an fat classmate

Scene: The First Sirens

I was halfway through a chemistry quiz when the first scream echoed down the hall. Not the usual kind of scream—like the squeals in gym when Coach made us run suicides—but raw, throat-tearing terror. Every head in the classroom jerked toward the door. Mr. torres froze with the marker still in his hand, like he’d forgotten how to move.

Then the sirens started. Not the fire drill kind, not even the tornado ones. These were deeper, louder—like the whole city outside was wailing.

Phones buzzed. A hundred notifications lighting up at once. STAY INDOORS. LOCK DOORS. DO NOT APPROACH INFECTED.

No one said the Z-word. Not yet. But my best friend Kaylee mouthed it anyway, wide-eyed, and I knew she was thinking the same thing I was: this isn’t a drill.

The intercom crackled. “Students remain in classrooms. Teachers, secure doors and windows. This is not a drill.”

Mr. Torres scrambled to shove the lab tables against the door. Desks screeched across linoleum. Someone cried. Someone else laughed nervously. The smell of Sharpie ink and cafeteria pizza still lingered in the air, clashing with the acrid tang of fear.

Then came the pounding. From somewhere down the hall, fists—or something—slammed against lockers, metal ringing like a war drum. I thought I heard… chewing.

I didn’t know yet that the world outside was already gone. That this classroom—my safe, boring, fluorescent-lit prison—was about to become a fortress. And maybe a coffin.