The apocalypse started on a Friday night.
Of course it did. That's when all the weird crap happens—zombie outbreaks, demon summonings, long-distance relationship breakups. But in my case? It began with a Hawaiian pizza, extra cheese.
I wasn't even supposed to be on shift.
But our delivery guy "accidentally" rode his scooter into a ditch trying to catch a TikTok dancer, so guess who got volunteered to do the 9:30 p.m. run?
Me.
Darren Reyes, 22, college dropout, scooter survivor, and part-time food courier for a discount pizza chain called "Cheezus Crust."
So there I was, parked outside a glass-and-concrete condo tower that looked like Elon Musk's fever dream, holding a greasy pizza box and wondering if I could fake an asthma attack and leave.
But then the app buzzed.
"Customer has been waiting for 13 minutes. Deliver ASAP or get 2-star rating."
I sighed. "Screw it. Let's deliver carbs and die trying."
The security guard barely looked up as I passed him.
"Delivery," I said, waving the box like it was a peace treaty.
He just nodded like I was interrupting his intense game of Candy Crush. I slapped the visitor sticker on my chest and stepped into the elevator, which immediately blasted me with elevator music that sounded like a jazz cover of "Despacito."
"Classy," I muttered.
Seventeenth floor. That's where the Salonga guy lived.
The hallway lights were flickering like horror movie ambiance, and it smelled like air freshener mixed with… was that bleach?
I walked up to Unit 17-C and knocked. "Pizza! Extra cheese and pineapple! Please don't shoot!"
No answer.
I knocked again. Louder. "Sir, your cholesterol bomb is here!"
Still nothing.
Then, as if it were on a haunted house timer, the door creaked open by itself.
Now, listen. I've watched horror movies. I know that this is the moment where the audience screams "Don't go in, idiot!"
So obviously, I went in.
There he was.
Benedict Salonga. The customer.
Standing shirtless in the middle of his condo, staring at the wall like it just told him his horoscope was cancer.
His eyes were glazed. His jaw slack. His hair was slicked back with something I'm 90% sure wasn't gel.
"Uh, hi," I said, holding up the box. "Pizza delivery? Please don't eat me."
He blinked slowly.
Then he turned to face me. Every movement was jerky, like a video buffering on bad Wi-Fi.
Then he opened his mouth—
—and let out the loudest, wettest moan I've ever heard in my life.
"UhhhHHHHNNNNNnnnnhhh…"
"Whoa. Okay. That's either a really bad case of acid reflux or you're mid-transformation into a sea lion."
He took a step toward me.
I backed up. "Sir, you have to pay for that pizza."
He lunged.
I screamed like a dying goat and did the only thing I could think of—I threw the pizza at his face.
And folks, I don't mean a gentle toss.
I fastballed that box like I was pitching in the ninth inning of the World Series.
It hit him square in the nose. Cheese and pineapple exploded across his forehead like war paint.
He staggered back, slipped on a piece of ham, and faceplanted into a table.
I ran like my ancestors were watching.
The elevator couldn't come fast enough. I was slamming the button like it owed me money.
Behind me, I heard something crash.
A door? A lamp? A zombie? I didn't wait to find out.
The elevator finally opened and I jumped in like a cat avoiding a bath.
As I reached the ground floor, I was already planning how I'd explain this to my manager. "Sorry, boss, the customer tried to eat me. Also, we're down one pizza."
But when the doors opened—
All hell had broken loose.
The lobby was full of screaming.
One of the guards had drawn a nightstick and was waving it like a confused uncle at karaoke.
"BACK! STAY BACK!"
There was a woman slamming her head against the glass entrance. Her eyes were bloodshot. She wore a hospital gown. No shoes.
Every time she banged her forehead on the glass, a splat of blood followed.
THUMP. THUMP. CRACK.
The receptionist had already barricaded herself behind the counter using a stack of office chairs.
People were filming on their phones, because of course they were.
Then someone grabbed my arm.
I almost roundhouse-kicked them in the face—but it was a familiar one.
"Mr. Lee?!"
It was Sir Marcus Lee, my old high school Values teacher. Same disapproving frown, same tucked-in polo. But now with panic sweat and a bleeding eyebrow.
"They're waking up," he hissed.
"Sir, are you okay? You look like you tried to fight a blender."
He grabbed my shirt. "Darren, you need to get out of here. Now."
"Believe me, I'm trying! But your zombie cousins won't let me!"
He looked around, eyes twitching. "They've already breached containment. We opened the package. We weren't supposed to—but someone activated it."
"What package? Is this about the pizza? Because that wasn't me!"
He looked me dead in the eye. "You've done this before."
"What?"
"You've lived this moment before."
"Sir, I swear if this is one of those brain teasers again—"
The power flickered.
Lights went out.
Screams echoed.
And then, the emergency lights turned on—blood red.
Mr. Lee looked up at the ceiling, eyes wide. "They're watching us now."
I turned to ask him what the hell he was talking about.
He was gone.
Like full-on magician vanishing act. Poof.
I turned to the front doors and saw the woman in the hospital gown now licking the cracked glass.
Behind her were more people.
Some in scrubs. Some in pajamas. All of them twitching, moaning, drooling, and slowly pressing against the door like a bunch of kids outside a toy store.
Except, you know, undead.
I needed to leave. I needed to go home. I needed—
DING.
The elevator.
I turned.
The doors opened.
Inside… was empty.
But on the wall of the elevator, written in something thick and red, were the words:
"RUN. THEY'RE ALREADY INSIDE."
And then—
From the reflection in the metal door—
I saw someone standing behind me.