's truck. It slapped against the window, dead eyes fixed on Madison inside. She flinched back. Travis grabbed a crowbar from the seat beside him.
"Stay here," he told Madison. "I'm getting them out."
He opened his door—the walker lunged—Travis swung the crowbar in a tight arc. It connected with the walker's skull, a wet crack. The thing dropped.
Three more walkers appeared from between buildings. They'd seen us. They were coming.
Daniel opened the barber shop door, waving frantically. "Hurry!"
Travis ran for the shop. Madison shouted his name but stayed in the truck. The walkers changed direction, tracking Travis's movement.
I was out of my car before I realized I'd moved, Glock raised, firing. One shot, center mass—the walker staggered but kept coming. Second shot, head—it dropped. Third walker, two shots to take it down. Fourth walker—
My hand was shaking so badly I missed the first shot. Second shot hit its shoulder. Third shot finally dropped it.
Get it together. You're losing control.
Travis reached the shop, pulled Daniel, his wife Griselda, and daughter Ofelia out. They ran for the vehicles. Griselda was limping badly, favoring her right leg. Ofelia supported her mother while Daniel covered their retreat with a pistol.
More walkers were coming. Too many to count. The street was filling with them, drawn by the gunfire like moths to flame.
"Go!" Travis shouted, shoving the Salazars toward Madison's SUV. "Get them inside!"
Madison opened the rear doors. Griselda climbed in with difficulty. Ofelia helped. Daniel provided cover, shooting deliberately—one shot per walker, each one a kill.
Former military. Definitely former military.
I emptied my magazine, dropped two more walkers. Reloaded with hands that wouldn't stay steady. The pressure in my head was excruciating now, vision tinged red at the edges.
[ TIMER: 19:47:23 ]
[ WARNING: STAGE 1 SYMPTOMS ACTIVE ]
[ INFECTION DRIVE INCREASING ]
Not now. Later. Just hold on.
Travis made it back to his truck. Madison's SUV started moving. My car—Alicia was in the driver's seat, engine running.
"Get in!" she screamed.
I turned to run—a walker grabbed my jacket. Dead fingers tangled in the fabric. I spun, knife out, drove it up through the jaw into the brain. The walker collapsed. I ran.
Made it to the car. Alicia floored it before I'd fully closed the door. We tore down the street, walkers reaching for us, Travis's truck right behind, Madison's SUV in the lead.
A walker stepped into our path. Alicia didn't slow down. We hit it head-on, the impact jarring, the body disappearing under our wheels.
"Jesus," Nick said from the back.
"Keep driving," I managed. My hands were shaking violently now. Headache so bad I could barely see straight.
"Jax, what's wrong with you?" Alicia demanded, swerving around an abandoned bus.
"Nothing. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You can barely hold your gun."
"Just drive."
We made it three blocks before hitting gridlock—cars abandoned in every direction, blocking all lanes. No way through.
"We have to go on foot," Travis said through the phone.
"Negative," I said. My voice came out harsher than intended. "Too exposed. We find another route."
"There is no other route!"
Madison's SUV was trying to push through, bumper against a sedan. It wasn't moving. The sun was almost down now, shadows deepening.
And walkers were coming. Drawn by the noise, the light, the smell of living flesh. Dozens of them, shambling from every direction.
"Out of the cars," I ordered. My hands hurt. My teeth hurt. Everything hurt. "Weapons ready. We fight through on foot."
"We can't fight that many!" Travis argued.
"Then we run. Move!"
We abandoned the vehicles and ran.
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