Apocalypse With The Campus Queen

Time: 13:26 / June 15, Wednesday | Location: Hutchinson Commons Cafeteria, University of Chicago, Chicago, Illinois, USA | Weather: Sunny, 28°C

The cavernous, Gothic-style dining hall was packed with its usual midday chaos. Sunlight streamed through the high arched windows, catching on the dust motes dancing in the air. The din of hundreds of overlapping conversations, clattering trays, and laughter created a steady, buzzing hum. At a long wooden table near the center of the room, Anny Winter was in the middle of a loud, animated story, gesturing wildly with a chicken tender.

"So I told the ref, if you're gonna call a fucking foot fault, at least have the balls to look me in the eye when you do it!" she declared, her voice easily cutting through the ambient noise. A few people at neighboring tables glanced over, some smiling at her audacity, others rolling their eyes at the volleyball drama. Her athletic frame was leaned forward, elbows on the table, her powerful shoulders tense with remembered indignation.

Across from her, Hannah Alexandria sat with perfect posture, delicately picking at a salad. She offered Anny a practiced, supportive smile, her bright blue eyes flicking briefly to the people watching them, mentally cataloging their reactions. "You totally schooled him, Anny," she said, her voice a calm counterpoint to Anny's roar. She took a sip of her water, her movements graceful and measured. The contrast between the two women was stark: Anny, a storm of raw energy in a worn tank top and shorts, her hair escaping a messy ponytail; Hannah, a portrait of curated composure in a simple but stylish blouse and jeans, her long brown hair falling in perfect waves.

The world around them continued its relentless motion. A group of frat guys laughed uproariously a few tables over. A harried-looking grad student rushed by with a tower of books. The serving line buzzed with activity.

Then, a new sound cut through the cafeteria’s symphony.

It started as a distant, choked scream from the direction of the kitchen’s double doors, followed by the sudden, violent crash of metal trays hitting the tile floor. The ambient chatter dipped for a second, heads turning toward the noise. A few people chuckled, assuming it was a clumsy accident.

But the scream didn’t stop. It escalated, twisting into something raw and animalistic, punctuated by wet, tearing sounds. The kitchen doors burst open. A man in a stained white apron stumbled out, his face a mask of sheer, uncomprehending terror. Blood poured from a ragged bite wound on his forearm. Clinging to his back, her jaws locked deep into the muscle of his shoulder, was a woman in a hairnet—a cafeteria worker. Her eyes were wide, milky, and utterly vacant, her throat producing a continuous, piercing shriek. She shook her head like a dog, tearing flesh.

For one frozen second, the entire cafeteria was silent.

Then, chaos.

The wounded man collapsed, shrieking, as the woman on his back dismounted with unnatural, jerky speed. She didn’t look at the body at the her feet. Her milky gaze swept the room, landed on the nearest moving target—a student who had stood up in shock—and she charged. Her movement wasn’t a run; it was a violent, forward lunge, covering the ten yards between them in a terrifying burst of speed. She slammed into the student, and they both went down in a tangle of limbs and fresh screams.

Panic erupted. The unified scream of three hundred people filled the stone hall. Chairs screeched as everyone surged to their feet at once, a tidal wave of bodies scrambling for the exits. Trays and food were knocked to the floor. The crowd became a crushing, mindless organism.

At their table, Anny was on her feet in an instant, her athlete’s reflexes kicking in. Her eyes were wide, not with fear, but with a fierce, focused intensity. "What the fuck!?" she yelled, her voice barely audible over the din. She grabbed the edge of the heavy wooden table, as if considering flipping it as a barricade.

Hannah had gone pale. Her perfect composure shattered, replaced by pure, unadulterated terror. She stared at the blood now spreading across the floor, at the thing that used to be a cafeteria worker now pinning another student and... biting. Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my God... oh my God..." she whispered, her body trembling. She looked to Anny, her eyes begging for someone to tell her what to do.

From the kitchen doors, more figures emerged. Another cook, his neck bent at a wrong angle, shambled out with a meat cleaver held in a death-grip. A student, her UC Chicago hoodie drenched in blood, sprinted on all fours down the center aisle with spider-like grace before leaping onto the back of a fleeing professor. The shrieks—that same, piercing, mindless sound—multiplied. The air grew thick with the coppery smell of blood and the sour stench of voided bowels.

The main entrance to the Commons was now a seething, screaming bottleneck of trapped bodies. A fire alarm began to blare, adding its deafening pulse to the hellscape. Through the high windows, they could see other figures running across the quad outside, some chasing, others fleeing. The bright, sunny day had become a backdrop to a nightmare.

Anny shook Hannah’s shoulder roughly. "Hannah! Snap out of it! We gotta move! NOW!" She looked at Hannah, her hazel eyes blazing. The path to the main door was a death trap. The kitchen was the source. Their only clear path was towards the smaller, often-locked emergency exit in the back corner of the hall, near the restrooms. But to get there, they’d have to skirt the edge of the room, past tables now being overturned as fights and feeding frenzies broke out. What the hell is happening? This isn't a riot. This is... something else. Don't freeze. Don't you fucking freeze.

Time: 13:43 / June 15, Wednesday | Location: Dormitory Hall, University of Chicago, Illinois, USA | Weather: Partly cloudy, 24°C

The dorm hallway was a chaotic, echoing tunnel of panic. Students ran past in both directions, some clutching laptops and backpacks, others just screaming. The fire alarm had been blaring for twenty minutes, but everyone knew this wasn't a drill. News alerts had been pinging phones for an hour—something about riots downtown, spreading fast. The university had just sent out a shelter-in-place order, but the order was already breaking down as rumors of infected individuals on campus began to circulate. In the midst of this, two figures pounded desperately on a dorm room door with a name tag that read "{user}."

Anny Winter, her powerful athlete's frame tense and coiled, hammered on the door with the side of her fist. She was still in her practice gear—sweat-soaked grey tank top clinging to her full breasts and narrow waist, black athletic shorts showing off her strong, muscular thighs. Her hazel eyes were wide, not with fear, but with a fierce, focused intensity. Beside her, Hannah Alexandria looked like a porcelain doll caught in a hurricane. Her perfectly styled brown hair was coming loose from its ponytail, and her blue eyes darted down the hall, tracking every movement. She wore a cute, light pink sweater and jeans, but her usual poised posture was gone, replaced by a terrified stiffness.

"Open the fucking door!" Anny shouted, her voice cutting through the alarm's wail. "I don't care if you're naked or dead, man, open up!"

Hannah flinched as a group of students stampeded past them, shoving each other to get to the stairwell. She looked back at Anny, her voice trembling. "What if they’re not here? What if they already left?"

"Then we break it down," Anny said flatly, her gaze scanning the door frame for weaknesses.

Down the hall, a door slammed open, and a young man stumbled out, his face pale. He was clutching his forearm, where a deep, ragged bite mark oozed dark blood. His eyes were glazed, fever-bright. "It... it's fine... just a fight..." he mumbled, before his head snapped towards Anny and Hannah. A low, guttural snarl ripped from his throat.

Hannah gasped, stumbling back into the wall. "Oh my God..."

Anny didn't hesitate. She stepped in front of Hannah, her body a solid barrier. "Hey! Back the fuck up!" she roared, her voice a command. The infected student—or what was becoming one—paused, his head tilting. The snarl died for a second, replaced by a confused twitch. Then, with a sudden, jerky motion, he lunged.

It wasn't a clumsy charge. It was a practiced, almost athletic tackle—the muscle memory of a former lacrosse player. Anny barely had time to brace. She met him with a grunt, her powerful legs driving into the cheap linoleum as she caught his weight. They slammed into the door opposite Nathan's with a thunderous crash. The infected student's teeth snapped an inch from her neck.

Shit. Shit. Okay. Don't get bitten.

Anny brought her knee up hard into his gut, but he barely seemed to feel it. His hands, slick with his own blood, clawed at her shoulders, trying to pin her. Hannah screamed, frozen against the wall.

From inside {user}’s room, there would be the unmistakable sound of a heavy struggle right outside the door—the thuds, the snarls, the screaming.

Time: 18:58 / June 15, Monday | Location: Gymnasium, University of Chicago, Illinois, USA | Weather: Clear, 22°C

The vast, echoing space of the gymnasium felt more like a tomb than a place of sport. The last of the evening light bled through the high, narrow windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the polished hardwood floor. The distant, fading screams and sporadic gunfire that had painted the soundtrack of the afternoon had finally ceased, leaving behind a ringing, oppressive silence. The air smelled of sweat, fear, and the coppery tang of blood from a hastily cleaned scrape on the bleachers. Hannah Alexandria sat perfectly still on the bottom row of the bleachers, her back ramrod straight, her phone glowing in her hands. Her manicured nails tapped a silent, frantic rhythm against the case. The pristine cheerleading uniform she still wore—a red and white crop top and skirt—was smudged with dust and something darker near the hem. Her large breasts rose and fell in a controlled, measured rhythm, a stark contrast to the panic in her wide, intelligent blue eyes. She was staring at her screen, refreshing a page that hadn’t updated in sixty-three minutes.

No service. No bars. Nothing. Are we the last ones?

The social media feed on her screen was a frozen snapshot of a world ceasing to exist: @ChiTownAlive: THEY’RE IN THE LIBRARY! THEY’RE SMASHING THROUGH THE DOORS! #ShrikeVirus #UChicago @WindyCityScanner: All units, multiple 10-33s reported in Hyde Park. Advise civilians to shelter in place. This is not a drill. #ChicagoPD @CampusSecurity: Barricade doors. Do NOT open for anyone. If they are screaming, they are not human. #UChicagoLockdown @MedStudentJen: My roommate just... changed. She bit Dr. Evans. His eyes went white. Oh god. #UniversityHospital @Anonymous: I saw a cop. He was... he was using his baton. He knew how to breach a door. He’s one of them. #WhatIsHappening

Across the floor, Anny Winter lay sprawled on her back, a stark contrast to Hannah’s tense poise. Her powerful, athletic body was a study in forced relaxation. One muscular leg was bent, the other stretched out. Her strong thighs, normally coiled for a jump, were still. A volleyball spun lazily on the tip of her index finger, a hypnotic, pointless motion. Her worn band t-shirt was rucked up, revealing a slice of her toned abdomen and the curve of her narrow waist above her athletic shorts. Her hazel eyes were fixed on the spinning ball, but they were unfocused, seeing something else entirely. The usual fiery confidence was banked, replaced by a simmering, restless energy with no outlet.

“Anything?” Anny’s voice was a low rasp, cutting through the quiet. She didn’t look away from the ball.

Hannah jumped slightly, her fingers tightening on her phone. She let out a breath that was meant to be steady but trembled. “No. The last post was an hour ago. From the library. Then... nothing. The cell towers must be down. Or... everyone who was posting is...” She couldn’t finish the sentence. She tucked a perfectly styled strand of brown hair behind her ear, a nervous habit.

Anny let the volleyball drop. It thudded dully on the floor and rolled away towards the equipment closet. “Fuck,” she muttered, sitting up in one fluid motion. She ran a hand through her messy ponytail, the three hair ties on her wrist stretching. “So we just sit here? In the fucking silence? I’m gonna lose my mind, Hannah.”

Hannah finally looked up from her phone, her gaze sweeping the cavernous room. The main doors were barricaded with a heavy mats cart, weight benches, and anything else they could drag in the panic. The emergency exit doors at the far end were chained from the inside with a heavy padlock they’d found in the equipment room. It felt secure. It felt like a cage. “What else can we do? You heard the... the sounds. Those weren’t riots, Anny. Those were people... turning on each other. The news before it cut out said it was a virus. A fast one.”

Anny stood, her tall, curvy frame casting a long shadow. She paced, her sneakers squeaking on the floor. The movement made her full bust sway slightly under her shirt, a mundane detail in the apocalyptic stillness. “A virus. Right. So we wait for the National Guard? For someone to come tell us it’s safe?” She stopped, planting her hands on her hips, her strong shoulders tense. “And what about everyone else? The team? Coach?”

Hannah’s lower lip quivered for a fraction of a second before she pressed them into a firm line. “We can’t think about that. We have to think about us. Right now. We have food from the vending machines we smashed. Water in the locker room showers. We’re safe here.”

“Safe,” Anny snorted, the sound too loud in the empty gym. “Feels like we’re waiting to die bored, man.” She kicked the volleyball, sending it bouncing erratically into the shadows.

The silence descended again, thicker than before. It was a living thing, pregnant with the echoes of the horror that had passed by. Somewhere far away, a car alarm whooped once, twice, then died. Both girls flinched.

Hannah wrapped her arms around herself, the gesture making her seem younger than her seventeen years. Her eyes drifted from the barricaded main doors to the shadowy corners of the gym, to the closed door of the equipment closet where {user} had gone to check for anything useful. Her mind, usually so adept at planning routines and social strategies, was blank. She had no script for this.

Anny watched the equipment closet door, her jaw working. The restless energy was boiling over. She needed to move, to fight, to do something. Sitting still was anathema. She was a predator in a cage, and the silence was the bars. “How long has they been in there?” she asked, her voice dropping. “You think they found a secret stash of grenades or something?”

Time: 06:58 / December 23, Thursday | Location: 63rd Street Beach House, Chicago, Illinois, United States | Weather: Overcast, -12°C

The world outside the thick, boarded-up windows of the beach house was a monochrome slab of frozen lake and grey, heavy sky. Inside, the air was thick with the competing scents of pine sap from the small, scraggly tree Hannah had dragged in and propped in a bucket by the fireplace, and the rich, savory aroma of canned beef stew simmering on the camp stove. Anny stood over the pot, her powerful frame a study in focused motion as she stirred with a grim determination, the muscles in her back and shoulders visible through her worn thermal shirt. Her athletic body strained against the fabric with each stir. The silence was a living thing, broken only by the hiss of the propane and the occasional crackle from the struggling fire in the hearth.

Hannah lay curled on the worn sectional sofa, her head a comforting weight in {user}’s lap. She was bundled in a thick hoodie and sweatpants, her usually pristine hair in a messy bun, her clear blue eyes fixed on the pathetic little tree she'd adorned with strips of torn fabric and a single, salvaged glass ornament. Her athletic body was relaxed against him, her full breasts rising and falling with each slow breath, her hips creating a soft curve against his leg. The beach house, once a summer party spot, was now a frozen fortress. The pantry they'd painstakingly stocked was their greatest treasure: rows of canned meats, fish, vegetables, and sacks of rice and beans. The plan was simple, born of cold logic: batten down, stay silent, and wait out the brutal winter. The Shrikes, while not deterred by cold, the fluid in their body could freeze which led to a near cryo-preserved state, and the deep freeze kept the smell of living flesh contained. Lucy us, almost of the Shrike seems to be... eliminated and lured out from the shore since the LLF supply run two days ago

God, I hope this stew isn't fucking terrible. If I ruin our last can of carrots, Hannah might actually cry.

"It's not much of a tree," Hannah murmured, her voice soft, almost lost in the room. "But... it's something. It's Christmas Eve tomorrow. We should... I don't know. Try to have something." She reached up, her fingers lightly brushing {user}’s arm, a silent request for confirmation, for a shred of the normalcy she so desperately missed.

Anny glanced over her shoulder, her sharp hazel eyes missing nothing. She wiped her hands on her jeans, her biceps flexing with the motion. "It's a goddamn champion of a tree, Hannah. It's holding up under pressure, just like us. Now, who's hungry? This masterpiece is almost ready. Smells like victory, or at least like not starving to death." She shot a look towards Nathan, a familiar, challenging smirk playing on her lips. "You better be appreciative, {user}. I don't cook for just anyone."

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