The Strong Will Survive

Prologue - KC

Never, I repeat, never, under any circumstances, have a friend get you a chicken sandwich during the zombie apocalypse. That's how I got into a mess that would change my life. I had heard that there were zombies in New York, but I didn't expect them to look like this. It stumbled along near the security entrance, holding a Culver's bag and a Starbucks drink. It was a teenaged girl, probably a sophomore, but she looked older somehow. Not older- dead.

My best friend Marianna's Ugg boots were ratty and stained. Her hair, usually in a perfect braid, was mussed and falling out. Her mouth was stained red-- not her usual color of lipstick. I looked for about ten seconds before I realized that it wasn't lipstick. It was blood. Her perfectly made-up eyes stared forward, dead looking, not even searching around to give me the chicken sandwich I asked her to get me while she was out for open campus. I knew that she was a zombie, but I was hungry! C'est la vie, anyway.

Everybody saw her. They were completely silent, stunned and confused that one of their own, one of their friends, could look and act like this. Marianna turned sharply and growled, blood dripping out of her mouth. Panic ensued as Marianna lurched towards us, hungry not for the Culver's in her hand, but apparently for high schoolers.

I nearly lost consciousness. My best friend, who I've known since 8th grade, the popular, pretty Marianna, zombified. Her boyfriend, LaRue, ran towards her. She grabbed him and started sucking face. But his screams of pain told me that it wasn't a normal kiss. He crumpled to the ground. About five minutes later, his skin turned gray and peeling. Marianna had turned him, too.

The "Zombie Twins" moaned and stumbled after us as we ran outside. There were more of them out there, but I outran them. I made it home. Some of my classmates didn't. Brooklyn is congested with traffic on a good day, so the zombies were pretty hard to outrun, especially with steel-toed boots and a huge horde of undead New Yorkers and tourists behind you. But I did, like a boss.

I burst in the door of our apartment and locked it. The windows were already locked and boarded up, which really surprised me. The TV was on, which was typical for my family. Jersey Shore. My mom's favorite show. She was lying on the couch, looking at my brother who was snoring softly in his beanbag chair. I decided that it was a little weird, but whatever. Maybe Jamie refused to go to Pre-K today. And then I remembered.

It was Wednesday. Jamie didn't have school today. Je suis si bête, I was so dumb for forgetting, but these things kind of slip your mind when you're being chased by zombies. I pulled my bright green hair into a ponytail and readjusted my plaid shirt. It was time to get to work finding stuff to survive.

I had packed a bag with everything I needed to survive for about a week, and was going to the bathroom when I heard a door slam. It was probably my dad, back home from work early. I finished in the restroom and went downstairs. There, I saw a horrible thing that would haunt my dreams for the rest of my life. My family... as the undead.

My mother was a Bedridden zombie. That much was obvious. She lay on the couch, leaning on a pillow. Her skin was ashy gray and tight against her bones. Horrified, I stepped forward and knelt beside her. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jamie, my three-year-old brother, lying on the ground, unmoving.

I knew that I had to get going before the bite on Jamie's arm took action. I turned and started for the fire escape. Hearing a squelching sound, I stopped in my tracks and slowly turned. My father was standing at the refrigerator, shoveling raw meat into his mouth.

This was obviously not part of his usual diet. Dad was a vegetarian, for as long as I could remember. He spiralled around as I dropped my backpack near the apartment's fire escape. Growling, he staggered towards me, with my brother's and mother's blood on his mouth. I'm usually pretty metal, but this was off the chain. I ran into the TV room and kissed my mother and brother goodbye forever.

"Au revoir, goodbye." I spoke in my mother's native French, what we spoke at home. To Jamie, though, I spoke English. He never got the chance to learn how to speak French.

Grabbing my backpack, I evaded my zombified dad, jumped out the window, slid down the fire escape, and ran into the dying streets of New York.