Teens

I think I blinked today.

That sounds dumb, I know. But I swear—for a second—my eyelids moved not because of dust or instinct, but because I wanted them to. Volition. A flicker. Like a dying bulb in the world's worst chandelier.

Progress.

Red is still nearby. Always a little ahead, like a carrot dangled on a stick I can't grab. Her gait hasn't changed much—limping, jerky, but weirdly rhythmic. Jacket's fallen back a bit. Tyson's still ahead, tall and smug, leading our personal rotting marathon like he's training for the Undead Olympics.

It's morning again. Pale, watery sunlight filters through the treetops, making everything look like it's been dipped in skim milk. Dew clings to our clothes. Something smells marginally less awful today, but I'm not getting my hopes up. Could just be that my nose is decaying.

We pass an old campsite.

It's mostly flattened—just a tarp half-buried under leaves, a rusted camp stove, and what might've once been a shoe. There's also a notebook. Spiral-bound. Pages warped from rain. I only catch a glimpse, but the cover says something like "Day 47 – No bites. Yet."

Guess that didn't last.

I wish I could stop. I want to read the pages, see what mattered to whoever scribbled those words. Maybe it would help me remember more of myself. My life. But my legs keep moving. The body isn't mine. Not completely.

Not yet.

We cross a creek around noon.

At least, I think it's noon. The sun's straight overhead. My body steps into the water without hesitation, and I feel it—cold, biting at ruined flesh. It doesn't matter to the others. They just slog through it like ducks made of rotting hamburger.

I try to stop.

Just a second. Just a pause.

I focus everything I have. Every ounce of thought, of will, into the idea of freezing mid-step.

And—I do.

Not completely. Not dramatically. But my foot hesitates. It hovers for half a second above the water, like I'm deciding. That's me. That hesitation? That's mine.

I want to laugh. Or cry. Or shout.

Instead, I make a noise.

A groan, yes—but different. Sharper. Not from the throat, but from the chest. Controlled. Almost a syllable. It startles me. Jacket glances back. Just for a second. His eyes are as dead as ever, but they linger a beat longer than they should.

Then he turns forward again.

There's something new on the air.

Not rot. Not sweat. Something warmer. Spicier. Cooking.

It hits all at once. Even the others pick up on it. Groans get louder. Heads tilt up. There's a communal shift—like a pack of dogs catching a scent.

I don't know what they're cooking—beans? Ramen? Dog food in a pot?—but it smells like life. Like memory.

And it makes my stomach—or what's left of it—twist with want.

We veer again. Not hard, not fast. Just a subtle bend. The herd responds to scent like gravity. It doesn't matter if there are trees in the way, or a cliff, or a river. If there's food, we'll find it. Or die trying. Again.

I feel dread rising. Not for me, but for whoever's behind that fire. They're too close. Too careless. Too unaware.

Unless...

Unless they want us to come.

We break through a clearing by late afternoon. The sun slants sideways, throwing long shadows like prison bars across the forest floor.

And there they are.

Two people. Teenagers, probably. One is sitting by a tiny fire, stirring a pot. The other is holding a bow—drawn, ready. She's small, wiry, face half-painted with ash. War paint? Camouflage? Panic?

The one with the pot sees us first. Drops the ladle. Mouth opens to scream, but nothing comes out. This wasn't some kind of zombie ambush, but a few lost kids. The archer girl doesn't wait, though. She fires.

The arrow whizzes through the air and buries itself in Jacket's shoulder.

He doesn't even flinch.

The herd reacts like a beehive just got kicked. The moans rise. Feet speed up. Arms lift.

They're going to die.

No.

I won't let them.

I scream it in my mind. Over and over. Like it's a prayer, or a command, or maybe just desperation shaped into words.

But my body doesn't care.

It moves.

Feet dragging through the dirt, arms swinging like meat pendulums, my frame lurches forward—one more in the wall of death converging on the fire. Around me, groans swell into a hungry chorus. The young man by the pot lifts it like a shield, swinging wide at the first corpse to get too close.

The pot crashes into a zombie's face with a sickening clang. Bone cracks. Teeth scatter. But it's not enough. Hands reach from all sides. Rotting fingers claw at his jacket, his hair, his face. He tries to fight—swings again—but they pull him down like wolves on a deer.

He doesn't even scream at first.

Then the tearing starts.

A wet, choking gurgle bursts from his throat as the horde piles on. Flesh ripped. Bone snapped. Blood sprays the leaves. It's obscene. Animal. The kind of thing no human should ever see, let alone be part of.

And I'm walking straight into it.

I try to stop. Beg my muscles to resist. But my arms lift on their own, fingers twitching in anticipation. My mouth hangs open. Hunger surges like a tidal wave.

No no no no no—

His name was Mark. I know this, as the archer girl began screaming it in horror at watching him be devoured.

I didn't know him, but I know this: he didn't deserve to die screaming and eaten alive.

Just before I reach the frenzy, something whistles past.

Thunk.

An arrow hits a zombie in the thigh. It collapses, snarling, and begins dragging itself across the grass like a broken dog.

The girl—maybe sixteen?—stumbles backward from the edge of the carnage, bow trembling in her grip.

"Mark!" she shrieks again. "Mark, get up! Mark—!"

But Mark doesn't get up.

He's gone.

She screams repeatedly. Raw, ugly grief. Then tosses her bow aside and pulls two more arrows from her quiver. Gripping them like knives, she charges the nearest corpse with a sob.

"No! No! Get off him!"

The first arrow drives into a zombie's shoulder. Useless. The second, she slams toward the face—misses the eye, catches the cheek. The thing barely reacts. It just growls and grabs her wrist.

She jerks back, stumbles. Falls.

And now they're on her.

Hands. Teeth. Dead weight and hunger. She flails, kicking, clawing, crying. Not brave. Just terrified. A teenager dying in the dirt for being too close to the wrong fire.

And I—

I can't stop.

I turn toward her.

Mark's already lost. Her cries are louder. Closer. My broken compass of hunger recalibrates. My legs change course.

I want to vomit. I want to scream. I want to tear my own face off.

But instead…

I walk.

Closer.

Her hand stretches up from beneath the mob.

She's still alive.

Not for long.

And I'm next in line.