Chapter 2: Escape and Doubt

The classroom window offered a horrifying tableau. Groaning, shambling figures clawed at the school gates, their vacant eyes searching for prey. Nausea churned in my stomach, but a primal urge to survive pushed it down.

Across the room, Layla moved with a practiced grace that belied her slender frame. The knife in her hand became a deadly blur, dispatching the first zombie that broke through the barricaded door. Each strike was precise, aimed for the head with an efficiency born of experience. Despite the chaos, I couldn't help but notice the students' reactions. While most flailed in blind panic, a few exhibited unsettling behavior. A couple of girls, their faces twisted with jealousy, shoved Layla aside, nearly getting bitten in the process. A couple of boys, fueled by misplaced bravado, tried to grab her, their words laced with crude promises of protection in exchange for affection. Layla barely registered them. Her movements were economical, fueled by a focused intensity. It was as if she knew exactly where to strike, how to avoid attacks, where the safest escape route lay. Unlike the students, she wasn't learning on the fly; she was remembering. A low murmur escaped her lips, barely audible over the moans of the approaching horde. "This… this isn't right. This has never happened before." My gut clenched. Layla's words confirmed my suspicions – this wasn't her first rodeo. The apocalypse, the zombies, it was all a familiar nightmare for her. But what about me? Was I some glitch in the system, a variable she hadn't encountered in her previous regressions? As we navigated the halls, the students devolved into a terrified herd. Layla fought a desperate rearguard action, creating a path for them. I, fueled by a strange mix of fear and newfound knowledge from the novel, helped her shove furniture and herd the reluctant students towards the fire escape. The escape route itself was a gauntlet of moans and decaying flesh. The air hung thick with the stench of rotting corpses, a new, horrifying reality settling in. We fought hand-in-hand, Layla's skill a stark contrast to my own clumsy swings. At one point, a particularly aggressive zombie lunged towards her. With a swift movement, I shoved her aside, taking the brunt of the attack myself. The decaying hand grazed my arm, sending a jolt of pain through me. Layla dispatched the creature with a ruthless efficiency, her eyes blazing with a mixture of gratitude and suspicion. Reaching the roof, we surveyed the carnage below. The schoolyard teemed with lumbering figures, their screams echoing through the deserted streets. We had escaped the immediate threat, but the question hung heavy in the air. "Who are you?" Layla demanded, her voice a low growl. "And how did you know what to do?" The other students, temporarily lulled into a semblance of safety, watched us with a mixture of fear and curiosity. I looked at Layla, the weight of her question settling on me. I, the outsider, the anomaly in her seemingly endless cycle of apocalypse. "That's a long story," I said, taking a deep breath. "But right now, we need to find a safe place. Somewhere the zombies haven't reached." Layla narrowed her eyes, but she didn't object. The fire escape beckoned, a precarious path to an unknown future. As we descended, I knew our journey was just beginning. Her suspicions simmered, a storm brewing beneath the surface. The question remained – could I become an ally in this strange, repeating nightmare, or was I just another threat to be eliminated?