Chapter Text
Michael used to think that he would kick-ass in the zombie apocalypse. Sure, he was just a geeky high school kid with an affinity for being a complete loser, but he knew things. How to hotwire a car, how to pick a lock, the top ten tv shows of the eighties ordered by how much diversity they featured. He planned escape routes, figured out the best places to hide, knew how to get to Jeremy’s house without taking main roads- which would undoubtedly be blocked by immense amounts of traffic; The whole shebang. The thing is, Michael also figured that he’d never need to use his ridiculous and convoluted survival methods.
He was wrong.
His hopes and dreams for the future were violently thrown from a three story building on a particular Monday, because Mondays fucking suck.
It’s not like he had asked to be asleep in class when the school was invaded by the undead. Chemistry was pretty shitty, and definitely not his pick for “final class before the actual apocalypse”. Not that he really had a say in the matter.
The screams of his classmates as they were brutally attacked by hoards of the undead wasn’t the best wakeup call he’d ever had. You see, rising from a relaxing midday nap only to be faced by a freaking cannibal who was dead set on making Michael their next meal was an experience he would not like to repeat.
Turns out, the ten worksheets Ms. Nadine had given them had come in handy, though.
He didn’t think that she had intended for him to tape them around his arms as protection from zombie bites, but he was grateful anyway. He’d like to believe that he looked photogenic and inspiring while he rolled up the sleeves to his iconic red hoodie and smacked a zombie in the face with the lab door. (Spoilers: he did not.)
Now, he’s sprinting through the halls of Middle Borough High School armed with a ring stand and ten pages on the periodic table of the elements. It’s less than ideal. All he knows is that he has to get to Jeremy so that they can ditch school to fight zombies. Funnily enough, this isn’t the first time. Well, this time they’re real zombies, and he’s kind of a real apocalypse-virgin, so it’s not the same-
And suddenly he’s face to face with one of them. It’s not like the video games, because video games don’t look like the kid in your calculus class, and they don’t smell like rotting flesh, and they definitely don’t make you want to puke up the sushi you had for lunch. Michael doesn’t even really know calculus kid, but he knows that he has a family and a home and that’s enough to make anyone sick.
The kid examines Michael with a predatory eye, dilated pupils and slow movements. The worst part is how ordinary he looks, apart from the eyes and the gross red bite mark on his shoulder that’s slowly oozing blood. Michael gags.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t really have time to throw up, so he’s stuck swinging the ring stand wildly and hoping that it hits recently undead calculus kid in the brain.
It does not. The zombie launches himself (itself?) at Michael, and pins him to the floor, crushing his bag beneath him.
Now, in another situation, having another guy on top of him would not be a problem for Michael. Weirdly enough, though, given that the other guy is trying to eat him (and not in that way), he’s not down for it.
He struggles against the cheap linoleum tile, throwing his forearms out in front of him to stop the creature from getting a clear shot. The ring stand clatters to the floor beside him, just within arms reach. He briefly wonders where the rest of the students are.
The zombie bites into his arm. He winces, but throws his energy into grabbing for the discarded weapon. His fingers brush by the cool metal, and he slams the base of the ring stand into the side of the zombie’s head with everything he’s got. There’s a nauseating squish as the stand makes contact with skin, then bone. It’s too soft, too easy. The thing that was once calculus kid rolls off of him with an indignant shriek, and Michael is able to stumble to his feet. It isn’t dead, well, it’s kind of dead but-
It makes a grab at Michael’s legs, and he thanks any and every god that he’s able to dart out of reach in time. The thing looks rather pathetic, blond hair matted with thick red blood, a gaping wound now torn into the side of his head. It reaches desperately towards Michael. He almost feels sorry for it.
Then, there’s another scream, and he’s reminded of the dire situation at hand.
He makes a run for it, turning down the English wing and slamming the double doors behind him.
Michael takes a moment to examine his arm, where the zombie bit him. Three of the chemistry worksheets are irreparably ruined, but his skin and hoodie are untouched. That’s one good thing that’s happened today. He pushes up his glasses. They’re smudged.
The English hallway is just as hauntingly empty as the last one, but there’s one distinct difference.
Instead of the usual bulletin boards and cheesy motivational posters, the walls are splattered with crimson, turning the dull beige into a canvas of death. There’s a body slumped against the door of room 108. Michael doesn’t want to know who it is.
The stench is almost unbearable. He’s reminded of the time his family decided to take a vacation to Hawaii. They had a nice hotel lined up, but their rooms wouldn’t be ready until the day after they flew in, so they booked a night at a two-star motel near the airport.
From the moment they opened the battered door to their room, Michael knew that this was the kind of place hookers got murdered in. The furniture was trashy, the appliances were at least thirty years old, but the worst part was the smell. It was rancid, strong enough to make his entire family book it for the car. They later discovered the source, a rat who had the good sense to crawl behind the dresser and die.
This is like a dumpster filled to the brim with dead rats, with a spritz of cheap perfume and a couple of rotten eggs.
He feels like throwing up again.
There are people yelling nearby, one of the English rooms for sure. Jeremy might be in there.
Michael isn’t exactly equipped for taking down any more zombies, but he’ll damn well try.
He has to try.
It’s not difficult to locate the source of the screaming, the door is wide open and there are bloodstains soaking into the linoleum underneath the doorway.
Being the stealthy, apocalypse extraordinaire that he is, Michael decides that walking directly in front of the room in full view of all of the people inside is a great idea.
He immediately regrets this decision when he realizes the full scope of the situation.
There are bodies covering about half of the floor space, scarlet pools forming beneath them. A wall of shitty blue plastic chairs protects the remaining body-less sector, defended by a group of about six or seven seniors. The ceiling light is shattered on the floor, leaving the rest of the room in shadow, aside from the space illuminated by one tiny rectangular window.
There are zombies everywhere. They’re hunched over bodies, tearing at them like animals. They’re creeping towards the makeshift chair fort, ready to capture their next victim. Michael comes to a sudden realization. This is not an invasion. It’s a buffet.
And then he makes eye contact with Jeremy.
Those zombies don’t stand a goddamn chance.
Michael makes an executive decision to sing Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance With Somebody at the top of his lungs.
“Dude what the fuck?!” That’s Rich, pausing his assault on a nearby zombie with a yardstick to question Michael’s life choices.
Every undead body in the room turns to face Michael, and he knows that his plan is working, for better or for worse. They let out various snarls and grunts before moving at alarming rates towards him.
“Get to the car!” He shouts at Jeremy before turning and running as fast as he can to the double doors that lead to the back field. He can hear the thumps of zombie footsteps behind him, leaving their previous prey in pursuit of Michael.
They’re faster than he expected, not the shambling pitiful excuses for villains that the media so often portrays. He supposes this is because they’re newly turned.
He turns a corner, the peeling blue paint of the double doors comes into view. Twenty feet away, which is about four times as far away from him as the nearest zombie. The adrenaline seeps into his veins, and his white- recently red colored sneakers hit the floor a little harder.
Ten feet, he’s almost there.
There’s a sudden tug from behind, one of the zombies is gripping the fabric of his gray backpack. Shit .
The door is so close, taunting him. He could drop the bag- and risk losing his phone and laptop. It’s not like they’ll help him in the apocalypse, but his pictures are on there, memories. Selfies with Jeremy, his google document filled with redundant rambles, vents, and basically all of his feelings since the seventh grade. A bottle of Mountain Dew Red that he keeps on him at all times. Hasn’t he lost enough already?
And then he’s yanked back further, the zombie lets out a victorious snarl, and all bets are off.
He drops the bag and sprints.
Later, he’ll mourn the loss. Still, he can’t help the pang of longing as he pictures the backpack, lying solitary and trampled in the hallway.
He flings the doors open and veers right. There’s an old dumpster, the favorite hangout of the schools local stoners. Michael’s only ever gotten high in his basement, he wonders what it’d be like here.
He grips onto the plastic lid, feeling the green paint chip off beneath his feet as he hoists himself up. Ordinarily, he’d make a joke about being at home in the trash, but the zombies grasping at his legs kind of put a damper on the mood.
To his left lies the tin overhang above the door, and just beyond it is the roof. If he can get up there, he’ll be able to cross the entire school without encountering a single dead person. The problem is, there’s a gap between the overhang and the dumpster, and below it is a crowd of hungry zombies. Their arms are outstretched, as if they’re doing a terrifying version of the YMCA.
The overhang almost glitters in the sun, silver specks dancing across it, teasing him. If he doesn’t make this jump, he’s a goner. Then again, he’s dead if he stays.
And to think, he was worried about his hair this morning.
He takes a step back, avoiding the edge of the dumpster where the hands reach for him. Adjusting his glasses and pulling his trademark white headphones snug around his neck, (luckily they weren’t in his backpack, he doesn’t know what he would do if he lost them) Michael takes a deep breath.
He jumps.
For a moment, he’s airborne. Then, his feet hit the tin surface. He scrabbles for a handhold, his fingernails scraping against the metal like nails on a chalkboard. The ring stand slips from his grip and drops to the ground with a clang. His palms and fingers lock into place along the edge closest to the brick wall.
I made it .
Michael feels like cheering, doing a victory dance, maybe crying a little to celebrate this small victory.
But the clock is ticking, and he’s got the keys to the car. The car that Jeremy and Rich will be waiting by for him.
He grips the edge of the roof. It’s hot, burning his palms as he drags the rest of his body up. The green metal warms the soles of his shoes. There’s a strange surge of liberation in his chest, but it disappears rapidly once he registers his surroundings.
The area to his left is a battlefield, the grass drowning in blood and bodies. Some students are clamoring up the chain link fence, while zombie hoards wait impatiently below. The undead feast on fallen forms. He can almost hear the sickening crunches and squelches as they munch away. The student parking lot is on the opposite side of the roof, not yet within sight. He’s not sure he wants to see it. There’s no wind, the breeze is stagnant, giving the entire picture a strange surreal vibe.
Michael doesn’t cry, but his heart sinks and his shoulders slump. He’s been so focused on his own survival that he never really thought about the amount of loss. Kids, most with futures ahead of them, teachers with families waiting at home, parents who will never set eyes upon their child ever again. It’s unfair, it’s so unfair.
But he can’t do anything, so he settles for kicking a discarded basketball off of the roof. It drops, bouncing off of an unknown object with a resounding whump .
The trek across the forest green metal of the rooftop is uneventful, almost boring. The sombre mood hangs over the entire area like a cumulonimbus cloud.
As he draws nearer to his destination, the sounds increase. There are people yelling, tires screeching. He thinks he hears two cars smash into each other, the scrape of metal on metal rising above the din.
There’s a ladder down the side of the school that happens to be conveniently close to the parking lot. He knows this from the time Rich launched Michael’s bag onto the roof in sophomore year, and Michael was forced to retrieve it with help from the school janitor. At the time, he was mad at Rich for further humiliating him in front of their peers. Now, he’s just glad to have a quick way off the roof.
The metal rungs are cold compared to the heat of the roof, and he glances around nervously before he steps foot onto the concrete ground.
The parking lot is going to be a mess .
He braces himself before peeking around the brick of the school, but judging by the noise, he already knows what’s coming.
He was right. It’s utter pandemonium out there, people screaming, crashed cars releasing steam into the atmosphere, and zombies, so many zombies. There’s a panic attack building in his chest but he pushes it down. Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’tfreakout .
His beat up PT Cruiser is in its usual spot, right next to the exit. The only issue is the build up of cars, chalk full of people desperately trying to escape the turmoil. It’s not working out too well for them.
Only now is he beginning to regret the loss of his stupid ring stand.
He scrutinizes his surroundings, hunting for something, anything that he can use as a weapon. The chipped glass bottle dripping amber liquid? The stubby stick that crumbles when it’s picked up? Or, alternatively, the empty plastic cup that lay in about six different pieces by the wall, as if someone had had a spat with their slushie. One of the shards lies face up, adorned with a cartoon slushie possessing concerningly muscular arms. The label reads “burst your thirst”. He almost laughs.
He opts for the bottle, feeling his face twist into a disgusted look as the orange-brown liquid drains. It sputters onto the asphalt, running dark lines away from the brick wall. He’s suddenly thankful that it’s not blood.
When it’s finally empty, he takes another look around the corner, bottle in hand. The parking lot is in vaguely the same predicament, flesh eating zombies running rampant, people- kids running like chickens with their heads cut off. Some of them do have their heads cut off.
He feels his stomach churn for the nth time today. He stifles it.
The side of the parking lot closest to Michael runs along a shallow ditch, leading straight to the edge furthest from the school. If he can use the ditch to his advantage, he can turn and make a break for his car. He’s just got to avoid drawing any attention to himself.
He lowers himself into the muddy trench, wincing when the moisture soaks into his already ruined sneakers. The stupid apocalypse keeps ruining my shit .
The mud is a dull brown that could almost be gray, and it clings to Michael’s feet as he attempts to move forward. Each step is accompanied by squelch, and though realistically, he knows he’s not being that loud, it seems deafening. Every few seconds he has to stop as zombies or other humans approach the ditch, just as a precaution. He’s come too far to be caught now-
“Hey! You!” There’s a feminine voice, and he looks up to see Madeline standing at the side of the ditch.
Her normally perfectly preened blonde hair is tangled and woven with dirt and sticks. There are mascara smudges all around her eyes, making her look like a rather tall raccoon. The worst part is the front of her lacy blue dress, now stained a deep purple with blood. Though it’s only day one, the apocalypse has definitely taken it’s toll.
She’s looking down upon him, both literally and figuratively, which makes his blood boil a little bit. She has no clue how to survive to apocalypse, so really, he should be the annoyed one, right?
“Shhh!” Michael glares, holding a finger to his lips. “They’ll hear, and then we’ll both be dead.”
She lets out an indignant hmph, crossing her arms. “Do you have a way out? Can I come?”
“I’m kind of trying to be stealthy here,” he hisses, taking another step forward. He’s almost at the end of the trench.
“Je ne sais pas.”
“Wait-” He pauses, confused. “You’re actually french?”
“Oui! Tu as pensé que j'ai été menti?” She rolls her eyes, pushing her matted hair off of her face. Her pronunciation is horrible. Not just garden variety bad, but really truly awful. It’s like she forgot that french wasn’t exactly phonetically identical to english, and to read it like they were actual english words.
“Wh-what?”
“Ugh, whatever. Can you get me out of here or not?”
“Uh, I mean...” he trails off, glancing around when he hears another scream from nearby.
He can’t just abandon someone here, even if it is someone like Madeline. Michael, sighs, looking back up at her.
It all happens in about two split seconds.
There’s a figure behind Madeline, his face illuminated in the midday sun. Well, what’s left of his face. Someone has seemingly taken a car door, or a shovel to the poor guy’s nose, which is bloodied and definitely broken. There’s a steady stream of red pouring from his mouth, now dripping onto Madeline’s exposed shoulder. His right leg is twisted at an impossible angle, and he seems to be dragging his foot along for the ride, rather than actually using it.
He grabs Madeline, latching onto her like he’s going to lift her up like Simba in The Lion King . And then he sinks his teeth into her collarbone.
She screams, and Michael thinks it’s the worst one he’s heard so far, though that might be because he’s right in front of her- and holy shit she’s going to die . His mind is racing and time is speeding up, and he’s mostly thinking get the fuck out of here but he can’t just leave her to get devoured by a bunch of sixteen year olds-
There’s an awful crunch, and her scream is now at a pitch that rivals Christine’s E flat in Phantom of the Opera . She’s crying and there are more zombies coming their way, and he can’t move.
Michael has put up a lot of shit from life, but watching his classmate be dismembered in front of him is kind of where he draws the line. He shakes the stiffness from his frame, scrubbing at the tears that are currently leaking from his eyes, and prepares himself for what he’s about to do.
He could kill the zombie. Smash the bottle onto its head, watch it fall. He could grab Madeline by the arm, drag her along with him, hope that the zombies wouldn’t see them. It’s a gamble.
Or, he could leave her to get painfully murdered, and make a clean escape.
“I’m sorry.” He pauses to give one last look to Madeline, who is rather preoccupied with the three zombies who are currently fighting over who gets which intestine. Her screams have died down into pitiful whimpers.
He runs. Michael clambers up the side of the ditch and bolts for his car. The pavement is hot, sticky with god-knows-what (blood, he knows it’s blood), and the wind whistles in his ears as he narrowly avoids outstretched zombie arms.
Madeline’s rather dramatic death seems to be more attractive to the remaining zombies, though, as he encounters surprisingly little resistance. One zombie gets a bit too close. Michael responds by lobbing the bottle at its head.
He slams his hands on the car door, fumbling for the keys in his pocket. The moment he wrenches the door open he feels relief coursing through his veins, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“Michael!”
He turns to his right, spotting Christine, who waves her arms so violently that he thinks they might fly off. She’s accompanied by Rich, who holds a yardstick that’s been snapped in half, and Jeremy. Jeremy made it out .
If Michael had time to thank whatever higher power that his best friend is safe, he would.
Right now, though, he kind of wants to focus on keeping it that way.
The engine sputters to life, and he immediately steps on the gas. This sends him lurching over the curb and into the grass, which is now the only thing between him and open road.
Jeremy is the first to make it to the car. He pulls the passenger side open and launches himself onto the gray fabric of the seats. His face is completely red, whether from overexertion or something else, Michael can’t tell. Jeremy buckles himself in, and Michael feels a surge of affection towards his dorky friend, who follows car safety even in the apocalypse.
Christine and Rich follow him, the latter pausing to shove at an approaching zombie before slamming the door firmly shut. For a moment, all that can be heard is distant shrieks and each of them desperately trying to catch their breath.
“We’re alive,” Jeremy exhales, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself of it. Michael nods in response.
We’re alive
.