Chapter 4: Duct Tape and Delusions

If adrenaline is a drug, mine just ran out.

And like every bad trip, the crash hit hard.

By the time we ducked into the canal service tunnel, my hands were shaking so bad I almost dropped the bat. The pop song in my earbuds had finally looped into silence — battery dead, universe rude — and all that was left was the slap of our shoes in ankle-deep water and Maddy’s ragged breathing.

“This is so gross,” she muttered, flicking some unidentified canal goo off her sleeve. “I feel like a rejected Ninja Turtle.”

“Michelang-gross-o,” I said automatically, and immediately regretted it. The joke was so bad even the undead would’ve groaned.

She blinked at me. “You’re delirious.”

“Probably,” I said. “Ten out of ten would not recommend fighting the apocalypse on zero sleep and cafeteria energy drinks.”

We trudged in silence for a minute. Then she said, “You didn’t even hesitate back there. You just… went full Fortnite.”

I side-eyed her. “Please don’t say I cranked 90s on a zombie.”

“You literally did, though!” she said, flailing for emphasis. “You jumped off a roof and combo’d like it was an endgame tournament.”

I groaned. “If I die, tell people I went out like a normal person. Not as a meme.”

She snorted. “Too late. I’m putting a sparkle filter on your funeral slideshow. Maybe a CapCut edit. Hashtag girlboss gone ghost.”

“Unbelievable,” I muttered. “This is why I didn’t trust you with the aux last semester.”

The tunnel opened into a storm drain that smelled like if depression had a gym bag. Moonlight trickled through the grate above, hitting the graffiti on the walls — layers of it, some funny, some desperate. “WE LIVE WE DIE WE POST,” said one in neon spray paint.

Honestly, that summed it up.

We climbed a ladder into what looked like an abandoned parking lot. The city was quiet, too quiet, like the world had hit pause. Streetlights flickered, storefronts half-open. A vending machine still hummed beside a smashed bus stop.

Maddy spotted it first. “Is that… working?”

“Only one way to find out,” I said, smacking it like a defibrillator. It beeped to life.

We both stared at the glowing options. It felt almost sacred.

“Okay,” Maddy whispered. “One snack each. We don’t know how long it’ll last.”

We looked at the choices like they were destiny itself.

“Gummy worms,” I said.

“Beef jerky,” she said.

The machine clunked and spat out both. We sat on the curb like kids after detention, splitting apocalypse snacks like communion.

She chewed. “You think anyone’s coming to save us?”

“Probably not.”

“Cool, cool,” she said, nodding. “So just vibes then.”

“Just vibes.”

We both started laughing, the kind of laugh that hurts your ribs because it’s equal parts hysteria and relief. Somewhere between the snorts, Maddy choked out, “If we die, at least my last meal wasn’t a school pizza.”

“Speak for yourself,” I wheezed. “That square pizza slapped.”

“Lexi, you have Stockholm Syndrome with lunch food.”

The laughter faded into the kind of silence that actually feels okay — soft, not empty. I looked at her. “You doing okay?”

She hesitated. “Honestly? I think I might be losing my mind a little.”

“Good,” I said. “Means you’re adapting.”

She grinned weakly. “You sound like one of those motivational TikToks with royalty-free lo-fi playing.”

“I am the lo-fi,” I said solemnly.

“You’re insufferable,” she said — but she was smiling again.

A noise crackled from a nearby speaker — an old intercom still half-alive. A voice, glitchy and warped, echoed through the parking lot:

“–– survivors detected near district 5 canal access–– report to–– safe zone––”

We froze.

Maddy whispered, “That’s us.”

I tilted my head. “Could be real. Could be bait.”

She gave me a look. “Do you ever just trust anything?”

“No,” I said. “Trust is for people with plot armor.”

She sighed. “You need therapy.”

“Bold of you to assume therapists survived.”

“Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Then I’m your therapist now.”

“Okay, Doctor Maddy,” I said. “Diagnose me.”

She squinted like she was reading an invisible clipboard. “Terminal main character syndrome. Chronic emotional constipation. Acute delusion of control.”

I snorted so hard it echoed down the street.

“Rude,” I said. “And accurate.”

We followed the intercom static anyway — because what else do you do when the world’s ending? The night air felt weirdly alive. Somewhere far off, music played from a car someone had abandoned with the doors open. “Neon Night,” again.

The beat kicked in, and I couldn’t help it — I swung the bat lightly through the air, matching the rhythm.

Maddy groaned. “Please tell me you’re not about to start dancing.”

“Can’t promise that.”

“Lexi.”

“Come on,” I said. “If the apocalypse wants a soundtrack, might as well give it a show.”

So, yeah. We danced.

Two half-feral teenagers in a ruined parking lot, chewing gummy worms, swinging a bat to a pop song that refused to die.

And for a few minutes, it didn’t feel like the world was over.

It felt like the afterparty

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***