"Alright, squad, listen up. We've got one final push before it's all over. The extraction zone is straight ahead. No going back now. The humans have come in through the woods, taking cover where its tough for large hordes to move. I'm diving you into two groups: Group A," she drew a line in the air and fanned it out over half of the amassed crowd, "you're going to attack from the south. Group B," she gestured to the other half, "you're going to flank from the north. They're going to have to come across that clearing if they want to reach the extraction point, so we're going to make them go through us. Are you ready? On my mark."
The night air was still despite the anticipation held among the group of students. It was the final night of the most intense week of her life. Amidst college classes, the students had organized a five-day-long game of tag. It was a battle of life or death, where the only thing that came between you and being turned was a Nerf gun and some balled up socks. For her, death had come early, and she'd embraced her new role as the leader of her own zombie squadron. This was their final battle before everything went back to normal, and she was determined to make it worthwhile.
As the fog crept across the low, marshy ground, the evening silence was ripped apart by the cry of a charging mass of armband-wearing young men and women, all brandishing the finest Nerf firearms. They hollered and whooped into the October sky as they ran full-speed across the opening.
They were vulnerable. This was the only chance she'd get.
"NOW!" she roared. "Group A, on me. Group B, branch off!"
She sprinted toward the opposing group, the "humans," her horde following behind her, hungry for tags. This was their shining moment. The pièce de résistance of the zombie apocalypse. There would be no survivors.
--------------------------------------
They had been creeping through the trees for what seemed like hours. The trek had taken them from their safe haven across campus and into the wilds where death could surely be awaiting them around every turn. He'd managed to survive for this long. Maybe he'd make it out alive. Looking around him, the others seemed antsy, yet collected. They knew this would be their last chance at survival. They were also veterans. This wasn't their first extraction, and they knew what kind of dangers lie ahead. As someone who had never been the most athletic, he was glad he had his wits. They'd been essential in keeping him alive up until now.
At the head of the pack, the leader held up a fist. They had reached the end of cover. Ahead of them sprawled a misty, low-lying field that provided no shelter from swooping hands and grasping fingers. It would be a sprint like none he'd known before because beyond that plain of devastation lie the Endgame. If he could just reach that extraction zone, the airlift would arrive to carry him to safety. He'd just have to hope his lungs held out long enough for him to make it there.
After an agonizing silence, the leader explained the plan: Run. It was kind of a stupid plan, he thought, but this wasn't his group to command, and without practiced organization, he didn't really see a better option. The instructions were followed by a sea of nods and quiet affirmative sounds. Then silence.
"Okay: Go."
The group trampled the underbrush as they stampeded out into the open, one frantic mass of people running for their lives. He tried to stay toward the front. If nothing else, he could be fast when it mattered most. Holding pace behind the leader served him well until the zombie horde began to close in on them. Humans tend to act irrationally under pressure, he knew that, but he had never expected to feel the hands at his back. Was he tagged? Was this it? He looked back to see the shouting face of the leader of the pack, who had dropped back to take cover behind the nearest human. Suddenly, his feet were tripping over themselves as his body hurtled uncontrollably forward, directly into a metal bleacher bench. The joints holding the back to the seat creaked before giving way with a metallic twang, leaving him sprawled on the grass and bleeding from a cut on his arm.
--------------------------------------
The horde was picking their way through the human pack, which had become frenzied and tried to split when faced with the pincer movement. Excellent. As the crowd thinned, she noticed a young man lying on the ground, his green bandana still wrapped around his arm. She ran to him.
"I don't know if you've been tagged, but if not, tag, also, are you okay?" She pointed to his arm, "you're bleeding." She helped him up. He mumbled something in response, clearly in a daze. "Okay, well, you can follow me. Come on, there are some people hiding in the woods over on the other side of the extraction zone."
She took off at an easier clip than before, checking back to make sure he was following her. Ducking under a tree branch, she led them into the underbrush where most of the light from their suburban surroundings was blocked by foliage. "Just stick close. I can do my best to steer us around the brambles -- but we'll get em!"
They stumbled through the dark and chased a few hiding stragglers back out into the open where they soon met their fate. Minutes after the onslaught had begun, it was over. There had been no survivors.
Walking back out into the relative light of the open field, she turned and introduced herself, realizing she hadn't done so before. They exchanged names and phone numbers, and the rest is history...
The night air was still despite the anticipation held among the group of students. It was the final night of the most intense week of her life. Amidst college classes, the students had organized a five-day-long game of tag. It was a battle of life or death, where the only thing that came between you and being turned was a Nerf gun and some balled up socks. For her, death had come early, and she'd embraced her new role as the leader of her own zombie squadron. This was their final battle before everything went back to normal, and she was determined to make it worthwhile.
As the fog crept across the low, marshy ground, the evening silence was ripped apart by the cry of a charging mass of armband-wearing young men and women, all brandishing the finest Nerf firearms. They hollered and whooped into the October sky as they ran full-speed across the opening.
They were vulnerable. This was the only chance she'd get.
"NOW!" she roared. "Group A, on me. Group B, branch off!"
She sprinted toward the opposing group, the "humans," her horde following behind her, hungry for tags. This was their shining moment. The pièce de résistance of the zombie apocalypse. There would be no survivors.
--------------------------------------
They had been creeping through the trees for what seemed like hours. The trek had taken them from their safe haven across campus and into the wilds where death could surely be awaiting them around every turn. He'd managed to survive for this long. Maybe he'd make it out alive. Looking around him, the others seemed antsy, yet collected. They knew this would be their last chance at survival. They were also veterans. This wasn't their first extraction, and they knew what kind of dangers lie ahead. As someone who had never been the most athletic, he was glad he had his wits. They'd been essential in keeping him alive up until now.
At the head of the pack, the leader held up a fist. They had reached the end of cover. Ahead of them sprawled a misty, low-lying field that provided no shelter from swooping hands and grasping fingers. It would be a sprint like none he'd known before because beyond that plain of devastation lie the Endgame. If he could just reach that extraction zone, the airlift would arrive to carry him to safety. He'd just have to hope his lungs held out long enough for him to make it there.
After an agonizing silence, the leader explained the plan: Run. It was kind of a stupid plan, he thought, but this wasn't his group to command, and without practiced organization, he didn't really see a better option. The instructions were followed by a sea of nods and quiet affirmative sounds. Then silence.
"Okay: Go."
The group trampled the underbrush as they stampeded out into the open, one frantic mass of people running for their lives. He tried to stay toward the front. If nothing else, he could be fast when it mattered most. Holding pace behind the leader served him well until the zombie horde began to close in on them. Humans tend to act irrationally under pressure, he knew that, but he had never expected to feel the hands at his back. Was he tagged? Was this it? He looked back to see the shouting face of the leader of the pack, who had dropped back to take cover behind the nearest human. Suddenly, his feet were tripping over themselves as his body hurtled uncontrollably forward, directly into a metal bleacher bench. The joints holding the back to the seat creaked before giving way with a metallic twang, leaving him sprawled on the grass and bleeding from a cut on his arm.
--------------------------------------
The horde was picking their way through the human pack, which had become frenzied and tried to split when faced with the pincer movement. Excellent. As the crowd thinned, she noticed a young man lying on the ground, his green bandana still wrapped around his arm. She ran to him.
"I don't know if you've been tagged, but if not, tag, also, are you okay?" She pointed to his arm, "you're bleeding." She helped him up. He mumbled something in response, clearly in a daze. "Okay, well, you can follow me. Come on, there are some people hiding in the woods over on the other side of the extraction zone."
She took off at an easier clip than before, checking back to make sure he was following her. Ducking under a tree branch, she led them into the underbrush where most of the light from their suburban surroundings was blocked by foliage. "Just stick close. I can do my best to steer us around the brambles -- but we'll get em!"
They stumbled through the dark and chased a few hiding stragglers back out into the open where they soon met their fate. Minutes after the onslaught had begun, it was over. There had been no survivors.
Walking back out into the relative light of the open field, she turned and introduced herself, realizing she hadn't done so before. They exchanged names and phone numbers, and the rest is history...
