The smell of fresh coffee was the first thing Zoe noticed that morning. The rich, nutty aroma wafted through Perkatory, mingling with the faint hum of indie music playing softly over the speakers. Sunlight streamed through the windows, painting the rustic wooden floors in warm gold. If it weren't for the headlines she'd skimmed on her phone—"Mysterious Illness Spreading Rapidly" and "Panic in City Centers: Authorities Urge Calm"—it would've felt like any other day.

Behind the counter, Zoe adjusted her apron and glanced at the clock. 9:17 a.m. It was a slow morning. Only a few regulars sat scattered around the shop: Mr. Pearson, the retired history teacher, nursed his usual black coffee in the corner; a young woman Zoe didn't recognize tapped furiously on her laptop, earbuds in; and a pair of college students, half-asleep, shared a sticky booth near the back.

"Zoe, can you grab another bag of beans from the back?" called Darren, her co-worker, as he fumbled with the espresso machine.

"Sure thing," Zoe replied, heading to the storage room.

As she walked, the words from the headlines lingered in her mind. "Mysterious Illness" was the kind of vague, ominous phrasing that could mean anything. And "Panic" wasn't something you saw in local news daily. For a brief moment, she wondered if she should've stayed home. But Perkatory had always been her safe space, her refuge. It felt better to be here, surrounded by the comforting routine of brewing coffee than doom-scrolling in her apartment.

Then the screaming started.

She froze, her hand hovering over a bag of Ethiopian roast. The sound wasn't coming from inside the shop but from the street outside. Shouts, car horns, and the unmistakable crash of glass breaking. Zoe's heart leaped into her throat as she rushed back to the front.

"What's going on?" she asked Darren, who was already peering out the window. His face had gone pale.

"I don't know," he said. "But it's bad."

Zoe joined him at the window, her breath fogging up the glass as she stared at the chaos unfolding outside. People were running in all directions, their faces contorted in terror. A man stumbled past the shop, his shirt soaked in blood. Behind him, a woman staggered—her movements jerky and unnatural, her mouth hanging open to reveal bloodied teeth.

"What the hell?" Darren whispered.

"Zombies," Mr. Pearson said calmly from his corner, not even looking up from his book.

"What?" Zoe and Darren said in unison.

"Zombies," Pearson repeated, taking a sip of his coffee. "I taught about enough apocalyptic literature to recognize it when I see it. First, the hysteria, then the denial. This is textbook."

Zoe wanted to laugh, but the growing dread in her chest killed the urge. Outside, the scene was escalating. A delivery driver was dragged to the ground by three… people? Creatures? Whatever they were, they weren't normal. Their eyes were milky white, their skin grayish and torn. The headlines flashed in her mind again: Panic. Rapid spread.

"Lock the doors," Zoe said, snapping into action.

Darren hesitated for a moment before nodding and rushing to the front entrance. Zoe turned to the customers. "Everyone, away from the windows! Now!"

"What's going on?" asked the woman with the laptop, pulling out her earbuds. "Is this some kind of prank?"

"Does it look like a prank?" Zoe snapped, pointing to the carnage outside. The woman's face drained of color, and she quickly joined the others in the middle of the shop.

Darren locked the doors and pulled down the metal security gate they rarely used. "That'll hold for now," he said, though his voice shook.

"We need to block the windows," Zoe said, thinking fast. "Grab the tables and chairs. Anything heavy."

Everyone sprang into action. Even Mr. Pearson put down his book to help. They flipped tables onto their sides and shoved them against the glass, stacking chairs on top for extra reinforcement. Zoe grabbed a broom and handed it to one of the college students, who looked ready to faint.

"If anything breaks through, use this," she said.

"What's happening?" the other student asked, his voice trembling. "Is it really… zombies?"

"I don't know," Zoe admitted, the weight of the admission pressing down on her. "But whatever it is, we're not letting it in."

When the windows were as secure as they could make them, the group gathered in the center of the shop, their faces a mix of fear and disbelief.

"Okay," Zoe said, taking a deep breath. "We're safe for now. But we need a plan."

"What about food?" asked the laptop woman, whose name Zoe learned was Erica.

"We've got muffins, bagels, and sandwich stuff," Darren said. "But it's not gonna last forever."

"Water?" Mr. Pearson asked.

"There's the sink," Zoe said. "And a case of bottled water in the back."

"What about weapons?" one of the students asked.

Zoe glanced around the shop. Aside from the broom and a few kitchen knives, there wasn't much. "We'll make do," she said, though she didn't feel confident.

"Shouldn't we try to leave?" Erica asked. "Get to the police or something?"

"And go out there?" Zoe gestured to the chaos beyond the barricades. "No way. Not until we know more about what's going on."

"She's right," Pearson said. "We're safer here. For now."

Zoe nodded. "Alright. Here's the plan: we hunker down, conserve supplies, and figure out how to survive. We'll take turns keeping watch and—"

A loud thud interrupted her. Everyone froze. Another thud, louder this time, echoed through the shop. It was coming from the front.

Zoe tightened her grip on the broomstick. "Everyone stay quiet," she whispered, her heart pounding.

The thudding continued, followed by a low, guttural moan. The barricade held, but for how long? Zoe didn't know.

She glanced around at the faces staring back at her, fear mirrored in their eyes. They were looking to her for answers, for strength.

"We're going to get through this," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "I'll make you all coffee." She said in an attempt to calm her nerves.