Zombies for Christmas

By Caroline N. Chandler

It was Christmas Day, which may have been more obvious if the world hadn’t ended seven years ago.

I missed the holiday season when people still debated over whether decorations should go up before or after Thanksgiving. Now, people discussed how to avoid the disease slowly consuming all of humanity.

“Rapunzel,” Midas said, shifting his position in the tall grass. “Now that your hair glows sometimes, we should wrap it around one of those evergreens from the woods to make a Christmas tree.”

I glared at him.

“Stop moving around, mate. You’ll get us killed,” Pete warned.

No matter what situation we found ourselves in, Pete’s British accent never failed to put me at ease, reminding me of cozy Christmas movies my family used to watch.

“Well, sorry if I’m fidgety,” Midas responded. “This is my first time ambushing a bunch of zombies. Also, I’m cold. Why are we doing this again?”

“We need supplies,” Pete said. “I’d rather risk getting chased by a few maniacs than starve to death in that blasted bunker. Besides, we’re not ambushing anyone. We’re just sneaking in and stealing their food.”

“Maybe we could access food and water more easily if we actually lived in the civilized world instead of the middle of nowhere.”

“‘Civilized’ people want to lock us up,” I stated.

Pete pointed at me. “Exactly. If they get a whiff of escapees tramping about the city, they’ll come for us. It’d be hard to hide my levitating and Rapunzel’s eighty feet of invulnerable, sentient hair. You really want to get taken again?”

“No,” Midas mumbled.

No one would ever voluntarily go back to that place where they had experimented on us under the guise of finding a cure. “Laboratory for Disease Study and Prevention,” they called themselves. Even after all these years, they were still trying to make a successful antidote—at least, one that didn’t mutate and give people strange abilities. I hadn’t heard of anyone else escaping besides our group. Who knew how many remained against their will?

I caught movement at the bottom of the slope.

“Guys,” I whispered, “they’re leaving.”

“You remember the plan, right?” Pete asked.

“Right,” I agreed.

“I’m still kinda fuzzy on it,” Midas said.

Pete sighed and ran a hand through his graying blond hair. “We get in, find their stash, and grab all we can carry. Then, we run like mad to the bunker.”

We stood up from our lookout hill and walked toward the crumbling brick building.

The metal door squealed when Pete gently pushed it open, and we froze. Silence filled the room, along with a familiar musty scent I immediately associated with the brain-rotting virus. Holes in the ceiling let in little beams of winter sunlight.

“Looks like this room’s clear,” Pete whispered, his breath freezing in the air.

I followed him through the shadowy room, searching for food, trying to walk noiselessly.

A hand gripped my shoulder. I shrieked and spun around, expecting some disease-ridden creature, but it was only Midas.

“Don’t scare me like that!” I somehow yelled and whispered simultaneously.

“Keep it down!” Pete ordered under his breath. “Do you have a death wish?”

“I think there’s food over there.” Midas pointed to a shadowy corner.

I detected the faint outline of stacked cans.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” Pete clicked on a flashlight and surveyed the corner.

“What is it?” I asked.

“More sausages.”

Midas groaned. “I’d rather starve than eat another canned sausage. There’s no soup? Vegetables? Anything?”

“There’s one can of chili. Happy Christmas, everyone.”

“I claim it!” Midas reached for the can.

“You can’t cla—”

A loud crash, followed by guttural moaning, came from somewhere nearby.

“Sounds like we’re not alone. Let’s get out of here.” Pete gathered an armload of cans. “Just grab a few and run.”

I willed my levitating hair to wrap around several cans, letting it do all the lifting.

We burst out of the building and sprinted up the hill—except Pete who flew ahead of us. I looked back. How could the infected people still run so fast, even though they were basically rotting? Six of them gradually gained on our little group.

I slowed my pace as Midas, having dropped his cans, ran back down the hill.

“What are you doing?” I yelled.

“Buying us some time,” he said with a slight grin. “Keep going!”

Ignoring his order, I stopped to watch.

He reached the first zombie and tapped it on the shoulder. Gold spread from where he had touched, enveloping the whole creature. Midas made a show of shaking the hand of one and patting another on the back. Eventually, all six looked like a ghastly emporium glinting in the sunlight.

Midas darted back up the hill and stopped next to me, panting.

I sighed. “Are you proud of yourself?”

“I don’t like having to touch them. They’re kind of squishy.”

I rolled my eyes. “Just be glad you’re immune and can touch them.”

“I was thinking, we should find some wrapping paper and give the statues to Pete as a present.”

“He would love that,” I said, letting sarcasm drip from my tone.

“Of course he would. Who doesn’t want zombies for Christmas?”

His words shone a ray of hope in me as we reunited with Pete at the bunker. Sure, I would always miss old holiday traditions, but maybe our ragtag little family could make some new ones.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Caroline N. Chandler is a very random person. She likes random things like swing sets, sci-fi with heart, books featuring unfortunate children, and listening to Christian metal. Her random hobbies include sketching, writing (obviously), eating pasta of any kind, and basing her entire personality on her current read. Above everything else, she loves God and believes that all things (yes, even stories) should be made for His glory and the spread of His gospel.

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