Again, I want brutal honesty.
And now I am in full-on freak out mode.
It’s not until after Max hangs up that I realize that I’m gripping the phone so hard my knuckles have turned white and I’ve stopped breathing. I stand there in a state of shock with Roxy for a couple of minutes.
Finally, she breaks the silence. “Alright, I guess I believe him now. Do you?”
I don’t reply.
“Are you OK?” she asks with concern.
I snap back to reality. “Yeah. Umm… I’m fine.” I fake a smile.
My mind is swarming with thoughts. Max said he needed me, definitely a plus in the crushing-on-your-best-friend-without-him-knowing-so-your-friendship-isn’t-awkward scenario that is my life. And on the overwhelmingly down side, Max needs me to save him and his good friend Finny from a swarm of brain-eating, flesh-craving zombies that could attack either of them at any moment and infect them with decay and an overwhelming desire to chomp down on some soft tissues.
At this thought, I suddenly spring into action, preparing for what is to come. I am running around my apartment, looking for anything that could help us.
“Roxy,” comes my muffled holler as I dig through a closet.
“Yeah?” she asks.
“I need you to empty my school bag and yours and fill them with enough provisions to last us at least a week.”
“With enough what?” I can hear her right behind me.
“PROVISIONS! Food, Roxy!” I yell at her as I emerge from the back of my closet with a few hammers.
“Sheesh! I’m right here; no need to shout,” she says, heading for the little kitchenette.
“Sorry,” comes my reply as I kneel down to look under my bed for the gun my dad gave me before I went off to college.
Ten minutes later the two of us, laden with over-stuffed backpacks, are sneaking down the hallway on our way to my truck when we run right into something.
At first we both scream, because we think it is a zombie.
Then when we see it is Creepy Carl with the cockroach farms, we scream again, only louder.
“Hello, ladies,” he says as he leans against the door leading outside. He probably thinks he’s being cool, and he might have looked a little less than usually awkward if the door he chose to lean against wasn’t “to remain unlatched during all hours”.
As soon as he hits the floor, we are running. We don’t stop until we reach my truck, wheezing and out of breath.
The streets are quiet as we drive to the mall. Now, I’m not saying the streets are usually bustling with people, but normally you pass a soul or two.
This time there is no one.
No humans.
No zombies.
When we pass Memorial Park, we see why.
“Whoa,” Roxy breathes.
What seems to be the entire population of Little Creek (all 2, 395 people) is gathered. Except, they don’t look like people, at least, not the kind you and I are used to. They aren’t rotting, but they don’t talk or even move. They don’t even appear to be breathing. Instead, they are just staring at the raised platform in the center of the park, the raised platform where about twenty decaying corpses are standing, maggot-infested arms raised, mouths agape in a silent cry for war. They survey the crowd with angry faces; they do not talk.
I suppose they can’t. One holds up a sign that reads:
“Attak them al! kil them! Eet ther brains!”
Roxy reads the sign and stifles a laugh. But she shouldn’t be worried that her laugh will draw attention to us.
Let’s just say that, unfortunately, the engine of my truck is not the most silent.
As we pass, 2,415 heads turn slowly toward us, only 20 of them green and mottled. 2,395 of them look like regular humans, but paler, and with blood-shot eyes.
One of the head zombies point to us and groans in a way that clearly means, “Get them!”
Needless to say, I slam on the gas and we peel out and away, the zombies following very, very, very slowly behind.
Instead of having her think to herself, what if she thought aloud and Roxy kept interrupting her. Like:
I love the Creepy Carl bit. But-*le gasp* what if he's a zombie too?!?! Lol,