- Don’t open canned food near zombies. That hiss? It’s a dinner bell.

  - Running on an empty stomach sucks. Running while eating is worse.

  - Find somewhere quiet, private, and safe. Your guts will thank you later.

  ---

  Canned spaghetti is a luxury in the apocalypse. Room temperature, straight from the can, with that jelly-like layer of tomato sauce on top. I used to hate it.

  Now? That can was gold.

  I hadn’t eaten in over a day. I was dizzy, irritable, and sweating through my clothes even though it was fifty degrees out. I’d found shelter in the back of a laundromat—door barred with a washing machine, windows taped, and the only scent in the air was old detergent and misery.

  So, like an idiot, I sat down and cracked the can open right there.

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  Tsshhht.

  That soft little hiss. Like a snake whispering "you’re screwed.”

  Followed by the creak of the tab when I pulled it off.

  I froze. Listened. Then came the groan.

  Then another.

  Then more.

  I’d been followed.

  Footsteps dragged outside. Hands slapped against the glass. Shadows passed over the windows like clouds. They weren’t breaking in… yet. But they were close. Closer than I’d realized.

  I panicked, quietly stuffing spaghetti into my mouth like it was a war crime. My heart was pounding. My brain was screaming move, move, MOVE, but I couldn’t. I was too hungry. Too scared.

  That’s when it happened.

  Everything slowed down. My breathing evened out. The pounding in my chest turned rhythmic, sharp, like a metronome syncing up with my thoughts. My eyes locked onto the exit path—the detergent shelf, the folding table, the back door. I saw it all in exact steps.

  And then I moved.

  I didn’t trip. I didn’t crash into anything. I ducked, slid, twisted past the shelf, leapt over a tipped-over chair, and made it to the back door without a sound. It felt like I’d rehearsed it a hundred times.

  When I got outside, I didn’t stop. I ran five blocks, ducked into an alley, and only then realized I was still holding the spoon. And the can.

  No spills. No mess. No bites.

  It wasn’t until days later that I realized that moment wasn’t luck. It was instinct. A shift. Not superhuman—just… precise. Controlled. Like my body had done the math before I had.

  I still don’t know what triggered it. Hunger? Fear? The spaghetti?

  But ever since then, when the pressure’s high enough, things just… click. I move better. Think faster. My timing tightens. It's not flashy. No glowing eyes or slow-mo bullshit. But it works.

  And it started with a meal I never should’ve had out in the open.