Tanya

  The first thing I noticed as I stirred awake was the sharp scent of disinfectant and the itchy sensation of bandages pressing against my chin. The now-familiar beeping sound echoed in my ears, the heart monitor keeping rhythm with my pulse. The soft rustle of bed sheets followed as I shifted to sit up, and my heart drop into my stomach as reality set in.

  That wasn’t a nightmare.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, silently begging that when I opened them again, my surroundings would change. That I’d return to my old life—not that I could remember much of it. Looking towards the ceiling and taking a deep breath, I started counting backwards from ten.

  10… 9… 8… 7…

  When I opened my eyes, the sterile white ceiling was still above me, glaring down as if mocking my wishful thinking.

  My hand drifted to the bandages on my chin, my fingers brushing over the raised bumps of stitches beneath the gauze. A dull ache pulsed with every breath as I fought myself to steady my growing panic.

  Yeah… okay, this is real.

  How the hell did I end up in a fictional world?

  A make-believe world I’d read casually is now suddenly my grim reality?

  And of all the characters, why this one?

  I wasn’t the protagonist—not even a side character with a decent story. Nope. I was a disposable minor antagonist—designed to further the romance between the female lead and her groupies. Someone that was somehow labeled a villain. At least it's a known trope I suppose.

  The original Tanya was no villain, just another desperate survivor clinging to any chance that came her way. Unfortunately, that “chance” happened to be the kidnapping and hostage-taking of the female lead. And that so-called “arc” was pathetic.

  Kidnap the heroine, demand supplies in exchange for her release, get overpowered by the male leads high on their “realized love,” then die unceremoniously, forgotten by readers.

  Fifteen or so forgettable chapters. That’s how long Tanya lasted. Don’t worry, original Tanya, I still remember. I know you were no villain, just someone simply trying to survive.

  You were never a villain—antagonist, sure—but even then, it’s a stretch. Just a plot device. A stepping stone for someone else’s character development. How depressing is that?

  I couldn’t follow that Tanya’s footsteps. I couldn't let myself become that same doomed character. Every decision, every step I take, needs to push me further away from that tragic mess. Surviving a zombie apocalypse is going to be hard enough without living under a death flag.

  Lost in thought, I barely heard the door creak open. The nurse from yesterday walked in, her professional mask still firmly in place. She carried a clipboard in one hand and a plastic bag of my belongings, labeled with my name, in the other.

  “Good morning Ms. Richter,” she said, setting the bag on the bedside table. Her voice was polite, with a hint of boredom. “How’re you feeling today?’

  I blinked, scrambling to respond. “Better, I think… just… processing.”

  She nodded, her expression unreadable. “That’s to be expected, I’m sure you went through quite a bit yesterday.” She glanced at her clipboard, then the clock on the wall, and continued. “Fortunately, your injury isn’t severe. You should heal up nicely—might end up with a scar on your chin, but nothing too noticeable.”

  Her tone shifted slightly as she added, “You’ve been cleared for discharge. One of your coworkers is waiting out front to take you home. All that’s left is some paperwork. The NYPD and your insurance will cover your bill.”

  The faint edge of irritation in her voice didn’t go unnoticed.

  Okay… so you’re clearly not thrilled to be here. Got it.

  I swallowed hard, a mix of relief and apprehension tightening my chest. Leaving the hospital meant stepping back into the soon-to-be chaos of my new reality. Still, I couldn't stay here forever. No matter how daunting it felt, I had to move forward.

  The nurse handed me a small business card, her eyes flicking back to the clock. “Here’s my contact information. If anything else comes up, or if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call.”

  I took the card, quickly muttering, “Thank you.”

  The name on the card read Sherry Watters. A quick glance at the nametag pinned to her scrubs confirmed the same.

  After completing the discharge process, I stepped out of the hospital’s front entrance. The crisp morning air filled my lungs, grounding me in this new, unsettling reality. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm, golden light over the waking city—a sight I might’ve paused to admire under different circumstances.

  Instead, my focus shifted to the parking lot ahead. A familiar sedan caught my eye, along with an equally familiar man leaning casually against it, a cigarette between his fingers.

  As I approached, he glanced up, his stoic expression unchanged.

  “Detective Harris,” I greeted, my voice steady despite the turbulence running rampant inside me.

  He nodded in acknowledgment, wordlessly flicking his cigarette to the ground and extinguishing it underfoot. Without a word, he opened the passenger door for me.

  I wasn’t entirely sure how I knew what to expect from him, but something about his demeanor felt familiar, as if the understanding had always been there, tucked away in a corner of my mind. A man of few words.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Once we were on the road, the city blurred past the windows. Breaking the silence, Harris gave me a brief update.

  “The raid was declared a success. A few officers took hits—most minor, a couple more serious. News took some potshots at us per usual.”

  Relief washed over me, accompanied by a strange sense of pride. The SWAT captain in me felt happy, despite the sloppy execution.

  That's to be expected, the raid was a mess after all. I'm just glad things ended well.

  My fists clenched, nails pressing into my palms as I struggled to hold on to something—anything—to steady myself as my earlier thoughts began to drift back.

  Tanya—the original Tanya—was marked for death.

  I couldn’t escape the grim thought that I might be walking toward the same fate no matter what I tried.

  It would be so easy to let that truth consume me, to give in and accept it. But part of me refused. I can't—won’t—let myself be swallowed by it. Not without a fight, anyway.

  I wasn’t her—not quite anymore, that is—but at the same time, I was. It was a strange, maddening feeling, like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing you can’t go back but not sure what lies ahead. This was my life now, confusing as it was.

  I had the advantage of knowing the future, or at least, some of it. I knew what was coming. But how much of that knowledge could I trust? The story was never finished, and I couldn’t be certain that my actions wouldn’t cause a butterfly effect, disrupting everything. My memories—split between this new life and the fragments of my past one—felt like pieces of a puzzle that weren’t quite fitting together. I could feel them shifting inside me, slowly filling the gaps, but it wasn’t fast enough. My head felt like a loading bar stuck in the middle of a process.

  The virus… How much do I remember?

  The basics were clear—the initial outbreak, the chaos that followed, the world crumbling as the virus spread like wildfire, first across the United States, then to the rest of the world. But the finer details were hazy, slipping through my mind like water through my fingers.

  What would I need to survive? Could my knowledge be enough to keep me alive?

  Harris’s voice broke through the haze of my thoughts, flat but carrying an undertone of concern. “You’re on leave for a little while. Take care of yourself. If you need anything or just some help, us at the station are always here for you.”

  I nodded, appreciating the simplicity of his words. “Yeah, thanks Harris.”

  When we reached my apartment complex, I briefly hesitated before stepping out of the car. The familiar building loomed before me, a strange blend of comfort and unease settled in my chest. I glanced back at Harris, giving a brief wave. He nodded curtly before driving away, leaving me standing in front of the entrance.

  As I made my way inside, my feet moved on autopilot, navigating the familiar halls and stairways.

  How do I know where to go?

  The realization hit me like a freight train. I had both sets of memories—Tanya’s and my own from my previous life. My old memories were fragmented, centered on the story I now found myself living. I knew this place—knew the way—because the original Tanya knew it. My head began to spin. The duality of my existence becoming more apparent with each passing moment.

  I subconsciously punched the code to my apartment into the keypad on the door handle, unlocking it before stepping inside. The sight that greeted me was a stark contrast to my work life. The walls were accented with as much pink as possible, adorned with frilly curtains and an array of stuffed animals and cliché girly decorations. It was like stepping into yet another world—a world that didn’t fit the image of a SWAT leader. With a slight chuckle, I realized how bizarre this situation was.

  It’s laughable, especially when compared to my current situation: transmigrated into a body that wasn’t mine, with a looming apocalypse on the horizon, and, of course, my death flag. It honestly gave me a brief reprieve.

  I went and sat on the edge of my bed, surrounded by stuffed animals, frilly pillows, and floral-patterned sheets. My gaze swept over the overly exaggerated décor. The disconnect between who I was, who I appeared to be, and the contrast with the man I used to be gnawed at my subconscious. But I quickly reminded myself that I didn’t have time to dwell on that right now. I needed to focus on what mattered—survival.

  I can adapt to my changes later.

  Grabbing a notebook and pen from the nearby desk, I sat down, skimming the pages full of writing before settling on a blank page. I began to write what I knew. My hand moved quickly, the urgency of my situation driving me.

  A situation only I was aware of.

  Notes on the Apocalypse, I scrawled at the top of the page. Underneath, I started listing everything and anything I could remember from the original story:

  

  
• Incidents in remote areas that were never looked into for some reason. Build-up towards a mass outbreak of the infected, without proper contingencies.


  

  

  
• The first major outbreak brings the reality of the situation to the world. Despite this, the public is still in disbelief, leading to the spread of the virus almost uncontrollably.


  

  

  
• The government begins to try to cover up everything, leading to confirmation of a real, potential zombie apocalypse and inciting panic in the public after government exposure. First signs of increased aggression, spread of infection and eventual death followed by undeath.


  

  

  
• Widespread panic as reports of the virus spread outside of the United States despite other countries closing off ports of entry. The government responds by establishing quarantine zones followed by a media blackout, likely in an attempt to prevent further panic—but to no avail.


  

  

  
• Internet fully shuts down, excluding anything from the government. Over the next few days, major uncontrolled infected population centers spread the virus, causing more mass outbreaks, leading to a heightened infection rate. With the government unprepared and not expecting this, the virus spreads unchallenged.


  

  After hastily writing down what I could remember, I started to think some more.

  Using my status, it should be possible to set up quarantine zones ahead of time.

  The only problem is that the original story doesn’t mention much outside the main character’s perspective. The girl was a flower head through and through. It would be hard to get a jump on the initial infection to contain it if I don’t know where it starts.

  I would definitely have the advantage in people and supplies so there’s that at least…plus, with my knowledge of the future…

  I paused, tapping the pen against my chin, only to wince as pain moved through my jaw.

  What do I know about the virus itself?

  Again, my knowledge felt limited. My head was still foggy. Things were fragmented in my mind, between the novel’s incomplete story and my dual set of memories. I began to continue to write down what I could remember. I knew the virus evolved over time, changing with each generation.

  

  
• Generation 1: Initial infection, rapid spread in the city, spreading even faster outside the initial outbreak area of New York over a short span of time. Death becomes rampant among the infected.


  

  

  
• Generation 2: People begin to officially die and reanimate. Minor mutations begin to occur. Strength, zombie coordination, and aggression become noticeable.


  

  

  
• Generation 3: Special cases emerge—unimaginable bodily mutations. Increased agility and predatory behavior. First noticeable signs of horde mentality. Zombie mutations are clearly visible at this point.


  

  

  
• Generation 4: Zombies become even more aggressive. Further mutations among those who’ve been turned for an extended period of time. Periods of comatose-like states when not actively hunting or provoked.


  

  

  
• Generation 5+: ???


  

  After the fourth noticeable evolution in the story, the novel was axed. Once generation 4 becomes a thing, I’ll have no knowledge of what comes next in the virus. Maybe, if I’m lucky, they’ll simply die off, and things can go back to normal.

  With a snort, I muttered aloud, “Yeah, right. No chance things will be that convenient.”

  Reading over my brief notes, the last line stared back at me—a glaring reminder of the unknown. I underlined it twice, uncertainty gnawing at my mind.

  What comes after?

  Since the novel never reached that point, it was up to me to face whatever lay beyond.

  I leaned back, closing my eyes for a moment. Forget a job in police work. I have to be ready. I have to use every bit of future knowledge I have to survive. The world outside might be normal for now, but it’s only a matter of time before it all turns upside down.

  I dropped the pen onto the desk, my hand trembling slightly. The weight of everything—the unknown future, the virus, my transmigration, and the fact that I was essentially rewriting the story as I lived it—settled heavily in my chest.

  I looked around the room one last time. The frilly pink curtains, the stuffed animals, the life that wasn’t mine but now also was. It all feels so wrong. So out of place. But there was no time to dwell on that.

  I stood up, pacing the room. The silence felt deafening, each step a reminder that I was alone in this, with only the fragments of my memories and whatever knowledge I could salvage from the unfinished novel to guide me.

  I need to focus. I need to survive.

  Then, as if on cue, my stomach growled loudly, cutting through the tension. I hadn’t eaten since the night before, and the exhaustion was starting to weigh on me. I needed to take care of myself before diving into the mountain of planning that awaited me. A quick shower and maybe a bite to eat—that’s all I needed to recharge for a bit.

  I walked toward the bathroom, the tiles cold under my feet, and paused in front of the mirror.

  A woman staring back at me, she had a pretty face with blonde hair that fell just past her shoulders and bright blue eyes that seemed a little too wide, too innocent, almost foreign. She had soft features—full lips, high cheekbones, and skin that seemed to glow under the bathroom light.

  Is that me?

  I blinked and stepped closer, almost expecting the reflection to change, to reveal someone else. But the face in the mirror didn’t change. It was me.

  Right. I need to take a shower.

  And just like that, panic set in.

  I froze.

  How do I—?

  I—wait, am I supposed to—how does this even work now?

  Would this be okay?

  My mind started to spiral. I’d had plenty of showers as a man, but now? In this body? How the hell was I supposed to get around this?

  I stared at my reflection like it was an alien in front of me.

  This is... ridiculous. Right? It's just a shower.

  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I hadn’t the faintest clue how to handle this new body.

  I’m not even sure how to—

  I looked down at myself, then back at the mirror, wondering if I could somehow figure it out by sheer willpower.

  I let out a breathy laugh, more out of frustration than amusement. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

  I need to stop panicking. Just take a shower. Right? Right.

  My hands fumbled at the waistband of the sweatpants I was still wearing—something I should’ve already taken off, but I hadn’t gotten that far before the panic set in.

  With a deep sigh, I walked to the shower, shaking my head. I can’t believe I’m actually having a freakout over this.

  I turned on the water, and as the steam filled the room, I finally allowed myself a small chuckle, despite everything.

  Yeah, survival and saving the world? That’s tomorrow’s problem. Today? I’m just trying to figure out how to shower without losing my mind.

  I stepped into the shower, closing the curtain behind me.