The campus emergency alert system was reaching fewer and fewer places now—clearly, a lot of the loudspeakers had been wrecked by the zombies.

Most of the students from the dorms had either made it to the main dining hall or died trying. A few were still holed up in their rooms, too scared to leave. Those ones probably had some food stashed away.

Then there were the ones like Sean and his group—forced to hide wherever they could find shelter.

Even so, a surprising number of students had managed to reach the main dining hall.

The doors were locked tight, every window boarded up with cardboard and furniture. From the outside, it looked abandoned.

Inside, though, it was packed wall to wall. Hundreds of terrified students were crying, shouting, calling out for friends who hadn't made it.

Campus police and staff moved through the crowd, trying to keep order, but most of the students were too close to the edge to listen.

Up on the mezzanine, the Dean of Students stood watching the chaos below, her face drawn tight as she scanned the latest numbers on a clipboard.

There were over thirty thousand students and staff on campus. Fewer than two thousand had made it to the dining hall.

"Are there still people out there?" she asked quietly.

"Definitely," one of the assistant deans replied with a sigh. "But the place is surrounded now. Even if they're alive, they can't get through."

The dean exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging. "Alright. Let's feed the ones we have. They must be starving."

"On it."

Soon, trays of food began appearing at the serving windows. The moment the students caught sight of the meals, the crying stopped. A wave of urgency swept through the room as they surged forward.

"Everyone, please—don't push! Line up! There's enough for all of you!" the dean shouted through a bullhorn.

But hunger had already taken over. The students pressed in, desperate, some even trying to climb over the counter to grab whatever they could.

The dean locked eyes with one of the cafeteria workers and gave a sharp nod.

The trays vanished behind the counter.

For a few tense seconds, the crowd teetered on the edge of a riot. Then, slowly, the frenzy ebbed.

"Let's try that again," the dean said, voice tight. "Form a line."

This time, they listened. The staff brought the food back out.

At the front of the line, a student clutched his tray, eyes wide with anticipation.

"This... this... I'll take all of it. Hey, can I get extra chicken?"

But the dining staff didn't even blink. They handed him a single bread roll and a scoop of vegetable salad, then moved on to the next person.

"That's it? I paid for a full meal plan!"

"Yeah, come on—this isn't enough for anyone!"

The noise swelled again, voices rising in protest.

"Quiet down, please!" the dean called out, raising the bullhorn again. "I know you're hungry. We all are. But look around you—we're in a crisis none of us ever imagined. Supplies are limited.

We don't know when help will come, but the National Guard will come. They will. We just have to hold on until then."

Her words settled over the crowd like a blanket. Slowly, the grumbling faded. The students understood—even if they didn't like it.

Soon, those who had gotten their food sat down and began eating with a kind of desperate focus. For the first time in who knew how long, the bland campus food actually tasted good.

Some licked their plates clean, not out of manners, but because they were still hungry.

The dean stood silently, watching the students devour their meager meals. Then she turned to the head of dining services beside her.

"Given our current numbers," she asked quietly, "how long can we stretch the food supply?"

He hesitated, calculating. "If we ration hard, the dry goods—rice, pasta, canned stuff—might last a week. Eight days, tops. But the fresh produce? That's a problem. We usually get daily deliveries. Without them, most of it'll spoil in three or four days."

The dean's brow furrowed. She didn't know when help would arrive. And if the food ran out before it did… she didn't want to imagine what came next.

"Start cutting portions," she said, her voice low but firm. "Make it last as long as we can."

"Understood," he replied, already thinking ahead. "We'll start watering things down—soups, stews, whatever we can stretch."

...

Meanwhile, in the library…

Over thirty students sat slumped on the floor, drained and silent.

They'd escaped the zombies, sure—but now they were trapped, and starving. The library didn't exactly come stocked with snacks.

Outside, the undead still roamed. No one was getting out anytime soon. More than a few students were starting to regret leaving their dorms. At least there, they might've had a granola bar or two.

Then came a sharp crack—the unmistakable sound of plastic tearing.

Every head turned.

Curly-haired guy was sitting in the corner, holding a packet of instant noodles. He'd just opened it, clearly thinking he could sneak a bite. But the moment he looked up, he froze.

Dozens of eyes were locked on him, hungry and unblinking.

"W-what?" he stammered. "Why are you all looking at me like that?"

"You've got food," someone said, stepping closer. "Come on, share a little."

"Yeah, man. We're all in this together, right? Help each other out."

The group began to close in, slow and steady.

Curly clutched the noodles tighter, panic rising. "I—I only have this one pack!"

Didn't matter.

They lunged.

In seconds, the noodles were ripped from his hands. Someone grabbed his backpack. Others patted him down, searching every pocket, every fold of his clothes.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing? That's mine!" he shouted, struggling.

No one listened. The same people who'd been preaching about fairness and unity were now tearing through his belongings like wolves. Hunger had stripped away the last of their civility.

Across the room, Curly's three dormmates had been about to eat something themselves. But after watching him get swarmed, they quickly tucked their food away and tried to act casual.

Too late.

A few sharp-eyed students had seen the movement. The ones who hadn't gotten anything from Curly turned and rushed them.

The three didn't stand a chance. In moments, they were stripped clean—bags, pockets, even their shoes rifled through.

"Serves them right," Big Mike muttered, arms crossed.

"Didn't think they were holding out on us," Skinny Pete added with a snort.

Sean just chuckled. "Guess they thought they could hide it."

None of them had joined the frenzy. But they hadn't stopped it either. They just watched.

"This is what people are," Sean said, almost to himself. Then he reached into his backpack and pulled out a piece of bread, biting into it without hesitation.

The motion drew immediate attention. The ones who'd come up empty turned toward him, eyes narrowing.

Sean didn't flinch. He picked up the bloodstained steel pipe lying beside him and held it loosely in one hand, his voice cold.

"Take one more step. See what happens."

They froze.

The pipe was still slick with dried blood. No one doubted he'd use it again.

The crowd backed off, hunger warring with fear.

Sean took another bite, slow and deliberate.

Big Mike and Skinny Pete followed suit, pulling out their own rations. They'd been fighting nonstop since morning—they were starving too.

The others stared, eyes full of longing, but no one dared move.

Across the room, Curly and his roommates sat in stunned silence, their faces pale and hollow.

This wasn't about fairness anymore. It was about strength.

And they'd just learned the hard way what happened when you didn't have any.

...

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