The bell rang loudly as everyone got up from their chairs…
it is reccess finally.
The sun presses softly through the overcast sky as few of us Class 12 students lean against the railing near the side exit of the school building.
Half in the shade, half in the quiet warmth of a rare peaceful afternoon.
This isn't just any school—it is a residential boarding school, one of the few types still operational under government approval. Day schools aren't allowed anymore. It simply isn't safe.
Some of the girls choose to stay inside the classroom during break. Wandering the corridors or standing by the gates never appeals to them.
They chat in hushed tones, gossiping or just sharing thoughts—the way normal students would, back when things are normal.
At the stairwell, we are doing something similar—if slightly more existential.
"What do you think… about the disease?" Gaurav asks, his eyes staring out at the cracked pavement below. "Are we going to spend the rest of our lives like this?"
Aditya, standing next to him with arms folded, replies without looking up "Scientists are working on a cure. There's still a chance."
Amrit, perched on the edge of the railing, nods toward the main building. "Looks like all the junior batches are heading to the auditorium. Secretary Sir's speech, maybe? Though… we aren't invited."
"Not surprising," Jay chimes in, pushing his glasses up. "We're practically out of here anyway. Our focus now should be on sharpening our skills—whatever paths we've chosen."
That might sound optimistic—like we have a world of careers to choose from. But the truth is far more limited.
In a post-apocalyptic world, "career options" are dictated by necessity. Survival comes first. Purpose comes second.
Most of us are on paths that lead straight into military service. It is the default and the demand.
Some specialize in field operations like the Expedition Teams, others lean into combat and join the Response Force.
The more analytical ones, like Jay, can enter Military Intelligence or Reconnaissance.
Those rare students with scientific aptitude—like Purnima—are often recruited to assist researchers trying to develop a cure or study the virus itself.
Anyone who fails to demonstrate strong ability during training is sent to do manual labor—farms, mines, or factories. The unlucky or unfit ones? They become standard civilians, placed in Level 3 safe zones and left to live under whatever scraps of stability they can find.
Fortunately—or maybe unfortunately, depending on how you see it—our Class 12 batch is considered elite. Each of us has been scouted or recognized by the local authorities.
Our futures, even in the apocalypse, are more or less secured.
Aditya has set his sights on joining the Response Force. Jay is going into Intelligence.
Amrit has trained relentlessly to join the Expedition Team. Gaurav is solid enough to qualify for standard frontline service.
Purnima, the top of her class in chemistry and medicine, has already been promised a place at a government-run cure research lab.
And me?
I'm Samarth. And I'm the one they make their leader.
You might ask how that works—if we're all headed to different divisions, what does it mean to lead them?
Well, six months ago, during our military internship, we are grouped together by chance for a mock Dead Zone simulation.
Our coordination, our instincts, our synergy—it clicks. The commanding officer takes one look at the results and says, "This is a squad."
That's how we become the prototype team for a new surveillance unit designed to operate inside Dead Zones—one of the most dangerous roles imaginable. And I am appointed the squad leader.
Why me?
There is a ranking system in place—based on physical performance, combat skill, field awareness.
I rank first. Aditya comes second. But don't mistake that for me being far superior. He's probably just as skilled as I am, especially in close combat.
The only reason I beat him in the final evaluation is because all ten of my shots hit the target dead-on. One of his misses by a few centimeters.
Still, I'd say I edge him out. I've got emotions. He's a little… cold.
Amrit ranks third. He's the fastest among us, with reflexes that probably match trained soldiers.
Jay comes in fourth, with Gaurav not far behind at fifth.
Purnima, despite her academic focus, is no slouch. She ranks first among the girls and sixth overall—completing basic military training with impressive consistency.
There are others in our class too—some who'll join the story when their time comes. But for now, this is our core group.
We don't know it at the time, but that quiet moment on the stairs? That is the last breath of normal we have for a long while.
Because the storm is already walking toward us.