It's sixteen years into the zombie apocalypse, and civilization has moved underground.
Content Warning: Violence, mild horror theme, and Occasional strong language.
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"Jen!" your mother yells from the hallway of your family pond. "Get your butt out of bed or you're going to be late!"
"Coming..." you moan half-heartedly. You've already been awake for the past two hours, too frozen with fear and anticipation to budge from under your green camouflage comforter. It's finally here, you think to yourself. My first day of high school. Life is finally beginning.
Judging from the clanks and sizzles and occasional yelps of pain coming from the other room, you're guessing that your mom is attempting to make breakfast, which, in itself is a momentous event. She's usually much too busy in her laboratory cooking up the newest batch of lifesaving serum to bother with actual food.
"Rise and shine, soldier!" The captain of the Zeta Sector military police force stands at attention in your bedroom doorway. "You need to be out of the door by oh-six-hundred hours."
"Yes, sir."
You sit up and feel under your bunk for your slippers.
"Aw, don't be nervous, pumpkin. You'll do fine." He pats you on the head as you pass him on your way to the bathroom. "Just be yourself."
Surprisingly, your mom's pancakes turn out to not be half bad. After inhaling a stack and downing a glass of protein drink, you grab your backpack and head for the door. Along the way, you pick up trusty .22 caliber pistol, double-checking the barrel and the safety before slipping her into the side pocket of your pack. "Well, I'm off. Wish me luck."
"Where do you think you're going with that, young lady?" your mom asks with a raised eyebrow.
"What?" you say. "You're actually going to send me off to school all alone with no protection?"
She stands patiently in front of you with her hand out. She's late for work, but she looks like she could wait there all day.
As far as moms go, yours is alright, although she's a stickler for the rules and the sector law says that the only weapon children under eighteen are allowed to carry in public is a crowbar.
"You're the boss mom," you say as you extend the pistol almost into your mom's waiting palm. "But since it's my first day and all, how about a little extra lunch money? A few extra bullets for some dessert at lunch or something?"
Your mom glares at you for a moment and then cracks a smile. She fishes in her pocket. She hands you a bullet as you hand her your pistol. She then hands you your crowbar. It's painted green and spans the length of your forearm. And it's way to boring to have a nickname.
"Now," your mom adopts her motherly tone. "I know school can be cliquey. But don't limit yourself to one group of friends. You're pretty, you're smart, and you're athletic, so it's not fair to restrict yourself to a single label. Be nice to everyone, and try not to give in to peer pressure."
"God, Mom," you groan. "You sound like one of those lame after-school specials you and Dad are always watching on the retro channel."
Your dad laughs as he hands your mom her briefcase. "Well, those were the good old days."
The year is 16 A.Z, sixteen years since the beginning of the worldwide VM pandemic. VM stands for victus mortuus, the clinical name for the living dead. But they go by many other names too: meatbags, bags, un-Ds, trips (for the awkward way they stumble around) fectors (the low-level infected who still have a chance of recovery), 20s (the worst of the worst—Level 20 infection), and sprayers (for the big green mess that 20's brains make on walls when you shoot them).
Before the VMs wiped out most of the world's population, a handful of survivors were able to find safety underground. At last count, 72,641 Americans occupied the twelve high-tech military bunkers built below Seattle sometime in the early 2000s. Your sector, Zeta, is somewhere beneath what used to be Tucson. The government had plans to expand farther underneath the entire country to create a safe haven in the event of a major terrorist event, such as nuclear fallout or bioterrorism. But no one ever expected that these plans would be interrupted by something straight out of an old zombie movie.
Your mother was six months pregnant with you when she and your father entered Zeta sector. Thanks to their medical and military backgrounds, they'd been recruited soon after the infection was discovered simultaneously in Shanghai, Mumbai, London, Johannesburg, Rio de Janeiro, Sydney, and New York City. You were born in the Zeta Sector hospital, and you've spent every day of your sixteen years of life safely tucked away in its residential zone.
According to sector law, all children under sixteen must be homeschooled, either by tutors or various sector-sponsored Undernet sites. After that, everyone is required to attend public sector high school for three more years. The best and brightest students enter either the military or medical fields. The average citizen might accept teaching, janitorial, or service positions. But the rest have only two options—either marry someone in the first two categories and start a family, or earn food vouchers by volunteering for medical experiments.
For you and your generation, it's always been this way. You only memories of the B.Z world come from movies made long ago in some place they used to call Hollywood. Now, the newest media personalities (mostly boy bands and reality television stars) come out of Alpha Sector. Movies don't get made much anymore, so you and everyone else your age obsess over old classics like Grease, Mean Girls, and High School Musical. And though you know they're all just stupid fantasies from a long-dead era, you still hope that Zeta High will have maybe just a fraction of their awesomeness (except maybe for kids busting out into song in the hallways; that you could live without).
You give your parents one last hug goodbye and head down the corridor to meet up with your best friend, Chase. Well, at least he was your best friend before he entered high school last year. You've grown apart a little bit since then, but now you hope it's going to be just like old times again. Plus, it will be great to have someone close by to show you the ropes and give you advice.
The door of Chase's pod swings open. "Yeah, Ma," he says over his shoulder as he comes out into the corridor. "She's here right now."
"Good luck, Jen!" Chase's mother calls from inside, and you wave thanks. Chase pushes his sandy brown bangs out of his blue eyes with an impatient flick of his wrist, pulling the door shut behind him. He smiles and flips his own green crowbar up into the air and then slides it deftly into the side pocket of his cargo pants.
"Ready to go, Bait?"
You hate this nickname for all first-year students, even if it is true that eighteen percent of them don't survive to their third year. "Shut up," you say, elbowing him in the ribs.
"Relax," he says, elbowing you back. "You know I'm just kidding."
You guess Chase could be described as cute, but you've also known him since you were four years old. You've shared baths and chicken pox, and you've tormented countless babysitters and tutors together. You've come to think of him solely as a brother. Any thought of romance between the two of you makes you queasy.
The two of you follow the east corridor to the subway, joining the mass of other students and workers along the way. A colorful mural celebrating Dr. Ethan Ehrlich's early antidote research adorns the stone walls. The heavy scent of spray paint fills your nostrils and you notice that someone graffitied "Death to all Fectors" and "Meatbags Suck" across the doctor's oversized beaker of AZ-214. Suddenly, the foot traffic in front of you comes to a halt.
"Looks like a bottleneck up at the eye scanner," Chase says, craning his neck above the crowd. "They must have caught a fecto." In a few moments, the crowd slowly starts to move again, and you finally make it to the eye scanner. You walk through it, careful not to blink, as a heavily armed military policeman watches the computer screen. It flashes green and he waves you through the gate. You and Chase arrive at the platform just as the subway does, and you hustle inside to find a seat together.
"So, did your mom freak this morning when you left?" Chase asks you.
"Nah, she was fine. She just gave me some cliché advice about avoiding peer pressure and cliques."
"Well, she's right about that."
"Ugh," you groan. "You too? You can't be serious."
"I am," he says, scanning the car anxiously before settling back in his seat. "The Zeta high social scene is brutal. It's best to avoid it altogether."
"What do you mean?"
"Have you not listened to a word I've said this past year?" asks Chase. You shrug and Chase sighs. "Okay," he continues. "Listen up. First you have the baggers. They're all meatheads and steroid cases, if you ask me. All they care about is killing meatbags."
"Sounds kinda fun," you say.
"More like a 24/7 testosterone fest. When they're not bragging about their kills, they're obsessing about their next workout or the newest energy drink. So boring. Most bagger guys date royalty—the cheerleaders and all of the orher spoiled, pretty princesses. Future trophy wives, I like to call them. Next, you have the ehrlichs. These are the smart kids, obviously, and they are also totally lame. All they do all day is study and brown-nose the teachers for extra bullets, which they immediately hand over to the baggers who protect their scrawny butts."
"That's pretty nice of them," you say, relieved that you won't be witnessing any Revenge of the Nerds-style bullying for being smart.
"Whatever. They're still major wads. But none of them are bad as the Kid A."
"Who's that?"
"Every year's got one," Chase says, raising his voice to a mocking pitch. "The guy who's sooo smart, sooo strong, and sooo brave. All the girls drool over the Kid A."
"Uh-huh," you say. "Jealous much?"
"As if." Chase leans back and crosses his arms.
"Is there ever a female Kid A?"
"I've never heard of one. It's always been a guy." He gives you his patented smart-aleck look. "Why? You think you fit the bill?"
"No, just curious," you say with a shrug. "It seems like you have everyone else figured out. Where do you fit in, exactly?"
"I don't fit in, thank you very much." He shifts uneasily in his seat and avoids your gaze.
"You're a rat?" you ask, eyes wide with disbelief. "How come you never told me?"
"I'm not a rat. I hate that label. I'm just one of the few kids who refuses to be sucked into the whole fascist system."
You consider this for a moment. "At least baggers and ehrlichs and royalty all have a purpose for the greater good of society. What's yours?"
"Do you hear yourself?" Chase huffs, his face suddenly turning red. "You sound just like those stupid public service announcements on TV. Do you really think everyone had a purpose back before this all happened? What's wrong with just wanting to be a kid?"
A man sitting across from you peers at Chase over his newspaper. Chase sighs and looks out the window at the passing advertisements along the subway tunnel wall. You notice that there's going to be a John Hughes movie marathon all next weekend, and you make a mental note to DVR it. "Look," Chase finally says. "It's not like I'm planning to donate my body to science or anything. But sometimes I just get sick of all the crap. I'd just rather play Resident Evil than actually live it, you know?"
"Yeah, I guess."
Just then, you notice a group of teens enter your train car—one guy and two girls. Base on Chase's descriptions of high-school social structure, you'd guess that this guy was a bagger. His broad shoulders and cocky expression says it all. The two girls are definitely royalty—beautiful, poised, and possessing obvious fashion sense. The three of them are chatting and laughing with one another. They haven't noticed you or Chase on the other side of the crowded car.
Chase is a rat, the least popular of the social cliques at the school. Chase is your childhood friend. You admonish yourself for even thinking of selling him out.
The two of you continue talking about what to expect for the day ahead.
A tones dings twice over the speaker system, signaling the next stop. Chase reaches his backpack. "Just remember one thing: the less you call attention to yourself at this school, the easier it'll be. Trust me."
You follow Chase out of the subway car qnd join a few dozen other kids walking towards a set of heavy gray doors. Above them hangs a plaque which reads "ZETA HIGH SCHOOL - ESTABLISHED 2 A.Z." You enter a wide hallway lined with lockers, passing small clusters of squealing girls, guys horsing around with their buddies, and silent kids with their noses already buried in thick medical volumes. You follow Chase around the corner, eventually approaching three kids who all greet him with smiles or slaps in the back.
"Guys, meet Jen," Chase says. You smile as Nick, Tatum, and Caroline introduce themselves.
"Howdy," Tatum chirps. Her strawberry blonde hair is lacquered into short spikes all around her head, and her ears are pierced with about a dozen earrings each. "Chase told us all about you. If you want to stash your stuff in my locker, that's cool. I have plenty of room."
"Oh, thanks," you say. But I think first years are all assigned lockers over in the west hall?"
"It don't matter," Nick says. His black t-shirt has a white skull with MISFITS written in green across its forehead. He's also missing a tooth behind his left canine. "No one ever checks. I've had the same locker for the past five years."
"Five?"
Caroline snorts and put her arm around Nick's waist. She's wearing an ill-fitting green cardigan and a plaid skirt and thick yellow glasses. "He's joking. He's only been held back once, and that's only because he spends most of his time in detention."
You laugh politely as a speaker bolted to the ceiling crackles with static.
"Attention all students: please report to the auditorium in five minutes for Principal Gupta's orientation speech," a booming voice announces. "This is mandatory. Thank you."
"This is mandatory, thank you," Nick repeats mockingly, and Caroline snorts again.
"Wonder if old Gupta has any new material this year?" Tatum asks no one in particular, checking her tounge ring in her locker mirror.
"Doubt it," Nick scoffs. He reaches over to put Caroline in a playful headlock.
"Hey!" She wiggles away and hip checks Tatum. "Can I borrow your chapstick?" The girls fiddle with their makeup as Chase and Nick make bored small talk. No one makes any attempt to join the rest of the students milling towards the auditorium.
"Um, maybe we should get going," you say nervously.
"You're not really gonna go to that, are you?" Chase asks. "It's so totally boring. Besides, we have other plans."
"Like what?"
Tatum pulls a blue card out of her back pocket and waves it under your nose. "Like, I pinched this from my dad this morning."
"What's that?"
"A key, dummy. My dad's a janitor. That means full access to the school." She slips the card back in her pocket, a self-satisfied gleam in her eye. "And rumor has it there's a cage full of trips somewhere in the south corridor. Like, total 20s."
"Aaarrrgggghhh!" Nick lunges at Caroline's neck and she dissloves into giggles before locking lips with him in a sloppy exchange of spit.
"Isn't that dangerous?" you ask. "I don't want to get infected. I hear getting the antidote shot totally sucks. And it doesn't even work most of the time."
Tatum rolls her eyes and slams her locker. "Oh, c'mon. Live a little. Besides, it's totally safe. My dad cleans in there every day, and he's a total wuss."
"I don't know," you say, biting your lip in hesitation. "That orientation sounded pretty important.. I mean it's my FIRST HOUR at this school and I immediately go break the rules?" you ask incredulously. "As mom says, don't break the rules until you know the game," you think to yourself, although you're careful not to declare your mommy advice out loud.
"Whatever," you say with a shrug. "Let's go hang with some meatbags!"
Your new friends cheer, and you follow them down the south hallway, past empty classrooms, and a lunchroom already emitting a questionable aroma. A banner on the wall written in brown and yellow markers announces the Homecoming Scrimmage this Friday night. You point it out to Chase.
"Ugh, really Jen?" he scoffs. "It's just a bunch of Baggers on steroids showing off for the crowd. Totally lame."
"Whatever, man. I'm definitely going," Nick chimes in. "It's so rad! They use all these crazy weapons to chop up the un-Ds. Chainsaws and blow torches and stuff." Chase and Tatum shoot him annoyed looks and he shrugs. "What? It's kinda cool, is all I'm sayin'."
When travel between sectors became too risky for anyone other than military or medical personnel (around 4 A.Z or so), that pretty much put an end to traditional high school football. Since then, Arena Bagging—sort of a mix between ancient Roman gladiators and a comically exaggerated military combat zone—has become the new American pastime. You've never actually seen a game, but you imagine it must be pretty amazing.
"Speak of the devils..." Tantum says as you turn down a small corridor and approach a steel door with a sign that reads CAUTION: STAY OUT. "This has gotta be it." She slides the card into a small slot under the knob and the tiny light next to it turns from red to green. "Jackpot!" She smiles and goes inside. You look hesitantly at Chase, but he just shrugs and follows behind Caroline and Nick.
Inside the room is another corridor with cages lining each side. Thick steel bars are the only thing between you and your friends and about two dozen un-Ds. And it looks like your entrance has attracted their interest, as they've already began shambling slowly towards you. One female, probably in her mid-thirties when she was infected, stops suddenly and cocks her head to the side. She sniffs the air, the opens her mouth and lets out a low, guttural moan like a bobcat you saw on TV once. The males behind her return her call and continue their leisurely stroll your way.
"Creepy," you say. The female is right in front of you now, her gray skin flawless except for a white gash on her neck. Her long brown hair was probably pretty when she was alive, but now it's with nest of tangles around her hollow, vacant face. "I thought they'd be grosser somehow."
"Oh, they usually are," Nick says. "But these guys look pretty fresh. Captured specially for the Homecoming game, is my guess."
"My dad said he saw one with no legs once," Caroline says with a shiver of revulsion. "It was just dragging itself along with the little stump of arm it had left."
"Nasty," Tatum says. "Hey, check out Gramps, here." She pulls a candy bar out of her purse and waves it in the direction of an elderly man wearing a pea green tuxedo. His gray hair is still perfectly combed over his wrinkled scalp, and a pair of bifocals sit off-kilter on the bridge of his nose. When he opens his mouth to moan, a set of pearly white dentures tumble past his gray lips onto the floor.
"Oh my god," Nick says. "Did everybody just see that?"
"Gnarly," Chase whispers under his breath.
"You like chocolate, buddy?" Tatum asks, holding it just out of his reach.
"Watch it, Tatum." Chase warns, hanging back behind everyone else. "He's probably more powerful than he looks."
"Oh, is that concern I hear, Chasey?" Tatum says, turning around to flutter her green-mascara eyelashes his way. "What would happen if Old Toothless here broke out and started gumming me to death? Would you come to my rescue?"
"Tatum, don't be stupid." Caroline marches up to her friend and grabs her by the wrist. "Let's go."
"No!" Tatum flinches and takes a step backwards towards the cage, which gives Gramps just enough room to grab her by the elbow and give her a good, hard yank. In what seems like slow motion, her head smacks the metal bars with a loud thunk, knocking her unconscious. She slumps forward onto the ground as another VM wearing a t-shirt that reads PETE'S PIZZA DELIVERY reaches for her ankle. Caroline screams and backs away as Chase and Nick stand frozen in terror. In about five seconds, Tatum's going to be toast.
You pull your crowbar from your backpack and rush to help Tatum. It only takes one swing to fend off Gramps, but Pizza Dude puts up a bigger fight. You smack the side of his head repeatedly, and one of his eyeballs begins to bulge in its socket. But still he continues to pull Tatum closer. Just when you think she's done for, her eyes flutter open.
"Kick!" you shout. She does, knocking Pizza Dude right under the chin and dislodging the left side of his jaw. She scrambles away as he lunges for you. But before you have time to react, you hear a crack as Nick delivers a solid blow to the top of Pizza Dude's head. The bag slumps over with one final groan.
"You alright?" Chase grabs you by the shoulders and pulls you towards him. Caroline and Nick are already locked in a passionate embrace.
"I think so." Relieved, you push your hair behind your ear and feel wetness. There's a small smear of blood on your finger. You try to hide it, but Chase has already noticed.
"Oh crap," he says, his face turning white. "I think I'm gonna faint."
"Shut up. It's nothing."
Tatum stands up, rubbing the back of her head. She doesn't appear to have scratch on her. "Guys, maybe we should get back."
"Yeah, you're right," Chase says. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all, huh?"
The four of you walk back in silence. Nick pushes open the auditorium door and a shaft of light cuts across the darkened audience. There's a man on stage—Principal Gupta, you assume—who stops mid-sentence and squints against the spotlight in your direction. Three hundred heads turn around in unison to gawk at the interruption. Chase slinks off towards a group of empty seats in the back and the rest of you quickly follow.
"So nice of you to join us, whoever you are." Flustered, Principal Gupta shuffles through his note cards. "Now, where was I? Okay, well then.. I'd like to welcome our new class of first years. I encourage all second and third year students to help them out this first week with finding their classes and adjusting to the way things work around here. I'm sure you all remember what a big change it all is."
"Baaaaiiitt," someone behind you drawls.
"All students must take a core set of subjects each year, including Science, Physical Education, and History. You all should have received your individual schedules by now. And though you may excel in one particular area, I urge everyone to give their best effort in every subject. Remember," Principal Gupta pauses dramatically here, raising his arms as if to embrace the entire student body in a bear hug. "You are the future of humanity. Each one of you is responsible for staying alive. If I had to grow up under circumstances like this.." Here his voice breaks and he brings a balled fist up to his mouth. He pauses and shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I really don't know how you kids do it."
You cringe uncomfortably, hoping he doesn't start bawling like a baby. But he clears his throat and continues on.
"I also want to remind everyone to practice caution at all times. We do our best to keep the school as safe as possible, but unfortunately the threat of infection is ever present. If you or someone you know gets bitten—or even scratched—go to the health office immediately. As you all know, AZ-922 has shown promise with Level 2 scratches and treat bites up to Level 7. But it must be administered quickly. The longer you wait, the less likely it is to work."
"Tammy Yoder is a fecto!" someone shouts, followed by a chorus laughter. Principal Gupta glares into the darkness.
"Infection is nothing to be ashamed of, people. But if you insist on hiding it, it's just a matter of time before you get infected again. And again. And then before you know it, you're undead. Understand?"
His question is met with silence, but you know that you and everyone else around you are thinking the same thing: There's no way I'd admit to it. I'd rather die than have everyone know I'm a fecto. And yeah, sure, it's a dumb and potentially deadly way of thinking, but it's simple human nature: no one wants to admit to being the kid with cooties. You've heard all the stories from Chase. Even if the vaccine works for you, it still means permanent social suicide, as Tammy Yoder could testify. Principal Gupta clears his throat.
"Moving on: we operate on a bullet-based merit system here. That means if you do well on an assignment, you get a bullet. If you show strength and courage in PE, you get a bullet. Likewise, we will confiscate bullets for negative behavior. But as you all know, in accordance with sector law, minors are allowed firearms only in supervised situations. Speaking of which, we are looking for a new first period corridor monitor. Monitors are in charge of scanning and apprehending anyone exhibiting infection or other suspect behavior. You'll be paired with Val Killmeade. Val, can you stand up?"
Principal Gupta gestures to a girl in the third row, who rises reluctantly to face the rest of the auditorium. Her freckled face is framed by a halo of short red braids that make her head appear to be on fire. Someone in the back wolf whistles, and another clown makes a crude, flatulent noise. Val scowls and sits back down as a wave of laughter travels across the audience. Principal Gupta taps on his microphone for attention.
"Alright, everybody. Val is one of our most experienced monitors, so any first year who is interested will be in good hands. I shouldn't have to remind you all that this is an excellent training opportunity. So do I have any volunteers?"
"I think he means any suckers?" Chase murmurs under his breath.
You look at your class schedule and see that you have first period Study Hall. What a yawn. You have to admit that hunting meatbags every morning would be sweet, but you're hesitant to call attention to yourself so early in your high school career. Clearly corridor monitoring is not the first track to popularity.
"Anyone? Anyone at all?" There's a hint of desperation in Principal Gupta's voice as he scans the crowd. "Did I mention you get to carry a loaded rifle?"
There's another minute or so of uncomfortabale silence, until finally a tall, lanky kid wearing a baseball cap stands up. A wave of relief washes over the principal's face.
"Thank you, Pauly. Please check in with Sergeant Davidson at the supply room. Everyone else is dismissed."
The auditorium erupts into low level chaos as the students scramble for their bags and exchange goodbyes with their friends. Chase grabs a hold of your backpack and steers you gently in the direction of the exit. "C'mon. I'll show you where your room is."
"I got it."
"Okay," he says, and you detect a hint of dissapointment in his voice. "Guess I'll see you at lunch?"
"Sure. Later!"
You easily find your way to Study Hall and check in with the teacher, who introduces himself as Mr. Nelson. He assigns you a seat next to a pretty blond pony-tailed girl, who's obviously Royalty. She's painting her nails a strange neon green color, and she looks up momentarily to give you a half-hearted smile.
"Hey."
"Hey," you say back.
"I'm Jenna."
"Jen."
Jenna holds her hand out at arm's length and studies it thoughtfully. "What do you think of this color?"
"It's awesome!" you say. Jenna's face lights up and she leans forward.
"Thanks! My dad brought it back from Gamma sector when he was sent there on a special mission. He's a scientist working on the cure."
"So is my mom," you say. "They probably know each other."
"Probably." Jenna nods. "Do your parents make you attend that lame Family Day?"
"Yep. Every year." Family Day was the lab's attempt at rewarding hard work and encouraging employee bonding. Last year's event included cheesy games like a three-legged race and a tugged-of-war, ending with a picnic of soggy sandwiches and stale potato chips in a dimly lit conference room. A dull time was had by all.
"Me too," Jenna said and smiled. "At least next time we'll have each other to hang out with, right?"
"Shh!" Mr. Nelson glares at you and Jenna. You smile apologetically at him and begin idly flipping through an Alpha Beat magazine. You're halfway through an interview with teen heartthrob Zak Furlong when suddenly someone or something starts banging against the classroom door. "Everyone to the back of the room," Mr. Nelson shouts. "Now!" He scrambles to his feet and pulls a pistol out of his hip holster as the door splinters and bursts open.