The Unexpected Immunity

Clay braced himself, eyes squeezed shut, heart hammering in his chest as he anticipated the inevitable—a tearing bite, a sharp claw, the cold sting of teeth on his flesh. But seconds passed, and nothing came. No bite. No scratch. Not even a faint touch. All he could hear was the harsh, guttural breathing of the zombies and their low, insistent grunts. The sound of their hands banging against the door was relentless, shaking the frame with each forceful hit.

He dared to crack one eye open, his breath catching in his throat when he saw the face of a zombie mere inches from his own. It was horrifyingly close—pale, blood-smeared, and emotionless—but it didn't attack. Instead, it stared vacantly past him, almost as if he weren't there. Clay's shriek of terror echoed through the space, but the zombie didn't even flinch. It turned its head slightly, sniffing the air, before shambling away aimlessly.

Clay's voice faltered, his scream trailing into stunned silence. The undead continued to shuffle around him, banging on walls, bumping into furniture, sniffing the air like animals searching for prey. But none of them attacked him.

On the other side of the barricaded door, Albert clenched his jaw, every loud thump from the other side feeling like a dagger to his conscience. He had heard Clay's terrified shout. He squeezed his eyes shut as guilt washed over him. But he knew there was no going back. There had been no choice. Clay was injured, slow, and, in his mind, a burden. They couldn't risk the safety of the group for one person.

"I'm sorry," Albert muttered under his breath, too quiet for anyone to hear. He kept his back to the door, unwilling to face the distant cries of the boy he had abandoned. His shoulders slumped under the weight of the bloodied bat in his grip, trembling from both exhaustion and the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

Ms. Shirley, standing a little further with the group, looked around at the shaken group of students huddled together. Most were crying softly, their faces pale with fear and grief. She tried to keep her composure, but she couldn't help glancing repeatedly toward the door, her heart aching with guilt. She had seen the boy earlier—injured and desperate—but fear had paralyzed her. She hadn't stopped to help him. Instead, she had run, just like everyone else.

"Ms. Shirley, are you okay?" a soft voice pulled her out of her thoughts. One of the students was looking up at her with wide, concerned eyes.

"Yes, yes," she replied quickly, though her voice wavered. She forced a smile, but her mind was racing. She tried to remember the boy's name. Clay. Yes, it's Clay. Guilt gnawed at her. She couldn't even remember his last name, and now… now he was likely gone.

Albert approached her, his face grim. "I couldn't save him," he whispered, his voice barely audible. His hands were clenched so tightly around the bat that his knuckles turned white.

She didn't respond. Deep down, she shared his guilt. She knew exactly who Albert was talking about.

Ms. Shirley placed a hand on his shoulder. "You did everything you could," she said gently, though the words felt hollow. "You saved all of us."

Albert turned his head slightly, his teary eyes meeting hers. He gave a small, bitter smile. "Thanks, Ms. Shirley."

At that moment, the students began murmuring among themselves, their voices low but filled with unease. Albert straightened and turned to face them, his expression hardening. He needed to take charge, to keep them from descending into panic.

"I may not be the strongest or the bravest, but I will do my best to lead us to safety," Albert said, his voice firm.

"But I can't do this alone. If we want to survive, we all have to work together. We need to fight when it's necessary"

The students fell silent, some nodding hesitantly. One of them stepped forward, trembling but determined. "I… I'll help. I don't want to be a burden anymore."

"Me too," another added, their voice shaky but resolute.

The small wave of determination spread through the group, and more students began voicing their agreement. Albert felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, they could survive this.

But Nathan's sarcastic scoff broke through the moment. "Yeah, great speech and all, but those things are still banging on the door. How about we get to the rooftop before it's too late?"

Without waiting for a response, he turned and marched toward the stairs.

Albert sighed but couldn't suppress a small chuckle. "He's right. Let's move."

The group began ascending the stairs, leaving the door.

Back on the other side, Clay stood frozen, his heart pounding as the zombies continued to wander aimlessly around him. His body trembled, adrenaline and confusion coursing through his veins.

Why aren't they attacking me? he thought. The question repeated itself over and over in his mind, each time without an answer. He waved a hand in front of a nearby zombie's face, his movements shaky and hesitant. The creature didn't react. It didn't even seem to notice him.

A mix of relief and disbelief bubbled up inside him. He exhaled shakily, his knees buckling as he sank to the floor. His earlier fear and desperation erupted in nervous laughter. He laughed so hard that tears streamed down his face, and he clutched at his head, pulling at his hair as the absurdity of the situation overwhelmed him.

"They're ignoring me!" he choked out between laughs. "Even zombies don't care about me!"

The sound of his own voice startled him, and he abruptly stopped, his laughter fading into heavy silence.

His gaze fell on a nearby zombie, one that had once been a classmate of his. The girl's face was twisted in grotesque horror, blood smeared across her features. Memories of the humiliation she had caused him flooded his mind—being slapped, being accused of stealing her money.

His jaw tightened. "Not so tough now, are you?" he muttered bitterly. He lashed out with his foot, kicking her hard in the side. She toppled over, landing limply on the floor.

The movement drew the attention of nearby zombies, who shuffled toward the commotion, sniffing the air. But when they found no prey, they dispersed again, aimlessly wandering in circles.

Clay stared after them, realization dawning. They weren't just ignoring him. They don't see him as a prey.

He glanced back at the barricaded door, his mind racing. He could try to rejoin the group, to bang on the door until they let him in. But what would he say? That he was immune? That he had somehow survived without a scratch? Would they even believe him?

He clenched his fists. They left me. They ignored me. The thought burned in his chest, a mix of anger and betrayal. He couldn't go back.

His injured knee throbbed, a sharp reminder of his vulnerability. He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to his feet. He couldn't stay here.

Clay descended the stairs, each step sending a jolt of pain through his injured leg. When he reached the ground floor, he stepped outside, his breath catching at the sight before him.

The once-familiar schoolyard was now a blood-soaked wasteland. Bodies littered the ground, some motionless, others twitching as zombies shambled aimlessly among them. The grass, once vibrant green, was now stained with blood.

The early morning sun cast an eerie glow over the scene, its warmth a stark contrast to the cold reality of the world around him. Clay tilted his head back, breathing deeply. For the first time in hours, he felt a strange sense of calm.

"I'm still alive," he whispered. A bitter smile tugged at his lips. "Against all odds, I'm still here."

But as he looked around, his gaze fell on the old building. Memories flooded back—his bag, left behind in the chaos. He couldn't leave it. So he went back there. His eyes scanning every corner until he found it. His bag lay discarded on the floor, dusty but intact.

He knelt down, wincing as pain shot through his knee. Grabbing the bag, he dusted it off, his fingers lingering on the worn fabric.

As he straightened, his eyes fell on the spot where he had been cornered, the memory of his fear still fresh. A wave of anger surged through him. He had been beaten down and humiliated. He want to take revenge but how. Despite this immunity, he is still weak.

Clay adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder, the weight of it grounding him. He had survived this far, but the gnawing hunger in his stomach reminded him that survival required more than avoiding bites. He didn't have lunch or dinner yesterday , and his body felt weak.

He debated his options, his eyes narrowing as he recalled the cafeteria on the other side of the school. The thought of food, any food, overrode his fear of what he might encounter there. It's probably crawling with zombies, he thought, but then reminded himself, They don't see me as a prey, I'll be fine

With a deep breath, he limped toward the cafeteria, the halls eerily quiet save for the occasional moan of the undead. As he walk and passed through the corridors, he saw more of them—zombies wandering aimlessly, bumping into walls, standing frozen in place, or crawling weakly across the floor. Some brushed against him, but none reacted.

He shuddered, still unable to fully grasp why he was immune to their attacks, but he pushed the thought aside. Focus on food. Just food.

When he finally reached the cafeteria, Clay froze in the doorway, his breath catching at the sight. The once-busy room, filled with laughter and chatter during lunch hours, was now a grotesque scene of carnage.

Blood pooled on the tiled floor, smeared across walls and tables. Body parts were scattered, and the stench of death was overwhelming.

Clay gagged, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve. The cafeteria tables were overturned, chairs broken and piled against the walls. A few zombies roamed the room, dragging their feet through the blood and gore. One of them was stuck in a window, its torso dangling limply as it reached out with clawed hands.

Steeling himself, Clay stepped inside, his eyes scanning for the kitchen door. He avoided looking too closely at the mangled bodies, though his stomach churned at the sight of what had once been students and teachers.

The kitchen door was slightly ajar, and Clay pushed it open cautiously. The smell hit him like a punch to the gut—a rancid mix of spoiled food and death. He staggered back, covering his nose again, but forced himself inside.

The first thing he saw was the cafeteria lady. She lay sprawled on the floor, a knife embedded in her throat. Her eyes were wide open, her face frozen in an expression of terror and despair. A bite mark marred her cheek, the flesh torn and raw. Blood pooled beneath her body, staining her white uniform.

Clay grimaced, forcing himself to look away. She must have killed herself after being bitten. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, but he shook it off and focused on the task at hand.

He opened one of the pots on the stove, only to be greeted by the foul stench of spoiled food. Gagging, he slammed the lid back down and moved to the fridge. Relief flooded him when he found it still functional, its interior cold and stocked with supplies.

Grabbing an apple, he bit into it hungrily, the sweet juice a stark contrast to the bitter taste of fear that had been lingering in his mouth. He sighed in relief, savoring the moment as he leaned against the counter. One apple wasn't enough, though. He grabbed a chocolate bar next, devouring it in seconds, followed by a bottle of water to wash it down.

Feeling slightly more human, Clay began rummaging through the kitchen, stuffing his bag with whatever he could find—biscuits, canned food, bottles of water, and more chocolate. He avoided the raw meat, knowing he had no way to cook it, and opted for non-perishables.

Satisfied, he slung his bag over his shoulder and turned to leave.

But then he heard it—a faint voice, trembling and uncertain.

"Hello? Is someone there?"

Clay froze, his heart racing. The voice was human, and it came from somewhere deeper in the kitchen. He hesitated, unsure whether to respond. His mind raced with possibilities. Another survivor? Or is it a trap?