It took me several minutes to reach Heartland Village, my legs burning with exertion as I evaded the relentless pursuit of zombies. The runners were the hardest to escape—faster, more feral than the others.
If it weren't for the endurance I'd built in P.E. classes, I'd have been dead by now. My legs still ached from the earlier impact, but strangely, the pain of dislocation had faded.
I didn't stop to question it. My mind was singularly focused on one goal: getting home to my mother.
As I sprinted along Rockland Avenue, the streets unfolded a gruesome tableau of chaos and death.
Survivors were being overwhelmed, their screams cutting through the air as zombies tore into their bodies, ripping limbs and intestines apart with savage brutality.
I tried to block it out, tried to remind myself that I couldn't afford to care about anyone else right now. But no matter how hard I tried, the sight of people being torn apart clawed at my resolve.
Ahead, I spotted a high school student shielding his younger sister from their zombified parents.
The siblings were trapped in one of the houses, their backs against the wall. I told myself to keep running, to stay focused on what mattered most—my mother.
Yet, despite my resolve, I skidded to a stop.
Cursing under my breath, I grabbed two stones from the ground and hurled them at the zombie parents.
Whoosh!
To my astonishment, the projectiles struck their heads with pinpoint accuracy, caving in their skulls.
I stood there for a moment, stunned. I had never been this strong, this precise. But there was no time to dwell on it.
I turned and kept running, leaving the siblings behind. I didn't know if they'd survive, but they'd better.
Their plight had already cost me precious seconds. I hated this instinct to help—it was one of the things my former friends had loathed about me, how I couldn't seem to stop putting others before myself.
Further ahead, I saw a group of survivors ushering people onto a bus.
Among them was an elderly man struggling to move, supported by his grandson. A handful of zombies were closing in on them, but the distance made the other survivors hesitate.
They weren't willing to risk their own lives.
"Damn it," I muttered through gritted teeth.
Ignoring the shouts to leave them behind, I sprinted toward the pair. The cries of the onlookers to "get on the bus" rang in my ears, but I didn't stop.
Snatching a pebble from the ground, I hurled it at the closest zombie.
Whoosh!
Once again, the stone struck with unnatural precision, the impact splitting the creature's skull.
This time, I couldn't ignore the strength surging through me. Where was it coming from?
Grabbing a shard of broken glass from the ground, I slashed and stabbed at the remaining zombies as they lunged toward us. Blood sprayed across the pavement as I fought them off.
"What are you doing, young lady?" the elderly man asked, his voice shaky with confusion.
"Just shut up and run!" I barked, shoving him toward his grandson.
The younger man hoisted his grandfather and began sprinting toward the bus.
I stayed behind, ensuring no zombies followed too closely. When they were finally close enough, the other survivors helped them aboard.
The bus doors began to close as the engine roared to life.
"Where are you going?" one of the survivors called out as I turned away, heading in the opposite direction.
"None of your business!" I shouted over my shoulder, gripping the glass shard tighter as three runners closed in on me. "Just go—and make sure no one on that bus has been bitten!"
The survivors exchanged glances before the second one nodded grimly. "She's right! Check everyone! No mistakes like in the movies!"
Their voices faded as the bus pulled away. I didn't look back. If my mother had been on that bus, I wouldn't have to worry—but she wasn't.
She was still at home, and I had to get to her.
Pain flared in my skull again, a headache so sharp it made me stumble. My vision blurred, tinted with a golden hue that lingered for several seconds before fading.
Something was wrong with me, something I didn't understand. But there was no time to figure it out.
I clenched my jaw and forced myself forward, ignoring the gnawing unease.
All that mattered was my mother. If something had happened to her, I didn't know how I'd handle it. I didn't know what I'd do.
And so I kept running.
A sharp, claw-like grip latched onto my ankle, dragging me to the ground. I hadn't noticed the zombie child hiding beneath the car, her skeletal frame grotesquely twisted, her lower torso nothing more than a mess of torn flesh and bone.
As I fell, she crawled toward me, her movements jagged and animalistic, like a hyena closing in on prey.
Before I could react, her teeth sank into my chest, tearing through fabric and skin, and then again into my neck.
Pain shot through me like lightning, white-hot and blinding.
With a desperate shove, I pushed her off, the force sending her broken form skittering back under the car.
Blood poured from my wounds, staining my clothes and pooling beneath me. My chest and neck throbbed, and each heartbeat seemed to spill more life onto the asphalt.
But I didn't stop. I couldn't.
None of this mattered—not the pain, not the blood, not the inevitable.
If I was going to turn into one of them, then fine—but only after I knew my mother was safe.
A low, guttural moan rippled through the air, and I looked up to see dozens of zombies shuffling toward me, drawn by the scent of fresh blood. There was no time to dwell on my injuries.
I forced myself to my feet, my body screaming in protest, and began to run.
Each step was agony. My vision blurred, the world around me swaying like a ship caught in a storm. The infection was spreading; I could feel it.
My limbs grew heavy, my breaths shallow. But I pressed on, stumbling forward with a resolve that seemed to defy the limits of my body.
I was so focused on staying upright that I didn't see the two runners coming until it was too late. They slammed me against the brick wall of a house with a force that stole the air from my lungs.
Before I could react, one of them sank its teeth into my shoulder while the other tore at my arm.
I screamed—a raw, guttural sound of pain and rage—as my left arm was ripped from my body, the flesh and bone severed in a gruesome spray of blood. Somehow, I managed to twist free. Gripping the glass shard still in my remaining hand, I drove it into their skulls with all the strength I had left, one after the other.
"Damn it! Fuck!" I shouted, staggering away from the carnage as blood poured from the gaping wounds on my neck, chest, and now my missing arm.
My breaths came in ragged gasps, each one accompanied by the sickening taste of copper as I began to vomit blood.
I should be dead. By all rights, I should have collapsed long ago, bled out in a heap like so many others. Yet something inside me refused to give in, some primal, unyielding force that kept pushing me forward.
The pain was unbearable, the world around me a haze of blood and agony, but none of it mattered. I was so close now. I could feel it.
I forced my legs to move, one agonizing step at a time.
I didn't care how many times these monsters mutilated me or how much blood I spilled onto the cracked pavement.
None of it would stop me. Not until my mother was safe.