The plane hummed softly as it cut through the crisp morning air, carrying Bob away from the desert heat of Phoenix to the chilly streets of Boston. The cabin lights were dimmed, casting long shadows across the rows of passengers settled into their seats. Bob had found his spot in the middle of the economy section, squeezed between a businessman engrossed in his laptop and a teenager who had been staring out the window since takeoff. With a sigh, Bob leaned back in his seat, pulling his headphones over his ears.

As the familiar chords of Iggy Pop's "I Am a Passenger" filled his ears, Bob let the music wash over him, a strange sense of irony settling in. Here he was, literally a passenger, hurtling through the sky at 35,000 feet, on his way to a city he barely knew for a business conference he wasn’t particularly interested in. Yet the song seemed to fit the moment perfectly, a strange anthem for his quiet life as a store manager at Bilbo's Bags, a job that was as mundane as it was stable.

Bob glanced around the cabin, his eyes skimming over the faces of the other passengers. There were about 500 of them, all strangers, each with their own destinations, their own reasons for being on this flight. Some were asleep, heads lolled to the side or resting against the windows. Others were like the businessman beside him, focused on their work, tapping away at their laptops or flipping through reports. The teenager next to him was lost in thought, her gaze fixed on the clouds drifting by outside.

The flight attendants moved quietly up and down the aisle, offering drinks and snacks to those who were still awake. Bob declined with a polite shake of his head when one stopped by his row, not wanting to interrupt the flow of the music in his ears. He closed his eyes, letting the steady rhythm of the song and the gentle vibrations of the plane lull him into a state of calm.

He couldn't have known that this calm was the last he would feel for a long, long time.

As the plane descended toward Boston Logan International Airport, Bob finally turned off his music, tucking his headphones away in his bag. He stretched, feeling the stiffness in his muscles from the long flight, and glanced out the window. The city sprawled below him, a patchwork of streets and buildings, the Atlantic Ocean glimmering in the distance. It was cold, he could tell, the kind of cold that cuts through your jacket and chills you to the bone, but he found it a refreshing change from the relentless heat of Phoenix.

As the plane touched down with a slight jolt, Bob felt a small thrill of excitement. It wasn’t often that he traveled, and the prospect of spending a few days in a new city was something to look forward to. Maybe he’d have time to visit some of the historical sites, or try out some of the famous clam chowder he’d heard so much about.

The plane taxied to the gate, and soon the passengers were filing out, retrieving their bags from the overhead compartments and shuffling toward the exit. Bob followed, his small carry-on slung over his shoulder, his thoughts already on the conference that would occupy the next few days.

But as he stepped off the plane and into the bustling terminal, a strange feeling washed over him. It was as if something in the air had changed, a tension that hadn’t been there before. He shook it off, blaming it on the long flight and the unfamiliar surroundings. After all, what could possibly be wrong? It was just another business trip, just another city.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

As Bob made his way through the bustling terminal at Logan International Airport, he felt a growing sense of disconnection, as if he were moving through a dream. The normal hustle and bustle of the airport, with travelers rushing to and fro, should have been comforting in its familiarity. But today, something was different. The energy in the air felt off—tense, charged with an undercurrent of anxiety that Bob couldn’t quite place.

Pulling his carry-on behind him, Bob navigated through the sea of people, his eyes scanning the bright signs overhead for directions to the taxi stand. The cacophony of voices, the rumble of luggage wheels on the polished floors, and the occasional overhead announcements created a disorienting soundtrack to his thoughts. He adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder, trying to shake off the unease that had settled in his gut.

“Maybe it’s just the cold,” he muttered to himself, stepping onto the moving walkway that would take him toward the exit. The crispness of the Boston air that had greeted him as he exited the plane now felt less refreshing and more like a harbinger of something sinister.

He looked around, trying to distract himself by observing his fellow travelers. A young family was gathered near a bench, the parents arguing quietly while their children clung to a stuffed animal between them. Nearby, a group of businessmen in sharp suits huddled together, one of them furiously typing on his phone while the others exchanged worried glances. Bob’s gaze lingered on them for a moment longer than he intended. They looked like they were receiving bad news.

A wave of unease washed over him again, stronger this time. Something wasn’t right.

Finally reaching the exit, Bob stepped outside and was immediately greeted by the biting chill of a Boston winter. He shivered and pulled his jacket tighter around himself, cursing under his breath for not bringing something warmer. The air was sharp, almost metallic, as if it were carrying more than just the cold.

The taxi stand was crowded, but Bob managed to flag one down quickly enough. The driver, a middle-aged man with a thick Boston accent, gave him a friendly nod as Bob slid into the backseat.

“Where to?” the driver asked, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

“Hilton Boston Downtown, please,” Bob replied, settling into the seat. He looked out the window as the taxi pulled away from the curb, the city’s skyline looming in the distance. The streets were busy, as expected, but there was an unusual amount of police activity—cruisers speeding by with lights flashing, officers directing traffic at intersections, and small clusters of people gathered on street corners, looking concerned.

As they drove deeper into the city, Bob noticed something else. The sidewalks, usually bustling with pedestrians, were emptier than he remembered from his last visit to Boston. The people who were out seemed to be in a hurry, heads down, moving quickly to their destinations. An unsettling quiet hung over the city, as if it were holding its breath.

The taxi driver seemed to notice it too. “Weird day, huh?” he said, breaking the silence. “I’ve been driving around all morning, and it just feels… different, you know?”

Bob nodded, though he wasn’t sure how to respond. “Yeah, I’ve been feeling that too. Maybe it’s just the weather.”

The driver chuckled. “Could be, but I’ve seen a lot of strange things today. Heard on the radio that there’s some kind of virus going around. People getting sick, acting all crazy. Don’t know if it’s true, but it’s got folks on edge.”

Bob frowned. “A virus? Like the flu?”

“Maybe,” the driver said with a shrug. “But the way they’re talking about it, sounds like it might be something worse. People in some parts of the city are panicking, barricading themselves in their homes. I even saw a few people wearing masks earlier. You ever see something like that before?”

Bob shook his head slowly, the unease in his stomach growing. He tried to push it down, reminding himself that he was here for a business conference, not to worry about whatever was going on in the city. But the driver’s words lingered, casting a shadow over his thoughts.

The rest of the ride was silent, save for the low hum of the engine and the occasional blare of a car horn outside. Bob tried to distract himself by checking his phone, but there were no new messages. He glanced at the news app, but the headlines were the same as earlier—reports of unrest in some cities, vague warnings about an illness spreading. He closed the app with a sigh, his anxiety simmering just beneath the surface.

By the time they arrived at the hotel, Bob was more than ready to get out of the taxi and into the warmth of the lobby. He paid the driver and stepped out, pulling his carry-on behind him as he walked through the sliding glass doors into the bright, bustling interior of the Hilton Boston Downtown.

The hotel was busy, with guests milling about the lobby, checking in and out, or relaxing in the plush seating areas. The warm air was a welcome relief from the biting cold outside, and Bob allowed himself a moment to breathe, trying to shake off the unease that had plagued him since the plane landed.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

At the check-in desk, the receptionist greeted him with a practiced smile. “Welcome to the Hilton Boston Downtown. Do you have a reservation?”

“Yes,” Bob replied, giving his name and details. As the receptionist typed into the computer, Bob glanced around the lobby again. It seemed normal enough, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. The conversations around him were hushed, and more than a few people seemed to be speaking in urgent tones, their faces pale.

“Here you go, Mr. Reynolds,” the receptionist said, handing him his room key. “You’re on the eighth floor, room 821. The elevators are just over there to your right. Enjoy your stay.”

“Thanks,” Bob said, taking the key. He smiled politely before heading toward the elevators, dragging his carry-on behind him. The ride up was quick, the elevator smooth and silent, but the knot in his stomach only tightened as the floors ticked by. When he finally reached the eighth floor, he stepped out into the quiet hallway, the thick carpet muffling his footsteps as he made his way to his room.

Room 821 was at the end of the hall, and Bob couldn’t help but feel a small sense of relief when he finally inserted the key and pushed open the door. The room was standard—nothing fancy, but comfortable enough for the few days he’d be staying. He set his bag down by the bed and immediately turned on the TV, hoping to catch some local news.

As the screen flickered to life, Bob’s heart skipped a beat. The local news channel was showing footage from around the city—police barricades, crowded hospitals, and reports of violent outbreaks in several neighborhoods. The anchors looked visibly shaken as they described the scenes unfolding just miles from where Bob now stood.

“…unconfirmed reports suggest that the illness causes extreme aggression in those infected, leading to violent confrontations,” one anchor was saying, her voice tight with anxiety. “Authorities are urging everyone to stay indoors and avoid contact with anyone displaying unusual behavior…”

Bob sat down on the edge of the bed, his mind racing. This was more than just an illness—it was something far worse. The feeling of unease he’d been trying to shake off now exploded into full-blown panic. He grabbed his phone and tried to call his family in Phoenix, but the line was busy. He tried again, but got the same result.

For a moment, he just sat there, staring at his phone, his heart pounding in his chest. The situation was spiraling out of control, and he was trapped in a city he barely knew, thousands of miles from home, with no idea what was happening to his family.

Bob took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He needed to think. If this illness was spreading as quickly as it seemed, he needed to figure out what to do next. He wasn’t the type to panic easily, but the uncertainty of the situation was gnawing at him, making it hard to focus.

The television droned on in the background, the anchors’ voices filled with urgency and fear. Bob barely heard them as he sat on the bed, his mind racing with possibilities. He had to get home. But how? And what if things were even worse there?

The power suddenly flickered, the lights in the room dimming for a brief moment before coming back on. Bob’s breath caught in his throat. If the power went out, if communication was lost… He shook his head, trying to keep himself from spiraling into panic.

He had to stay calm. He had to figure this out.

Bob stood up and began pacing the room, his thoughts racing. He needed a plan. He needed to find out what was really happening. And most of all, he needed to get back to Phoenix.

The power flickered again, and this time, it didn’t come back on.

Bob froze in the middle of the room, the darkness pressing in around him. The only light came from the dim glow of the television, which had switched to a backup generator, showing the same disturbing images of chaos and violence.

He knew now that the world had changed. And he was far from home, far from help, with only his wits and a fluffy, boring hamster to rely on.

Bob stood motionless in the darkened room, his thoughts spinning as the reality of his situation began to sink in. The power was out, the city outside was descending into chaos, and he was alone—so very alone. A deep, hollow fear settled in his chest, threatening to paralyze him, but he forced himself to focus. He had to think, had to figure out what to do next.

His eyes adjusted to the dim light from the emergency-powered television, casting eerie shadows across the room. The news anchor on the screen was speaking urgently, her voice tense, but Bob barely registered the words. Instead, his mind was consumed with one overwhelming thought: survival.

He needed to act. Standing here in the dark wasn’t going to help him. He needed information, supplies, and a plan. And above all, he needed to stay calm—panic would only make things worse.

Bob fumbled in his pocket for his phone, the small screen providing a faint blue glow in the darkness. The battery was low, a cruel reminder of how unprepared he was for something like this. He swiped through his contacts, trying again to reach his family in Phoenix, but the call wouldn’t go through. The network was down, overloaded or possibly compromised by whatever was happening out there.

“Curses” Bob muttered, shoving the phone back into his pocket. He needed a way to charge it, to stay connected. But without power, his options were limited.

He glanced at his carry-on bag, still sitting where he had left it by the bed. It contained nothing more than clothes and a few toiletries—useless in the current situation. What he needed were essentials: food, water, and something to defend himself with, just in case. The realization that he had no weapon, not even a pocket knife, made his stomach turn. The hotel room felt less like a safe haven and more like a trap.

Bob took a deep breath, trying to calm the rising tide of fear. First things first—he needed to find out what was really going on in the city. The television was still showing news reports, but the information was fragmented and confused. It was clear that the situation was bad—worse than anything he’d ever imagined—but he needed to see it with his own eyes.

He walked over to the window, his steps slow and deliberate. Pulling back the heavy curtains, he peered out into the night. The streets below were almost deserted, the usual flow of traffic reduced to a trickle. A few cars idled at intersections, their headlights cutting through the darkness, but there were no pedestrians, no signs of life. The only movement came from the flashing lights of police cruisers in the distance, blocking off a section of the road.

Something was definitely wrong. Even in the dead of night, Boston was never this quiet.

Bob’s gaze shifted to the darkened skyline, where the towering buildings loomed like silent sentinels over the city. In the distance, he could see faint plumes of smoke rising against the horizon, the remnants of something burning. The sight sent a shiver down his spine. He had no idea what was happening out there, but every instinct told him it wasn’t safe.

He stepped back from the window, letting the curtains fall shut. He couldn’t stay here, isolated in a hotel room with no power, no communication, and no plan. But the thought of venturing out into the unknown, especially in the dead of night, was equally terrifying.

“Billiam,” Bob said softly, his voice trembling as he addressed the small hamster in its travel cage. “What are we going to do?”

Billiam, oblivious to the unfolding chaos, sniffed at the air and then resumed his usual activity—sitting quietly in one corner of the cage, his tiny eyes half-closed as if nothing in the world could bother him. Bob couldn’t help but smile at the hamster’s indifference, even as his own fear threatened to overwhelm him. Maybe that was the secret—just keep calm and carry on, no matter what.

He picked up the cage, setting it on the desk beside the television. “You’ve got the right idea, little guy,” he said, trying to draw strength from Billiam’s calm demeanor. “We just have to stay calm and figure this out.”

Bob turned his attention back to the television, where the news anchor was still talking, her voice growing more frantic with each passing minute. The footage being shown was increasingly chaotic—scenes of panicked crowds, people fleeing through the streets, and blurry images of what looked like… attacks?

As Bob squinted at the screen, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, the image suddenly cut to a live feed from a news helicopter hovering over a city. The camera zoomed in on a chaotic scene in the middle of what appeared to be a public square. At first, it was hard to make out what was happening, but then the camera focused on a figure in the middle of the chaos—a figure Bob immediately recognized.

It was Channing Tatum.

But this wasn’t the charming, down-to-earth actor Bob had seen in countless movies. This Channing Tatum was different—wild-eyed, shirtless, and commanding the crowd with a maniacal energy. He was standing atop a makeshift stage, his voice booming through a megaphone.

“CHOMP, ZOMBIES, CHOMP!” Channing bellowed, his voice echoing through the square. The camera panned out to show hordes of people, their movements jerky and unnatural, descending on the panicked crowd. These people—no, these things—were biting, tearing, attacking anyone in their path.

Bob’s heart raced as he watched the horror unfold. It was like something out of a nightmare, but it was real, happening right there on the screen.

And then, as if the scene couldn’t get any more surreal, Channing Tatum broke into a dance routine. The actor moved with the same precision and charisma that had made him a star, but there was something twisted in the way he danced now—something terrifying.

The camera zoomed in again, just as Channing leapt into the air, delivering a flawless roundhouse kick to the face of a man who had somehow stumbled onto the stage. The man crumpled to the ground, and Channing didn’t miss a beat, continuing his dance as the horde of zombies surged forward, obeying his command.

“CHOMP, ZOMBIES, CHOMP!” Channing screamed again, the words hanging in the air like a death sentence.

Bob’s mouth went dry. This couldn’t be real. Channing Tatum—an actor, for crying out loud—was leading an army of the undead? And he was doing it with the same swagger and showmanship that had made him famous?

But the footage didn’t lie. It was happening right in front of him, and there was no denying the terror he felt deep in his bones.

The news anchor’s voice broke through his shock. “We are receiving unconfirmed reports that the actor Channing Tatum is somehow involved in the widespread violence and chaos sweeping the nation. Authorities are urging everyone to stay indoors and avoid any contact with these… creatures. Please, stay safe and—”

The screen flickered, and the power suddenly cut out, plunging the room into darkness. Bob stood there, frozen in place, his mind struggling to process what he had just witnessed.

Channing Tatum. Zombies. And that terrifying command: “Chomp, Zombies, Chomp!”

The world had gone mad. And Bob was right in the middle of it.