Chapter 8 #3
Lionel hesitated—not wanting to admit that he had never had many aspirations or goals.
If this all hadn’t happened, his life would be completely normal—he would have just continued on with his day like every other.
He couldn’t imagine anything different. But, with Mads’ gaze on him and that small smile he had pointed at him, words were stumbling out of his lips without his permission, “I was thinking of applying to a Master’s Degree. ”
“Oh?” Mads asked, sounding genuinely curious. “What did you study in college?”
“Astronomy,” Lionel laughed, raking his hand through his hair.
“Like the zodiac bullshit stuff?” Derek asked, eyebrows raising.
“That’s astrology,” Lionel sighed. “Astronomy is stars and space and stuff—I had no idea what I wanted to do, but accidentally took a bunch of classes in it just because it was interesting. And then I somehow got a whole degree in an absolutely useless subject. Unless I get a doctorate in it, there’s not much I can use it for. ”
“It’s okay to study something just because you find it interesting,” Mads said. “It’s worse studying something you hate just because it’ll get you a job.”
“What do you do, then?” Lionel asked. “You told me you weren’t a doctor.”
“I’m not a doctor,” Mads laughed. “I’m a teacher.”
“A teacher?” Lionel blinked at him.
“Yes. High school Chemistry,” Mads hummed. His smile grew into a grin at Lionel’s expression. “You’re surprised?”
“You seem too smart to be teaching high schoolers the periodic table,” Lionel said.
“Thank you, I suppose,” Mads said. “This apocalypse situation has put quite a damper on things, though. My students are probably wondering where I am right now.” Lionel laughed at how calmly Mads said this.
They chatted for a while, topics that were a bit too normal, but distracted them all from what was going on around them, their voices low but eager, each of them desperate for something ordinary to hold onto.
The conversation drifted into oddly mundane territory—favorite foods, worst jobs they’d ever worked, old apartments that had leaking ceilings or smelled like stale cigarette smoke.
Lionel found himself recounting a story about a downstairs neighbor who had once clogged the entire building’s plumbing by trying to flush a cheap rug down the toilet.
Mads actually snorted at that, shaking his head with a soft grin.
Derek groaned and muttered something about how people were idiots everywhere, and launched into his own story about a boss who’d refused to fix a broken walk-in freezer back when he worked at a restaurant, forcing everyone to haul spoiled meat out by the trash bag.
They even bickered lightly over which movie franchises had the best endings—Lionel rolling his eyes at Derek’s insistence that the third movie of any series was always the best, while he argued that first installments were usually the most honest, before studios got greedy.
For a little while, it almost felt like they were just three acquaintances hanging out after work, killing time on an ordinary evening. But every time they let their voices drop and a lull settled over them, the noises outside found their way in.
It was subtle at first: faint scrapes and muffled thuds, like someone dragging heavy furniture down the hall.
Then came the wet sounds—unsettling sloshes that seemed to seep beneath the door.
Once, they all froze when a sharp, echoing shriek pierced through the silence, so high and distorted it didn’t sound like it could come from a human throat.
Lionel tried to pick up the conversation again each time, voice a little too loud, desperate to smother whatever was creeping beyond the apartment walls.
They all leaned into the small, normal topics, clinging to them like lifelines—anything to keep from listening too closely to what waited for them on the other side of the door.
Eventually, though, the silence grew between them all again.
“What time is it?” Derek asked suddenly.
Lionel had been watching it get darker and darker behind the curtains they had pulled closed. He pulled out his phone and saw that his battery was slowly ticking downwards. “Almost 8 p.m.”
“What do we do?” Derek whispered. “In horror movies, usually everything gets worse at nighttime.”
Lionel had also considered this. It was quite strange that their own personal apocalypse started at 6 a.m. “We stay put,” Lionel shrugged. “We should take shifts—one person stays awake just in case something goes wrong while the other two sleep.”
Derek nodded, not having any energy to argue.
As night truly set and all of them were becoming more and more exhausted, wanting to escape into the bliss of unconsciousness, they decided on who would take each shift. “I can go first,” Derek offered. “Then Mads, then you, Lionel.”
“Works for me.” Lionel shrugged, and Mads nodded.
Lionel wondered if he was just becoming too used to all of this, with how quickly he managed to fall asleep. He had awoken at every tiny noise when he dozed in the afternoon, but now, the moment his head hit the pillow of the bed he had made for himself on the floor, he passed out.
His sleep was empty—he didn’t dream, didn’t have a nightmare, or even have any thoughts in the middle of the night. He simply slept until he was being pulled awake by screaming that was definitely too close.
He gasped, bolting upright on the mattress, his heart leaping into his throat. For a moment, his vision was blurry, but the shrill, throat-tearing shrieks left no doubt that something was horribly wrong.
As his sight cleared, Lionel saw Derek across the room, scrambling up from where he’d been sleeping on the couch.
His hands clawed at the cushions like he couldn’t get away fast enough.
He was screaming so violently that Lionel’s ears rang, his veins standing out on his neck and temples like they might burst.
Lionel rubbed at his face, blinking hard. It had to be deep into the night if Derek was off watch duty already—he’d taken the first shift. But whatever sleep-dazed confusion Lionel felt evaporated the instant he realized Derek was staring at Mads.
Mads was sitting in the old computer chair, looking every bit as startled as Lionel felt, eyes wide and hands raised slightly in uncertainty. “What’s wrong?” Mads asked, standing up cautiously, taking a small step forward.
“Don’t come any closer!” Derek shrieked. His voice cracked on the last word, his whole body shaking.
“Whoa, whoa,” Lionel said, throwing out a hand as he pushed himself to his feet. His heart stumbled in his chest when Derek lunged for the tool bag and yanked out a long chisel, holding it up like a dagger.
“What is going on? What are you doing?”
“Get away from me!” Derek wailed. His eyes darted wildly between Lionel and Mads, bright with hysteria. When he thrust the chisel toward them, Lionel instinctively raised his hands in surrender.
“Derek,” Lionel tried, forcing his voice calm, even as adrenaline spiked through him. “Take a breath. You must have had a nightmare. It’s just us in here— look, it’s only us—”
“Don’t!” Derek shrieked again. He staggered backward, hitting the wall so hard that the door beside him rattled in its frame. He didn’t even seem to notice. His eyes were bulging, nearly popping from their sockets, tears starting to spill in fat streaks down his cheeks.
Lionel whipped his head around, half-expecting to see something monstrous creeping through the shadows behind him. But there was nothing—only Mads, standing frozen with his mouth slightly open, looking as terrified by Derek as Lionel was.
“Derek, please,” Lionel said, trying to keep his voice gentle. “We can’t help you if you don’t tell us what’s wrong. Was it a dream? Did you see something?”
But Derek didn’t answer. He only let out a ragged sob, practically hurling himself at the cabinet they’d pushed against the door. The heavy piece scraped across the floor as he shoved with all his strength.
“Hey! Stop!” Lionel shouted, rushing forward to grab his arm. But Derek twisted away with such desperate force that Lionel nearly lost his balance and went sprawling.
Mads caught him around the waist, pulling him upright again. Lionel’s hands clenched into fists, frustration and terror warring inside him. “What are you doing? You can’t go out there—it’s suicide!”
“No, no, no! I won’t die! I won’t die in here!” Derek yelled. He was openly crying now, big wracking sobs that shook his shoulders. He yanked the door open with a burst of strength, its hinges creaking, and before Lionel could stop him again, Derek was gone—vanishing into the dark hallway beyond.