Genre: Speculative Fiction / War Drama / Psychological
1. The Ordinary Morning
The alarm buzzed at exactly 6:45 AM. Another Monday, another routine. I stretched my limbs, rolled out of bed, and squinted at the sunlight filtering through the window. Coffee. Emails. Missed calls. The week had begun.
The city outside bustled like always. Children rushed to catch school buses, auto horns pierced the air, and the air smelled faintly of jasmine and exhaust fumes. I hated how predictable everything was. Safe, but boring. Same streets. Same breakfast. Same conversations.
I glanced at a message from my manager asking for an early meeting, groaning at the thought of another spreadsheet. I switched off the phone and closed my eyes for what I thought was five more minutes of sleep.
But I never reopened my eyes to that same world.
---
2. A Shattered Awakening
BOOM!
The world shook.
I jerked upright. The ceiling vibrated. Another explosion, louder, sent car alarms blaring.
Heart racing, I leaped to the window. My skyline—the view I saw every morning—was gone. Instead, plumes of black smoke curled into the sky. Fires blazed in the distance. The entire block looked like it had been gutted by war.
Before I could process anything, another blast echoed nearby. A shockwave rattled the windows. I fell backward.
I opened my apartment door and staggered into the hallway. It was chaos. People screamed. Some were bloodied, dragging bags, clutching children. A woman screamed in a language I didn’t understand, and a man shouted, “Get out! They’re coming again!”
“Who’s coming?” I asked, grabbing the man’s shoulder. He looked at me with wide, panicked eyes.
“The militants. The city’s been overrun.”
---
3. The Panic Begins
Outside, it looked like an apocalypse. Cabs, bikes, trucks, even carts were being overloaded with people. A megaphone barked from a moving vehicle:
“Move south! Convoy in 30 minutes. Last chance to evacuate!”
I approached a group huddled near a grocery store. One man, an elderly professor-like figure, shook his head. “They said south yesterday. Half the city was bombed there last night.”
Another person, a young woman in her twenties with a blood-streaked face, argued back, “East is bombed. North too. Where else do we go?”
“Is there anywhere safe?” I asked aloud.
They all looked at me.
A silence fell. No one had an answer.
---
4. The Run
I found myself moving with a small group—a boy, no more than fifteen, holding his wounded mother’s hand; a man in a torn uniform, maybe ex-military; and a girl named Leena who said she had been trying to escape since yesterday.
“We need to get to the eastern checkpoint,” said the ex-soldier, whose name was Naveen. “They might still be letting people through. Might.”
We navigated through side streets, avoiding the sound of gunfire and crumbling buildings. At one intersection, we saw a man lying in the street, clutching his stomach. Blood pooled beneath him. His eyes met mine. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.
We moved on.
I wanted to cry. But something in me had hardened.
---
5. The Temporary Shelter
By dusk, we found a half-bombed-out hospital. There were a few others hiding there. A nurse named Farah helped patch the wounded mother, whose name I learned was Mariam.
That night, we sat around a broken lantern. Naveen spoke in low tones.
“This isn’t just a takeover. They’re cleansing. Purging anyone who doesn’t obey.”
“Why?” I asked.
He stared at me. “Because they can. Power doesn’t need a reason.”
Outside, gunfire cracked again. A child whimpered in sleep. Mariam clutched a photo of her daughter who had been at school when the first bombs dropped. No one had seen her since.
“I should’ve gone to pick her up earlier,” she whispered, eyes glassy.
“You didn’t know,” I said.
She looked at me. “But I should have.”
---
6. The Chase
The next day, the militants entered our district. We saw them through the hospital’s shattered windows. Black uniforms. Covered faces. Rifles.
We had no time. We ran.
Through alleys, under fences, across what used to be a park. Gunshots followed. A man from another group was hit. He didn’t scream—just dropped.
We didn’t stop.
Eventually, we reached the outskirts, where word of a final convoy persisted. An old bus, packed and groaning, stood behind makeshift barricades. Soldiers checked papers.
“You have IDs?” the soldier asked.
None of us did.
He scowled. “Only women and children. Two seats left.”
I looked at Mariam and the boy.
“Go,” I said.
Mariam hesitated. “What about you?”
“I’ll find another way.”
---
7. The Walk Back
As the bus drove away, I stood in the dust. The boy waved. Mariam cried silently.
Leena and I were left. Naveen had disappeared sometime during the run.
We decided to head north, the only place untried. We passed a line of refugees walking the opposite direction.
“Don’t go that way,” one warned. “It’s a trap.”
We went anyway.
Hours later, a house with a cellar took us in. An old couple fed us rice and tea. They told us they’d seen wars before. This one felt different.
“There’s no ideology now,” the old woman said. “Just hate and hunger.”
---
8. The Collapse
Days passed. Maybe more. Leena grew quiet. I tried to write in my journal, but the words wouldn’t come.
Then one morning, the cellar shook. More bombing.
We ran again. But this time, there was no convoy. No checkpoint.
Just fire.
---
9. The Awakening
I closed my eyes when the blast came. And then—
I was back.
In my bed. Morning light. My phone buzzed. News about a war zone in a faraway place.
Had I dreamt it all?
The window view was calm. Life outside resumed its usual pace.
But my heart raced.
I opened my journal.
One line was scrawled across a page:
“Somewhere in the world, someone is running for their life. Don’t waste yours.”
—
Later that evening, I saw something on my phone. A photo of a refugee camp. Zooming in, my heart stopped.
The boy.
Wearing the same red scarf.
It hadn’t been a dream.
It had been a warning.
End.
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