Our Precious Time

Part 1: An Unfortunate Inconvenience

I have a theory.

Shut up, I know it's kinda an anti-climactic way to start a story. Just hear me out, man. And I know that's something potheads probably say to their pot-buddies all the time. "Dude, dude listen. I have this theory. Now, it's gonna sound totally dumb when you first hear it, but hear me out man."

But seriously, hear me out.

I currently live in the era of the Human Buffet. And if I'm being honest, that's not the worst part about the Zombie Apocalypse. You wanna know the worst part? It's not that you're alone, or that you have nothing to eat and barely anything to drink, no. And though not listening to music REALLY freakin' sucks, that's not it either. It's the living.

The living are worse monsters than the dead. They lie and cheat and steal, and it's supposed to be okay because they're just trying to survive, but it's not okay when they start killing the living. Or what's left of us, anyways.

Stop for a moment and visualize a zombie apocalypse. You're alone in the middle of nowhere. Now think about what sucks the most in that situation. No, not that people are continuously turning into flesh-eating monsters by the minute and chomping down on each other. And no, not that there's no longer soda or candy. It's the fact that you literally NEVER KNOW WHERE THE HELL YOU'RE GOING.

Throughout this story I'll be giving you some tips on how to survive the Zombie Apocalypse. 'Cause we all know you'll need it.

Tip #1: HAVE A FREAKING MAP MY DUDES.

I don't know about you guys, but I could really go for some Dear Evan Hansen right now. And speaking of, does anybody have a map? I could use one. I know, I know, not following my own tips.

But anyways, my theory. My theory is this: the living are more murderous than the dead.

For example; my story.

***

Sighing deeply, I pull my brown leather backpack off of my tired shoulders and drop it onto the hot Georgia pavement under me, plopping my sweat-covered body down next to it.

"Hotter than Satan's nutsack out here," I grumble, unzipping my bag and pulling out a half-empty bottle of Smartwater.

I lick my dry lips and unscrew the cap, tipping the bottle towards my mouth and taking a small sip. The water is crisp and lukewarm, but it's better than nothing. I pull the bottle away and screw on the cap, sloshing the water around. "Running pretty low," I mumble, "Hope I find a stream soon."

I look around, checking my surroundings. A light forest-y area to my left, houses with a few bushes to my right, and a long, endless black pavement road ahead of and behind me. There's no breeze which makes this Georgia weather worse. I wipe sweat off my forehead with my arm, pushing my bright red hair away and start to shove the bottle back into my pack when there's a sharp click from behind me, and something cold and hard presses against the back of my skull.

"Don't. Move."

My back stiffens and I close my eyes, sighing deeply in disappointment. "Ah, tits."

Now, at this point you're probably screaming, "WHY WOULD YOU JUST SIT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD WHERE EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING COULD SEE YOU?!"

And my answer is, I wasn't thinking.

Tip #2: Don't sit/walk on the main road.

"Put the bottle in the bag and push it away," A male voice says from behind, stern and convincing. "But don't make any sudden movements, or I'll blow your brains out."