Notes: this chapter may have violence
so I won't force you To read this novel
if you want to read it you can continue reading
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Paulo Sandigo, a high school student, felt a familiar pang of dread as he entered the school building. High school was supposed to be a time of excitement, of friendships, of discovering who you were. But for Paulo, it was a daily torment.
He was a loner, a shadow in the bustling hallways. He had no friends, no one to share his anxieties with. He felt invisible, a ghost in a world that seemed to have forgotten him.
"Maybe high school is good for others," he thought, a sigh escaping his lips, "but not for me."
He trudged through the halls, his head down, his gaze fixed on the worn tile beneath his feet. He just wanted to get through the day, to escape the judgmental stares, the whispers that followed him like a persistent shadow.
Suddenly, the classroom door burst open, interrupting the hum of chatter and the scribbling of pencils. A figure rushed in, his face pale, his eyes wide with a terror that sent a shiver down Paulo's spine. He made his way to the teacher's table, his movements frantic, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
"E.. everyone, don't trust anyone... I... if you don't want to die miserably," he gasped, his voice barely a whisper.
Paulo watched, his heart pounding in his chest. Why was the man shaking so violently? What was he trying to say? A strange sense of foreboding settled over him, a feeling that something terrible was about to happen.
The man finished his warning, his voice a desperate plea for survival. But before anyone could react, his head exploded, a sickening burst of blood and bone that sent a wave of horror through the classroom. The class president, sitting in the front row, screamed, her face contorted with terror.
"Wh... what's happening here?" someone cried out, their voice trembling with fear.
The man was dead, his lifeless body slumped over the table, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. The classroom erupted in chaos, students screaming, scrambling for the exits, their faces twisted with fear and confusion.
Paulo felt a cold dread grip his heart. He couldn't understand what was happening. Why was the man warning them not to trust anyone? What was the connection?
He pushed his way through the panicked crowd, his mind racing, his heart pounding in his chest. He burst out of the classroom, his eyes searching for answers, for a way to make sense of the chaos that had engulfed them.
He saw students lying on the ground, their bodies still, their faces frozen in expressions of terror. Half of the school, it seemed, was gone. He felt a wave of nausea wash over him, his legs trembling, his body shaking uncontrollably.
He stumbled back, his mind reeling, his heart filled with a cold, icy dread. He could only stare in horror at the carnage that surrounded him, the senseless violence that had ripped through their lives.
A police car pulled up outside the school, its siren wailing a mournful cry. The class president, her face pale and drawn, was giving the police officers a detailed account of what had happened.
Paulo sat in his seat, his back against the wall, his gaze fixed on the police officers. He couldn't understand why the man had warned them not to trust anyone. What did it mean? What was happening?
His classmates and the class president went outside with the police officers, their faces grim, their eyes filled with a mixture of fear and determination. Paulo stayed behind, his body frozen with fear, his mind struggling to process the events that had unfolded before him.
"But why do I feel something is going to happen?" he thought, his heart pounding in his chest. "Nah, that's impossible. Because the police are here now."
He tried to convince himself that everything would be alright, that the police would protect them, that this was just a nightmare from which he would soon awaken. But a deep, unsettling feeling lingered in the pit of his stomach, a feeling that something was terribly wrong.
He heard a series of gunshots, a deafening roar that echoed through the hallways. His heart skipped a beat, his blood turning to ice. That wasn't what he had in mind. He couldn't ignore it. He had to see what was happening.
He cautiously opened the classroom door, his eyes scanning the hallway. He saw a figure standing over the body of one of his classmates, a cold, calculating look in his eyes. He covered his mouth with his hand, his stomach churning with a mixture of fear and disgust.
"Take care of their body. Take it to the forest and burn it. Find the other students and kill them," the figure said, his voice cold and emotionless.
He turned towards Paulo, his eyes locking onto his, a chilling smile spreading across his lips.
Paulo felt a wave of panic wash over him. He had to get out of there. He had to escape. He couldn't let them find him.
He ran, his heart pounding in his chest, his lungs burning, his legs screaming for mercy. He stumbled through the hallways, his eyes darting from side to side, searching for a way out. He felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins, fueling his desperate flight.
He reached the bathroom, his body trembling, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He had to hide. He had to be safe. He slipped into the third stall, his body pressed against the cold porcelain, his heart pounding in his chest.
He heard the door open, a soft, creaking sound that sent a shiver down his spine. He held his breath, his body rigid with fear.
"Are they still there? Wh... why did they kill my friend?" a voice sobbed, the sound of grief echoing through the bathroom.
Paulo was stunned. These were survivors, just like him. He was about to open the door, to reach out to them, to find solace in their shared experience. But then he remembered the man's warning: don't trust anyone. He was still confused, still trying to make sense of it all. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the door handle.
He heard footsteps, a slow, deliberate rhythm that seemed to echo his own fear. They were leaving. He let out a sigh of relief, his body relaxing, his muscles loosening.
"How many hours have I been in here? I'm hungry," he thought, his stomach growling, a reminder of his desperate situation.
He opened the door, his eyes scanning the hallway. He saw no one. But then he heard it again: the sound of gunshots, a chilling reminder of the danger that lurked around every corner.
"Again. Is there any hope for me to escape from here?" he thought, his heart sinking, his hope dwindling with each passing moment.
He couldn't hear any footsteps. Maybe they were gone. Maybe he had a chance. He had to get out of the school. He had to survive. He ran, his legs pumping, his breath ragged, his body fueled by a desperate need to escape.
He reached the stairs, his feet pounding on the worn steps. He was about to make his escape, to run into the unknown, to find a place of safety. But then he saw them: a group of police officers, their faces grim, their eyes hardened by the violence they had witnessed. He turned back, his heart sinking, his hope fading.
He ran upstairs, his body fueled by a primal instinct for survival. He had to find a place to hide, a place where they wouldn't find him.
"Oh, shit, the rooftop is locked," he muttered, his heart sinking, his hope dwindling with each passing moment.
He slumped down against the wall, his body weary, his mind exhausted. He had nowhere left to go. He was trapped. He stood up, his body stiff, his movements mechanical. He had to try something. He walked towards the principal's office, his heart pounding in his chest. The door was locked. He was trapped.
He heard the sound of a car engine, a distant rumble that seemed to echo his own despair. He walked quietly from room to room, his eyes scanning the hallways, searching for a way out. He saw a figure standing in the doorway of one of the classrooms, his back to him. He was about to approach the figure, to ask for help, to find solace in another survivor. But then he saw it: the figure was holding a human head, its eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
Paulo gasped, his hand flying to his mouth, his stomach churning with a mixture of horror and disbelief.
"Ah, my clothes are dirty now," the figure said, his voice a chilling whisper.
Paulo ran, his body fueled by a primal instinct for survival. He couldn't stay there. He couldn't let that figure see him. He couldn't let him know that he was still alive.
"Shit... why? Why? Why is this happening to me?" he cried out, his voice a desperate plea, his heart filled with a pain that he had never known before.
He bumped into someone, his body colliding with the other figure's. He looked up, his eyes wide with fear. The figure pointed a gun at him, his eyes cold and calculating.
"Are you infected or not? Tell me before I shoot it," the figure shouted, his voice a chilling threat.
Paulo was confused. What did he mean by infected? He didn't understand. He thought he was going to die.
"Seem like it's not," the figure said, his voice a low growl.
He lowered the gun, his eyes still fixed on Paulo. He took his cell phone out of his pocket, his fingers tapping on the screen.
"There are survivors here. Sorry for pointing the gun at you. We just need to make sure," the figure said, his voice a mixture of apology and threat.
Paulo stood up, his body trembling, his mind racing. He didn't understand what was happening. He didn't understand why they were pointing guns at him. He didn't understand why they were talking about being infected.
The figure raised the gun again. A gunshot rang out, a deafening roar that echoed through the hallway. Paulo turned, his eyes searching for the source of the sound.
"Woh, you almost got killed, kid," the figure said, his voice laced with a strange mixture of amusement and indifference.
Paulo was stunned. The figure who had just shot the other survivor was the same one who had been holding the human head. He had killed him without hesitation. He was talking to someone on his cell phone, his voice low and conspiratorial.
"This is my chance to escape," Paulo thought, his heart pounding in his chest.
He was about to run, to escape into the unknown, to find a place of safety. But then the figure turned, his eyes locking onto Paulo's, a chilling smile spreading across his lips.
"Where are you going, kid? You should stay with us," the figure said, his voice a mixture of persuasion and threat.
Paulo hesitated. He was terrified, but he was also desperate. He didn't know what else to do. He agreed to go with them, his heart sinking, his hope dwindling with each passing moment.
He followed the figure, his steps heavy, his mind racing, his heart filled with a mixture of fear and uncertainty.
"I'm back," the figure said, his voice a low growl.
Paulo looked around, his eyes widening in horror. The buildings were in ruins, the roads were impassable, and the police officers were lying on the ground, their bodies still, their faces frozen in expressions of terror.
The figure and his companions were standing in the middle of the chaos, their faces grim, their eyes hardened by the violence they had witnessed. They were armed, their weapons a chilling reminder of the danger that lurked around every corner. They were dangerous, but they were also the only hope Paulo had left.
"Who the heck is that kid?" a voice boomed, a deep, guttural sound that sent a shiver down Paulo's spine. A fat man with a tattoo on his arm and a wad of bubble gum in his mouth stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Paulo.
"Oh, the one who survived," the figure said, his voice a mixture of amusement and indifference.
Paulo was finally outside, but he didn't feel safe. He was the only one who had survived, or so he thought. What about the two survivors he had heard in the bathroom? Were they safe?
"Is that so?" the fat man said, his voice a low growl.
He looked around, his eyes scanning the ruined landscape. The highway was broken, the gate was shattered, and the houses were on fire. What had happened here?
"Let's go now," the figure said, his voice a command.
They got into a van, their movements swift and efficient. The van started, and they drove away, leaving behind the carnage and the chaos. They drove through the streets, past the bodies of the dead, their faces frozen in expressions of terror.
Paulo was curious. He had heard the figure talk about being infected. What did it mean? He had to know. He turned to the figure, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and curiosity.
"What is the virus?" he asked, his voice a mere whisper.
The figure looked at him, his eyes cold and calculating.
"The truth is, we don't know too much. But it's like they control your brain. When an insect enters your nose or ears or mouth, that insect is so small we can't see it, we can't feel it too. When they enter our body, that's all I know, kid. But when they already enter your body, your mind is going crazy. It's like they're controlling you," the figure said, his voice a low growl.
Paulo thought he understood, but he was still confused. How did the figure know this information? Where had he learned it? He had so many questions, but he was afraid to ask. He didn't want to seem stupid. He didn't want to make them angry.
The van stopped, and they got out. They entered a house, its windows boarded up, its door ajar. Paulo hesitated. Could he really enter someone else's house? He didn't know what to expect.
"Let's go, kid," the figure said, his voice a command.
Paulo followed them inside, his heart pounding in his chest, his mind racing, his body trembling with a mixture of fear and uncertainty.
The other survivors were sitting in the living room, their faces grim, their eyes filled with a mixture of exhaustion and apprehension. One of them was in the kitchen, preparing food. Paulo walked towards the kitchen, his stomach growling, his body aching for nourishment.
"Let me help you cooking," he said, his voice a mere whisper.
The other survivor shook his head, his eyes fixed on the food he was preparing.
"No need," he said, his voice a low growl.
Paulo nodded, his heart sinking. He walked back to the figure who had saved him, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and fear.
"Thank you. For saving me," he said, his voice a mere whisper.
The figure looked at him, his eyes cold and calculating. He then looked up at the sky, his gaze fixed on the clouds that drifted lazily across the horizon.
"No need," he said, his voice a low growl. "Can I ask a question?"
Paulo was surprised. He hadn't expected the figure to be so talkative. He nodded, his heart pounding in his chest.
"Yes, what is it?" he said, his voice a mere whisper.
He heard one of the other survivors say that they were about to eat. He wanted to go, to eat, to satisfy his hunger. But he waited, his eyes fixed on the figure.
"Are there any parents waiting for you?" the figure asked, his voice a low growl.
Paulo looked down, his gaze fixed on the floor. He then looked up at the sky, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and despair.
"Nothing. My parents died two years ago," he said, his voice a mere whisper.
"That's good," the figure said, his voice a low growl. He looked at Paulo, his eyes filled with a strange mixture of pity and amusement.
They went inside and ate. After they finished eating, the other survivors went to sleep. The fat man with the tattoo and the bubble gum was still watching television, but the TV suddenly went blank.
"F*** this TV. Ugh, I'll just go to sleep," the fat man said, his voice a low growl. He stood up from the chair and walked towards the second floor.
Paulo went upstairs to sleep, his body weary, his mind exhausted. He was still trying to process everything that had happened. He was still trying to make sense of the world that had been turned upside down.
The next morning, Paulo woke to the sound of shouting. He sat up in bed, his heart pounding in his chest. The other survivors were getting dressed, their faces grim, their eyes filled with a mixture of fear and determination.
"What's wrong?" Paulo asked, his voice a mere whisper.
"There's an infected person outside," one of the survivors said, his voice a low growl.
Paulo got dressed, his movements automatic, his mind racing. He ran downstairs and followed the other survivors outside. But when they reached the van, they found it broken. They ran, their bodies fueled by a desperate need to survive.
They found a truck, its engine still running. They got in, and the driver started the engine. Paulo felt a surge of relief, a sense of hope that he had almost forgotten. They were escaping. They were safe.
But then the figure who had saved him walked towards him, his eyes cold and calculating. Paulo felt a chill run down his spine. He knew something was wrong.
Suddenly, the figure pushed him out of the truck. He fell, his body rolling down the street, his left hand hitting the pavement with a sickening thud. He felt a sharp pain shoot through his arm, his body trembling with a mixture of