In a zombie’s point of view, I wonder what they think. I doubt they're actually saying “Braaaaaiiins.” More likely, it’s something like, “I’m starving, give me food,” or maybe even, “Someone, please kill me... Oh wait, I’m already dead... Someone, please kill me more.”
Maybe the movie Wasting Away had it right. In that one—besides the whole 'Super Soldier' thing—the zombies thought everyone else was out to get them. Maybe, to them, eating people is self-defense. I bet human flesh tastes like any other animal to them.
Still... it's disgusting. Turning into a zombie basically makes you a cannibal. Gross.
And what about vegetarians or vegans? Do they just become meat-eaters overnight? That would suck. So much for PETA. I don’t think they’ve figured out how to stop this kind of apocalypse.
Would it be safer to live out in the country? We saw fewer zombies on the trip up here. Maybe it is safer. But right now, it doesn’t matter.
Because Jill and I are stuck.
We ran. The moment we spotted the zombies inside that store, we turned around. We needed food, but we weren’t suicidal.
The problem? There was nowhere to go. Every hall, every walkway—we were just circling back to the same places. This whole Skyway system was like a maze with no exit.
Then we heard it.
Glass shattering.
The moan.
The crash.
They had broken through the door.
Panic mode.
We sprinted. My bag bounced painfully against my back. My shoes slapped the tile floor. My little dress whipped around my legs, slowing me down. I didn't care. I had to keep running.
But something was wrong.
"Jill?!" I screamed.
She was gone.
I froze.
That was the worst thing I could’ve done. Screaming was like ringing a dinner bell for every zombie in a five-mile radius.
I spun around, eyes scanning the corridor. Only one zombie had slipped through the door so far—but more were coming. I couldn’t just leave her.
I took a step forward.
And the world went dark.
“I’m dead. I’m dead. I know it.”
Is this what zombies thought of? Was the world always this dark to them? Was this what it felt like being turned—just endless blackness and hunger?
“Natalie, you can open your eyes, silly girl.”
I knew that voice. It was Jill.
I opened my eyes.
I was lying on a bed. A clean bed. In a room. Not a hospital. Not a prison. Just a normal room. It took me a second to process it.
“Where are we?” I asked, groggy.
“An apartment,” Jill said with a smile. “A man named Mr. Sanders brought us here.”
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. Through the window, I saw a beautiful park. Or... what used to be beautiful. Now it was crawling with zombies.
“What park is that?” I muttered. “Zombie Park? Because I’m not going near it.”
“Mears Park,” a deep voice said.
I jumped.
A man stepped into the room. He was older, dressed in a patched coat and a tired expression.
“That’s Mears Park,” he continued. “Used to be one of the nicest spots in downtown. It went through some rough times—homeless camps, protests, crime—but the city cleaned it up. Kicked out anyone who loitered more than thirty minutes unless they were there for concerts. Typical politics.” He sighed. “I used to be one of those people they kicked out.”
I glanced at Jill, then back at him.
“Are you Mr. Sanders?”
He nodded. “The one and only. And no, not the Colonel. I wish. He died rich and greasy.”
“What good is money now?” I said, getting out of bed.
Mr. Sanders looked out the window with us. “None at all. All that city planning, all that beautification... now the parks are back to being overrun. Just by a different kind of homeless.”
The silence hung there for a second.
“I’m surprised the military didn’t lock the city down,” I said. “Like they did in The Last of Us—quarantine zones, patrols, soldiers... something.”
He snorted. “They tried. Right where you’re standing used to be part of one. It didn’t last long. Barricades fell, infected got through. Then the soldiers bailed. A few families made it out. I stayed behind, figured I knew the layout better than anyone.”
“I guess this really is the end of the world,” I whispered.
“Or the beginning of something else,” Mr. Sanders said. “Depends what you do with it.”
I wandered over to the computer in the corner. "Does the Internet still work?"
Mr. Sanders chuckled. "Give it a try. And don’t worry about power—Galtier Towers Apartments have solar panels on the roof. Helped with rent, back when that mattered. I doubt I’ll be paying rent again anytime soon."
I powered it on. While the machine whirred to life, I opened the fridge, half-expecting it to be empty. But instead...
"Chicken?" I blinked. "You have a fridge full of chicken?"
"Just call me the Colonel," he laughed.
I gave him a look. "I thought you said you weren’t Colonel Sanders?"
"Shh!" he whispered sharply. "Keep your voice down—you’ll bring the dead back twice. I just love chicken. Always have. I’ve got a big freezer in the other room—chicken, chicken, and more chicken. Folks on this floor used to call me the Colonel ‘cause of that. And my last name. Doesn’t mean I ran a fast-food empire, though."
I giggled and bit into a drumstick. "Hope you don’t mind."
"That’s what it’s for," he said. "Eat up. There’s enough in there to feed half the block. If the block wasn’t full of cannibals."
The computer finally finished booting up.
“You're not connected,” the browser announced. “And the web really isn’t the same without you. Let’s get you back online.”
“Well, that’s disappointing,” I pouted. “No Internet.”
Mr. Sanders leaned in. "You’re not wrong. But it’s not because the net’s dead—it’s just that we don’t have a Wi-Fi connection here."
I groaned. "Then plug in the Ethernet."
"Can’t. I don’t have the cable. The router was downstairs. Belonged to the woman in the apartment below."
"So let’s get it."
"Yeah, about that—her place is crawling with biters."
So much for Googling how to survive an apocalypse.
I left the computer on. Mr. Sanders wanted to play Solitaire anyway. You’d think a man with that much chicken would also own a deck of cards.
I flipped on the TV and surfed through static. No cable. Just the Canadian Emergency Network. If this were still the U.S., we’d be watching the American National Emergency Network instead.
I flopped onto the bed with my chicken. Jill sat on the couch, flipping through a paperback. My mind spun in circles.
What were we doing here? Sitting around. Watching nothing. Eating chicken. We should’ve been moving. Heading farther north. Finding people. Finding answers.
If only we had a working cell phone.
If only I could call Mom. Or Jennifer.
If they were still alive.”
If it weren’t for the tornado, we would still be in that house—safe behind the force field, surrounded by food, cable, and enough video games to last the rest of the apocalypse. But nope. A twister had to come and hurl our safe little world into chaos. Figures.
Cell phones don’t work anymore—at least not the regular kind. But satellite phones still should. Satellites don’t crash just because the world below is on fire.
The thought made me sit up straighter. We needed a satellite phone. If only I knew where to get one without getting my face eaten off.
Munch. Munch. Munch.
Right. Still eating chicken. I looked down at the drumstick in my hand, already half gone. Jill had grabbed one off the plate beside me on the bed. She looked completely relaxed, like this was just some lazy Sunday picnic.
But I knew better. That calm look of hers? It was a mask. Underneath it, she had to be just as terrified as I was. Probably wondering if the door would hold, or if we’d end up a midnight snack.
Still... that door was thick. Solid steel. Reinforced. And these walls? Cement, not drywall. That was good. If they had been anything less, the zombies might’ve chewed through them by now.
But what about the apartment next door?
I pressed my ear against the bedroom wall, hoping to hear something. Nothing. Not even a creak. The walls were too thick. Good for safety, bad for curiosity.
So I tried the cup trick. The one from old spy movies. I pressed a drinking glass to the wall and leaned in. Still nothing. This was getting annoying.
If I couldn’t hear through it... maybe I could scrape through it.
I padded into the kitchen, found a decent knife, and was halfway back to the bedroom when—
“What are you doing with that, young lady?” Mr. Sanders’ voice caught me like a siren.
I froze. “I... I was just going to scrape the wall to see if there were zombies next door,” I admitted.
He gave me a look that was part amused, part horrified. “That’s not a good idea. If they hear or smell us, they’ll come. And I already know there are zombies next door.”
“You do?”
He nodded. “I checked every unit on this floor. Locked up what I could. But they’re in there. Trapped. For now. They’re smart though—well, smart enough. Given time, they figure things out.”
A chill ran down my spine. “What about the floors above or below us?”
“We’re already on the top floor,” he said, pointing at the ceiling. “Only thing above us is the roof. Below us?” He shook his head. “Didn’t even bother. That whole stack is infested. Unless someone down there did what I did, it’s crawling.”
I blinked. “Wait—you said the roof?”
“Yep. Why?”
“There’s a pool up there, isn’t there?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. And a massive movie screen. The old theater used to be downstairs, but the pool deck became the go-to spot after the renovations.”
Just then, Jill came charging out of the bedroom. “Who said pool?” she asked, grinning ear to ear.
I laughed. “Apparently, we’ve been living under one.”
“Is it safe up there?” Jill asked.
Mr. Sanders scratched his chin. “I never checked. I was too busy securing this floor. But if you’re asking if there might be zombies... I’d bet yes.”
I turned to Jill. “What do you think? Up for a little zombie pool party?”
She nodded, determination in her eyes.
Looks like we were going zombie hunting.