Apocalypse Rewound: Saving Hana

Chapter 1: The Rewind and the Reckoning

The sensation of his windpipe being crushed was still there—a ghostly, jagged pressure that made every breath feel like he was inhaling shards of glass. Herman Villanueva’s eyes snapped open, his pupils shrinking into pinpricks as they hit the sunlight streaming through a dusty window. He didn't move. He couldn't. His nervous system was still screaming, convinced that a three-meter-tall Stalker was currently feasting on his midsection.

He clutched his stomach, feeling for the gash, the heat of his own intestines spilling out. Instead, he felt cotton. A soft, slightly pilled T-shirt.

"What the..."

His voice was a gravelly rasp. He fumbled for his nightstand, his hand trembling so violently he knocked over a half-empty bottle of lukewarm water. He grabbed his phone.

May 12, 2025.

"No way," Herman whispered, the words catching in his throat. "No freaking way."

A loud, rhythmic thumping started on his bedroom door. It wasn't the sound of a monster trying to break in; it was the sound of a very annoyed roommate.

"Herman! Bro, are you dying in there or just having a really loud seizure?" Lando’s voice drifted through the wood, sounding blissfully mundane. "If you’re dead, I’m taking your gaming chair. Just a heads-up!"

Herman stared at the door, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Lando?"

"Who else? The Tooth Fairy?" the door swung open, and Lando stood there in mismatched socks and boxers, holding a spatula. "You were screaming like a banshee, man. I almost called the cops, but then I remembered I haven’t paid my taxes, so I decided to check on you myself. You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost and then that ghost told you your credit score."

Herman sat up, his legs feeling like jelly. "What day is it, Lando? Tell me the date. Exactly."

Lando blinked, scratching his stomach with the spatula. "Uh, it’s Monday. The twelfth. Why? Did you miss a final? Or a date? Please tell me you finally have a date. I’m tired of seeing you talk to your houseplants."

"Thirty days," Herman breathed, ignoring the jab. "I have thirty days."

"Thirty days for what? To live? To pay rent? Because the landlord is definitely going to evict us way before that if we don't fix the leak in the bathroom." Lando walked over and leaned against the dresser, looking concerned. "Seriously, Herman. You’re white as a sheet. You had that dream again, didn't you? The one where the giant hamsters take over the world?"

Herman looked at his friend—really looked at him. In the other life, Lando had lasted exactly forty-eight hours. He’d been caught in the initial panic at the mall, trampled by a crowd before the monsters even got to him. Seeing him now, vibrant and stupid and alive, sent a surge of dizzying nausea through Herman.

"It wasn't hamsters, Lando," Herman said, his voice cold and sharp. "It was everything. It was the end."

"Right, the end. Spooky," Lando said, waving the spatula dismissively. "Anyway, I’m making eggs. You want some? I promise I only dropped one on the floor, and I wiped it off. Mostly."

"I need to make a list," Herman muttered, swinging his legs off the bed. His feet hit the carpet—soft, dry, and not soaked in blood. "I need rice. Water purification tablets. Antibiotics. I need to find a way to get to the warehouse district before the military cordons it off."

Lando stared at him for a long beat. "Okay, so we’re going full doomsday prepper this morning? Cool, cool. Is this because of that documentary we watched? I told you, those guys are just hobbyists with too much canned tuna."

"Lando, listen to me," Herman said, grabbing his friend by the shoulders. His grip was tight, desperate. "I need you to stay in the apartment today. Don't go to work. Don't go to the gym. Just... stay here."

"Whoa, easy there, Tiger. My boss will literally murder me. I’ve already used all my 'grandma died' cards. I’m down to 'distant cousin with a very specific allergy' at this point." Lando gently pried Herman’s hands off. "You’re freaking me out a bit, man. You need a shower. And some protein. You’re vibrating."

"I'm not joking!" Herman shouted, the intensity of his voice making Lando jump. "The world is going to scream in thirty days. People are going to turn into... things. The sky is going to change color, and the grid is going to go dark. I’ve seen it, Lando. I felt my own ribs snap."

Lando was quiet for a moment. He looked at Herman’s frantic eyes, then back at the hallway. "Okay, look. If you’re having a breakdown, we can go to the clinic. Or we can just play some Mario Kart and forget about the ribs and the snapping and the sky-changing. My treat. I’ll even let you be Bowser."

Herman took a deep breath, forcing himself to settle. He couldn't convince Lando. Not yet. To anyone else, he was just a guy who’d had a particularly vivid nightmare. He needed to be methodical. He needed to be the man who survived for three years in the wasteland, not the panicked victim he was right now.

"I’m fine," Herman lied, his voice dropping an octave. "Just... a really bad dream. Sorry. I’ll be out in a minute."

"Good," Lando said, looking relieved. "Because you were starting to sound like a protagonist in a mid-tier w******l, and honestly, that’s not a vibe I can deal with before my coffee. Eggs in five, okay?"

Lando headed back to the kitchen, humming a pop song that would be forgotten by everyone on earth in a month's time.

Herman stood up and walked to his desk. He opened a fresh notebook, the paper crisp and white. He didn't write 'Survival Plan.' He wrote 'Inventory.'

1. Cash. Liquidate everything. Stocks, the car, the old watch from Grandpa.

2. Logistics. Secure the basement unit in the old textile mill.

3. Weapons. No guns yet—too much noise. Crossbow. Machete. Rebar.

His hand flew across the page. He remembered the safe zones. He remembered that the northern highway would be a deathtrap by Day Three. He remembered the "Black Rain" that would fall on Day Ten, melting the skin off anyone caught without cover.

"Efficiency over empathy," he whispered to himself, a mantra from his final days. "Trust no one. Save yourself."

He stopped writing as a notification popped up on his phone. A social media memory. A photo from two years ago.

It was a group shot at a beach party. In the center, laughing with a drink in her hand, was Hana Morales.

Herman’s heart skipped a beat, a phantom ache blooming in his chest that had nothing to do with monsters.

"Hana," he murmured.

"You say something?" Lando yelled from the kitchen. "I can't hear you over the sound of me being a culinary genius!"

"Nothing!" Herman called back.

He stared at the photo. Hana Morales. She had been a friend of a friend, someone he’d had a massive, silent crush on for years but never had the courage to talk to. In the original timeline, he had seen her on Day One. He had been across the street when the first wave of shifters hit the downtown plaza.

He’d watched, paralyzed by fear, as she was dragged into an alleyway. Her screams had lasted for six minutes. He’d timed it because he was too cowardly to move, counting the seconds while he hid behind a trash can.

"She’s a deviation," Herman told himself, his voice cold. "She dies in the first hour. Trying to save her would put me in the plaza. The plaza is Ground Zero. It’s suicide."

He picked up a red pen and drew a firm line through the corner of the page where he’d doodled a small 'H.'

"Survival is selfish," he whispered. "I’m not a hero. I’m just a guy who doesn't want to be eaten again."

He stood up, his mind already calculating the quickest route to the bank. He had thirty days to turn his life into a fortress. He wouldn't let a ghost from a past life—or a girl who didn't even know his middle name—ruin his chances.

"Herman! Eggs are getting cold, and I’m getting hungry enough to eat your portion!" Lando shouted.

"I'm coming!" Herman yelled back.

He walked out of the room, leaving the notebook open. The world outside was sunny, peaceful, and blissfully unaware of the ticking clock. Herman looked at his roommate, who was currently trying to flip an egg and failing miserably, and felt a cold, hard knot of resolve tighten in his gut.

He was going to live. Even if he had to become a monster to do it.

"Hey, Lando?" Herman said as he sat at the small kitchen table.

"Yeah, oh Great Prophet of Doom?"

"Check the expiration date on those eggs. We can't afford food poisoning."

Lando rolled his eyes. "Relax, bro. We’ve got all the time in the world."

Herman looked at the clock on the microwave. 08:14 AM.

"Twenty-nine days, twenty-three hours, and forty-six minutes," Herman whispered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Herman said, picking up a fork. "Pass the salt."

As he ate, the image of Hana’s laughing face flashed in his mind again—the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled. He shoved the thought down, burying it under a mountain of cold, hard logic. She was already dead. Everyone was already dead. He was just the only one who had the courtesy to realize it.

But as he chewed the rubbery eggs, his hand drifted to his phone again, his thumb hovering over her profile. Just one look, he thought. Just to see where she is today.

He gritted his teeth and shoved the phone into his pocket.

"Focus, Herman," he told himself. "Focus on the machetes. Forget the girl."

But the memory of her scream, high and sharp, echoed in the back of his skull, a dissonant chord in his perfectly tuned plan for survival. This was going to be a very long thirty days.