Young Writers Society

The last zombie falls, and I walk over. I reach down and search through the pockets. I pull out a small locket and open it. I see a woman, who must be the zombie I am looking at now, a man (late husband), and a young girl. I stick it into my bag, just as I hear a familiar-and dreaded-voice.

"Selene! You gonna search every pocket?!" Dajen Deacon yells behind me. I slowly stand up and turn around.

"There's only 5 Dajen, it's called math. Maybe you should try it sometime!" I shout at him.

Dajen (D.J.) Deacon is the first lieutenant in the Zombie Apocalypse Corps. Supposedly, my superior, even though it's pretty clear who runs this considering I usually call orders. I owe the people's trust to my father, Dajen's predecessor. Apparently, I resemble him closely. I tell you more about my father later on if I'm not dead or I have time. Or maybe you'll figure it out.

Either way, Dajen Deacon is a one-eyed (born that way), blue-eyed creep who I do not like.

At all.

Everyone begins to go towards the Jeep that will take us back to the Zombie Apocalypse Corps' headquarters. I quickly turn and fire a shot into the air. If I was sane, normal, and submissive, I would let my superior do this. It's required to let people know the scene's clear and we're leaving. If you haven't figured this out yet, I am not sane, normal, and definitely not submissive. But don't worry, I am not a psychopath, just a sociopath. There's a difference.

It's August, but unseasonably cold. My jacket barely keeps me warm. It's leather too. Half the leaves have already fallen, but some still cling to life and refuse to die. I'm glad. We lose cover if there aren't any leaves.

Dajen shoots daggers at me with his look. I march past him, and he shoves me. I stop, and hear his small laugh. Everyone else is in the Jeep.

It infuriates me.

I turn around and look at him. "You know, you're really going to regret that," I mutter.

"How?"

"This," I say. I slam my fist into his jaw. He careens backwards, and I hear laughter as I turn around, and walk back to the Jeep. I climb in, close the door, and tell the driver, Thomas, to leave.

"Ma'am, you're leaving-"

"I know. Go."

He begins to roll away, and I see Dajen start running after the Jeep. The teenagers in the van begin laughing hysterically at Dajen's abandonment. Mostly because he stole half of the boys' girlfriends and, as for the others, their girlfriends left them for him. Clearly, they have no problem leaving him in a barren wasteland.

I slide into the side, where Dajen usually sits but I get the pleasure.

I smile the entire way back to headquarters.

"Why?" Thomas asks me.

"He needed a workout," I say.

Thomas, who's my age, high-fives me as I put my feet on the dashboard.