By Rochelle L. Sharpe
Being chased sucks.
Why did I believe my parents when they said we’d be safe in the woods?
“Zombies don’t go way out there,” Dad assured me.
“And it’ll be nice to get away from the madness,” Mom added.
Yeah, well, now they’re zombified just like all the others, and I have one on my tail.
Hollywood let me down, too. This animated corpse is anything but slow.
And that guy who sold my parents the zombie repellent totally scammed us. It so does not work, and now I smell like rotten burgers.
I dart around a rock cemented in the middle of the trail, and a low-hanging branch whacks me in the face. I shove it out of the way, not letting it slow me down.
Trust the zombie apocalypse to happen right when my life was finally starting to get good.
Middle school sucked, but in the summer between eighth and ninth grade, I had a growth spurt, my acne cleared, and I got coordinated.
I finally had a girlfriend—until she was zombified.
My best friend—zombified.
And just as I made the football team, Coach got zombified.
And now my parents.
If this guy chasing me doesn’t give up soon, I’ll be next. I have no desire to be lunchmeat for the undead.
Rain starts pelting down. A spark of hope shoots through me. Maybe zombies hate the rain. But no luck, he still chases me. The rain rolls down my arms, taking the useless zombie repellent with it. At least I won’t smell so bad now.
A fallen log blocks the path. As I’m climbing over it, cold, rotting hands clamp onto my arm.
I scream—a manly scream, of course—as I’m yanked back. He spins me around, pulling my forearm toward his mouth. I struggle, but this dude is strong.
He bites down on my arm. Just as I’m about to scream again, he drops my arm, spitting into the mud.
What the hamster?
“Yuuukkk,” he says in that deep, slow groan that zombies have. At least Hollywood had that right.
“Yuk?” What does he mean, yuk?
The zombie dude looks at me, his lip curling back in revulsion. “Tassste baaad.”
“Taste bad? I do not taste bad!” I thrust my arm at him. “Here, try again.” I’ve already been bitten, so I’ve got nothing to lose.
The zombie puts up his hands, backing away from me.
I chase after him. “C’mon, bite me! What kind of zombie are you?”
The zombie trips on the rock I just avoided, lets out a startled groan, and collapses to the ground. His eyes flutter shut. It’s hard to tell with the rain, but I swear his face is less sunken, and red is blooming in his cheeks.
As I stand there staring down at him, I realize I haven’t started turning into a zombie yet. When a Turner bites you, the transformation happens quickly. Like in less than a minute. I definitely should have turned by now.
Weird.
Not sure of what else to do, I go to the hospital.
My sneakers squelch as I approach the nurse at the desk.
She frowns as she takes me in. “Can I help you?”
“Uh… I got bit by a zombie, and I didn’t turn.”
Her eyes widen, and she grabs the phone, signaling an orderly.
He grabs me with gloved hands and drags me down the hall into a room. The door locks on his way out.
A doctor comes in to examine me, fully covered in a hazmat suit.
“What happened?” the doctor asks.
“A zombie bit me.” I show him my arm. “It said I tasted bad.” I scoff, screwing up my nose. Seriously, who knew that zombies could be picky eaters. “I chased it, and it fell. I think it knocked itself out. That’s when I realized I didn’t turn.”
“Wait here,” the doctor says and then leaves, not even giving me a bandage for the wound.
Eventually, some more guys in suits come and collect me. They shove me into an unmarked van and take me to some sort of secret lab on the outskirts of town.
Two scientists study me. They poke, prod, run lots of tests, and ask me tons of questions—like why I didn’t turn but my parents did. I was wondering the same thing.
The woman scientist taps her stylus against her chin. “Were they your biological parents?”
“No,” I tell her. “I was adopted.”
“Thank you, that helps a lot.”
I’m moved from my hospital-like room to one resembling a hotel. Still locked up, but the room has a sick gaming system. A week later, the scientists visit me.
They stare at me, tears in their eyes, clutching their tablets to their chests.
“Hey?”
“We did it,” the woman whispers, choking up. “We found the cure.”
“And it’s all thanks to you,” the man replies, sounding just as choked up.
“Cure?”
“To reverse zombification,” the woman explains. “Your blood is the key.”
I suck in a breath. “My blood?”
The man nods. “That’s why you tasted bad to the zombie.”
Ha. I give them a half smile. “So, tasting bad is a good thing?”
The woman grins. “A very good thing.”
“We have been searching for a cure since the apocalypse started,” the man says. “We’ve had no luck. Until now. Because of you.”
“For real?”
The woman nods. “We were able to neutralize the pathogen that causes zombification and revitalize the damaged cells, returning them to a healthy state.”
“So, no more zombies?”
“No more zombies.”
Excitement pulses through me. They have a cure! I didn’t think it was even possible! Coach, my parents, my best friend, my girlfriend! I can get them all back!
“You’re going to be a hero, Jayden,” the man says.
The half smile turns into a grin.
A hero. I like it.
It turns out this zombie apocalypse isn’t such a bad thing after all.
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Interesting take on a Zombie story. Creative with some humor sprinkled in.
Goes from “I don’t want to be eaten” to “eat me, I taste good”! That cracked me up so hard. Great job!