Apocalypse Rising: Brains After Brains

Xenia yanked open a drawer in the darkened apartment kitchen and grabbed the sharpest thing she could find. Hello, giant kitchen knife. It was heavy and slightly chipped, but it gleamed like it wanted to prove something. She tightened her grip, trying to channel courage she didn't actually feel.

"Still top of the class, by the way," she muttered to herself, brandishing the knife like a twisted valedictorian trophy. "Multitasking queen, watch and learn."

The truth was less glamorous. Her head buzzed with static. Her heart thundered unevenly. She was exhausted, confused, and on the brink of cracking. But two things grounded her: first, she wasn't about to let Professor Lysandros run off into the apocalypse alone. Second—Zoe. Her roommate, her best friend, her glam team. Zoe was still out there somewhere.

Xenia tightened her jaw. She wasn't going to lose both of them. Not today.

She barreled down the apartment hallway, yanking open doors like she was on a disaster-themed game show. Coat closet. Broom cabinet. Linen shelf. Finally—

The home gym.

She blinked. The place looked like a Bond villain's rec room. Everything gleamed: weights, gloves, helmets, a punching bag that definitely had a name. It looked like a place where motivation came to get its abs in order.

She snagged a polished wooden bat from a rack and gave it a test swing. Solid. Then she rummaged around until she found a crusty old sweatband and wrangled her hair into a messy bun. The graduation gown—wrecked from earlier chaos—was hanging off her shoulders like a defeated flag. She tore a strip from the bottom, wrapped her hands like a low-budget boxer, and tossed the rest around her like a makeshift cape.

In the mirror, the girl staring back didn't look like Xenia Alderidge, Academic Excellence Awardee. This version had wild hair, dirt on her cheek, and defiance in her eyes.

But she looked ready.

Jecipher appeared at the doorframe, arms folded, his usual sass replaced by real concern. "I give you five minutes before you're sobbing behind a dumpster."

Xenia rolled her eyes. "I'll sob after I save his sister."

He stepped aside with a dramatic flair. "Fine. Go be a hero. But if you die, I'm claiming your Spotify account."

"Fair."

"And don't come back here bleeding."

"I make no promises."

Then she was out the door, down the steps two at a time, and back into the frayed remains of the world—chasing the one man dumb enough to run into danger alone, and maybe just brave enough to survive it.

Nero Café was just two blocks from the apartment—but in this hellscape, it felt like crossing dimensions.

Xenia crept along the edge of a cracked wall, pretending she wasn't barefoot. Her toes gripped the concrete like a gecko, and her stolen kitchen knife gleamed like it had a clue what to do. (It didn't.)

She passed a dumpster that looked like it belonged in a medieval plague movie, then ducked behind a rusted-out sedan. Her heart thudded like it wanted to escape her chest. Every scream in the distance twisted something deeper in her stomach.

But her face stayed calm. Bravery was a mask. And she wore it like a queen.

She whispered to herself: "Xenia Alderidge, apocalypse edition. No grades. No deadlines. Just vibes and violence."

Her legs trembled. Her hands shook. She might've invented a whole new kind of cardio.

Then she saw it—

Nero Café.

Still standing. Somehow untouched. Its black-glass frame cracked in places, but not collapsed. The signature neon sign above the entrance—"Coffee."—flickered weakly, buzzing like a dying fly. Ash coated the windows. A single paper cup rolled across the entryway like tumbleweed in a ghost town.

Xenia squinted through the window.

And froze.

Inside, Professor Rafe Lysandros had a zombie barista in a full chokehold, like he was auditioning for the apocalypse wrestling league. His muscles flexed with brutal precision, dragging the thing behind the counter and slamming it down like it had asked for decaf.

Xenia didn't even get to react.

CRACK!

A sharp, wet sound came from just behind her.

Xenia jumped, spinning around—and nearly screamed when she saw the crumpled figure on the pavement.

A woman in a shredded party dress and busted stilettos was sprawled on the concrete, one heel snapped clean off. Her head had struck the sidewalk railing at a terrible angle—blood streaked across the pavement like someone had spilled a can of red paint across a crime scene. It was gruesome and quiet, except for the faint hum of far-off sirens.

Xenia stumbled back a step, heart pounding like a jackhammer. Her breath caught in her throat.

She hadn't even seen the woman coming.

But Rafe had.

From inside the Nero Café, he'd seen the zombie barista lurching toward Xenia. He'd opened his mouth to shout when the creature's ridiculous high heel betrayed her, catching on a chunk of broken tile near the patio. The zombie stumbled, arms windmilling, and then went down—face-first into the concrete like she'd auditioned for the worst halftime show ever.

Now, she didn't move.

Xenia stared.

That could've been me.

She turned toward the café's shattered glass door.

Rafe had already shoved the limp zombie barista aside and was striding forward. His voice was tight with alarm. "What are you doing here?" he asked sharply, stepping through the broken doorway and over a knocked-over coffee table.

Xenia lifted her chin, adjusting the ragged graduation gown draped like a cape around her shoulders. "I'm here to help, Prof. We're a team now, remember?"

He gave her a look—eyebrows high, mouth parted like she'd just sprouted a second head. "That was... insane. You could've been bitten."

She shrugged and stepped inside like it was just a slightly aggressive group project. She bent down and yanked the apron off the downed zombie barista, wrapping it around the creature's mouth like a makeshift muzzle. The knot was clumsy, but tight.

"Better safe than face-chomped," she said flatly.

Rafe blinked, like he hadn't decided whether to be impressed or horrified. "You're barefoot."

"Didn't have time to grab shoes."

He stared for another beat, then shook his head like he was trying to reset his brain. "I have so many questions. Later."

The café looked like a scene from a hipster horror movie. Most of the lighting had died, leaving pockets of shadow under flickering bulbs. Tables lay scattered. Ceramic shards from smashed mugs crunched under their feet. Coffee soaked into every crack on the tile, dark and sticky. The espresso machine hissed steam continuously, a ghost of its former self, abandoned midbrew.

"She texted me from here," Rafe said, urgency creeping back into his voice. He moved quickly toward the hallway near the bathrooms, glass crunching underfoot.

They reached the ladies' room. The door hung slightly ajar, stained at the edges.

"Rafaela?" Rafe knocked gently. "It's me. Are you there?"

No answer.

He pushed the door open slowly.

The room was dim, the mirror above the sinks smeared with red handprints and streaks of coffee. One light flickered weakly.

Then Xenia saw her.

A girl with short dark curls, wearing a Crystalline University hoodie and leggings, crouched inside the far stall, eyes wide.

But what froze Xenia was the figure standing in front of the mirror.

Another zombie. Dressed in a half-torn barista uniform. Still. Silent.

The creature stood inches from the mirror, gazing at its reflection, head slightly tilted. Lips parted. Hands twitching at its sides.

Like it was… trying to remember who it used to be.

Rafe stiffened behind her. His hand instinctively went to the katana strapped across his back. He didn't draw it—yet. He just held the hilt, eyes locked on the unmoving figure.

Xenia raised a hand slowly toward him, palm out. A silent signal. Don't. Not yet.

She took a step forward. Barefoot. Bat in hand. Her feet made soft, sticky noises against the tile. The smell in the room was sharp—blood, old milk, and fear.

The zombie didn't move. It stood there, almost like a mannequin—blank, lost, and deeply wrong.

Xenia's heart pounded so loud she was afraid it would give her away. But her face stayed calm. Her grip on the bat tightened. She kept moving forward, one careful step at a time.

Behind her, Rafaela peeked out from the stall. Her eyes were wet, her mouth trembling. But she stayed quiet. Thank god.

The zombie tilted its head again. A jerky movement. Then its body followed. Slowly. Its milky eyes drifted from its reflection… to her.

Xenia froze.

For a split second, no one breathed.

Then the zombie let out a low, guttural sound and lunged.