The ringing in my ears was loud and familiar—like the wake-up bell during summer naps back in middle school. Heard too often, it became something you hated from the inside out, both mentally and physically.
I tried to recall how many times the alarm had gone off, to estimate the time. But it was impossible. I couldn't remember when I had set it, how often it rang, or how many times it had already gone off. I couldn't even remember what day it was. If it were Sunday, I could afford to sleep in a little, since there was no shift handover.
But I couldn't figure it out. And I wasn't surprised—wondering itself takes too much brainpower. I could just check my phone.
I didn't open my eyes. Habit told me exactly where my phone was. But even reaching for it felt slow, like moving in slow motion. Even opening my eyes was delayed.
July 3rd. Saturday. Right. I should get up early. Being late is bad.
My mind was clearing, and yesterday's scenes replayed themselves. I wished my brain would never wake up again. Staying fogged, like in a stroke, might be better.
I unlocked my phone, wanting to check the news. Instead, I found dozens of missed calls—all from 521, 520, and a few from 522. And one text message. I tapped 521, but a mechanical female voice answered: "The number you have dialed is not in service. Please try again later…"
I tried again. And again. Always the same hateful voice. I dialed every missed call back. All the same.
I froze. What should I do? Then I opened the text.
"Hello. Due to a solar nuclear mutation, unknown radiation has caused all humans on Earth to undergo transformation. In the days ahead, please strive to survive. Stay strong. Believe that humanity will overcome all difficulties and achieve a great victory. We sincerely wish you—and everyone—peace."
Peace. Yes. Everyone should have peace.
I realized again that everything yesterday had been real. No—two days ago. Because today was July 3rd. How long had I slept? I tried to calculate, but failed. Maybe I really had a stroke. I couldn't even manage simple arithmetic.
Still, I tried again. Stroke patients need early rehabilitation—physical training, mental exercises, reaction drills. But none of that mattered now. My stomach was clawing at me, making thought impossible.
I had never been this hungry in my life. Adults here say children eat "like claws tearing at their throats" when they're starving. But for me, it felt like claws from my stomach itself, threatening to devour me from the inside.
No wonder—I had slept too long.
In no time, I devoured all my snacks—sweet, spicy, salty—without tasting any of them. Still hungry. I ate fruit too. Peach, banana—no flavor. Maybe I was too hungry to notice.
The fridge held only two gourds. And I had to face the truth I'd been avoiding.
I didn't have a stroke.
Being young and healthy is usually a blessing. But now—it wasn't.
Still hungry. I closed the fridge, wandered the room in circles. Searching for food, maybe. Or just moving without purpose.
Too hungry to care, I opened the fridge again and bit into the gourds raw. No taste, just faint vegetable freshness.
The freezer held meat. A slab of beef I had meant to stew with potatoes—but I hadn't bought the potatoes yet. Eating frozen raw meat normally takes mental preparation. But not for me. Don't doubt it—I'm as local as anyone. The reason I didn't hesitate was simple: hunger.
I barely noticed the cold or hardness. I gnawed the beef like an apple. Finally, something filled my stomach. One piece, then another, then another—each easier than the last.
The fridge was empty. I wanted to laugh, but my face muscles were stiff. I had eaten in one sitting what used to last me days. If my mom knew, she'd say, "Where do you even put all that food?"
I stood by the fridge, hand on my stomach, for a long time. Then I looked around. The apartment was neat, clean—my own handiwork.
I changed clothes. Black cargo pants, white T-shirt. My usual black-and-white style. Then a thin black jacket. I couldn't feel hot or cold anymore, but wearing more gave me a sense of safety.
The laundry I'd done was dry. I folded it neatly into the wardrobe. My pajamas had only been worn once—no need to wash. I folded them on the windowsill. Straightened the blanket. Just pulled it flat. I never made my bed before, and I wasn't starting now.
What else should I bring? Phone, earphones, power bank—yes. I slung on my old backpack. Big enough to carry plenty.
At the door, I hesitated. My hand wouldn't move the knob. Then I thought—better bring my ID card. Slipped it into my pocket. Saw the keys on the shoe cabinet. Took them too. I'd ride my scooter.
Locked the door. The hallway was quiet. Relief. But the elevator was dead. The stairwell pitch black. I congratulated myself on foresight—phones work as flashlights even without signal. And mine was fully charged. Plus a power bank.
That cheered me up a little.
"One push makes strength, twice it wanes, thrice it dies…" I muttered the old saying, forcing myself down the stairs as fast as I could.
My eyes adjusted. The wall read 20. Good. One-fifth done. Faster than I thought.
A few turns later, I heard sounds behind me. I didn't look back. Curiosity was dangerous. My body was stiff, but steady. Step by step.
I focused only on my feet. Hoping that when I finally looked up, the wall would read 1.
Joy grew inside me—until I collided with someone at the corner. Or something. Human-shaped, at least. I didn't look. Didn't apologize. Just fled.
Thinking back, I must have knocked him off balance. He stepped back. If not for the wall, he'd have fallen. Thank heaven he didn't chase me. I wasn't ready to meet anyone.
Downstairs came quickly, without much effort. When I saw light, it felt like waking from a dream. The darkness of the stairwell had been nothing but illusion. The world was still bright.
Too quiet, yes. But silence was better than darkness. My scooter was charging. I remembered this time. Walked straight to it.
Unplugged the charger, stowed it under the seat, put on my helmet. No mask—I should have worn one, but forgot. Checked the battery. Full. Enough for dozens of kilometers. Even a round trip home.
Passing the small supermarket downstairs, I saw scattered goods on the floor. No movement inside. I stopped. No hesitation. I went in.
You'd think I was there to gather supplies. And yes, I was. But first—I had to eat.
Not snacks. Not fruit. Eggs. Raw eggs. One after another.
You're picturing a snake swallowing eggs whole. Not me. My mouth isn't that big. I cracked the shells with my hands. I'd seen movies where people swallowed dozens of raw eggs. The only thing I lacked was a bowl.
Give me a bowl full of eggs, and I'd swallow them all.
The shelves emptied quickly. I stopped, reluctantly. Half full now. Enough.
Only then did I look around the store. Most things were gone. What remained was useless, messy. Eggs had been left, maybe because they were heavy and awkward to carry.
I searched further, found a bag of vermicelli—loose noodles sold by weight, needing to be cooked. Light enough to carry. Took it.
Plenty of oil left too, in huge containers. I grabbed one. Don't doubt me—I've always been strong. I put the oil and noodles on the scooter. Enough space for those, but no more.
I went back in, backpack ready. I could still find smaller things to carry.
Deeper inside, I heard rustling. Like rats.