Red Zoned

Day Zero

 Graduation gowns aren't supposed to be covered in blood.

I stare at my stained hands, flecks of red and brown, and take the cup of water but I can't stop shaking. I spill half the lukewarm liquid down the front of my dress before I give up and put the cup back on the table.

The bored gentleman clears his throat. "Miss?"

I look at him, his wire-rimmed glasses, the two strands of brown hair attached to his shiny head, anywhere but his eyes.

"I'm going to need some information to place you with viable guardians until things settle down."

What's the point? I just watched every friend I have get dismembered by monsters.

He clicks the pen in his hand; lets out a long coffee-tinted breath. "Do you know if your parents are alive?"

I shake my head.

Another sigh.

"No, you don't know? Or no, they're not alive?"

I swallow the lump in my throat. "I don't know."

He scribbles in his notepad. "Where were you when the outbreak started?"

"Oxford High... Graduation."

More scribbling. A pause. He looks at me curiously and throws his glasses on the table so he can rub his face. The skin bulges over his gold wedding band and I wonder if his wife is alive. If she made it too or if he's grieving like the rest of us.

"We don't have a lot of survivors from that event."

I nod, or maybe I don't. I try to nod. I can't stop seeing it.

The way the monster ripped through the crowd.

The screaming.

The soupy mess of blood and organs in the parking lot floating with graduation caps.

The smell is stuck in my nose. Or maybe it's on my shoes.

That sickeningly sweet mix of maple syrup and decaying flesh.

I press a hand to my lips and suppress a gag but my fingers come away sticky. How much blood is there?

The man leans forward, an impressed grin pulling at his lips. "How'd you do it?"

I snap back to reality. Back to the lukewarm room with a buzzing fan in the corner and an abundance of white light.

"I climbed a tree."

And watched.

Watched as the monsters ripped my friends apart. Watched as the crowds tried to run from the bleachers. Watched as they failed.

What's the point? Everyone I love is dead.

The man snaps his fingers in front of my face. "Are you listening? This part's important."

I clear my throat. "Sorry."

He rolls his eyes. "We're assigning you to a married couple from Central California. Ralf and Martha Yeller."