This Isn't Spring Break Anymore

Zoie awakens from her feverish dream, pouncing up in her parents bed, the sheets ruffle from her sudden motion.

She darts around the room; her heart pounding, her breath exaggerated, her body sweating, and her head spinning as she reels in the information.

Within the dream, she faced a sequence of hardships related towards the palpable outcome that she’s going to endure; the groans from the other room jump-starts a playback of the final scene of her nightmare.

Zoie stands on the roof of a tall building while her boyfriend Shane yells at her.

“It’s not worth it Zoie!” His voice etched with remorse, beckoning her to come down.

Zoie’s face crunches as she looks off to the side, trying to hide the expressing pain captivating within.

“There’s gotta be another way, Zoie!” Shane yells for her again, his figure pleading behind her.

“I’ve been bitten, Shane… There’s no going back.” Her voice quivering; Tears pooling in her eyes, she closes them, blocking the tears from escaping, but the attempt is lost as she feels a hot streaming branch glancing down her check.

“Zoie!” He calls in the moment she forces herself off; she could feel her insides flow upwards as inertia pulls them like an object on a string. Within the moment, which may be interpreted as hours, she hits the ground, forcing her out of the nightmare.

Her thoughts jolt back into reality; her chest tightened from the scene.

Zoie looks down at her hand, seeing it tremble. “Would I - Would I do that..?” She asks herself, bringing her gentle hand towards her wound.

Her face flinches as the slightest touch sends a vibrant pain coursing through her neck, Zoie removes her shaking hand from the wound, looking in the direction of the bite.

From tearing her gaze from the wound, she looks into the mirror residing in her parents room, her clothing stained from the dusk before, splotches of green painted her borrowed hoodie. Zoie’s eyes darted upwards, looking at her bandage work.

She sighs, with a spirit expanding in her chest; a course of dimmed stings.

Zoie recalls the films, the comic books, and other entertainment related to zombies - related to what happens when you get bit, or when you eventually do.

“You turn…” She says quietly, her thoughts heavy, almost a deep numbing - what would her mother do? - what would her father do? - “What would Shane do…?” She thinks aloud, the softened growls answered Zoie’s thoughts to herself. Nearly giving her a foreshadow towards her future.

“What if it isn’t?” She pinches herself, just to make sure if it’s not one of those waking dreams where you’re still dreaming.

Zoie flinches towards the squeeze, “nope…” She says with another hefty sigh, reality setting in. Zoie brings herself off of the bed, curiosity beckoning her to peer out the window to see the world she’s in.

Her hands lift to part the fabric covering the window, the currents ruffle from divorce. Zoie pinches the window’s seals, repeating the rise of her hands. The tension between the window and its frame grumbles into the bedroom.

The creature in the other room mimics the action of the window, moaning to the occurring sound.

Whether she’s ignoring it or she’s too absorbed into her own thoughts, her expression is unphased by the broken communication from the zombie.

With the window open, her chestnut hair gets brushed by a warming breeze, following a slight prick of cold.

Her thoughts guided her, envisioning the current swinging weather they’ve been having, then the thoughts lead towards her demise, believing that this might be the only time she gets to feel the weather’s gentle gaze.

Zoie zones out towards her hand that’s softly covering the windowsill; she doesn’t know how much time she has left until she turns into one of those ’things’ - into a zombie.

Another gust of wind swept through the window, slightly giving her hair a gentle kiss, pairing with the greeting feeling of sorrow - a numbing occupant that cocoons the body.

Could it be sorrow, or could it be something else? She thought, disturbing the dissociation.

She peers out the window, feeling the world around her. Her observing eye details the aftermath of the storm that had passed over them, her listening ears hearing the silence of death within her suburb.

Zoie takes in an elongated inhale, the residue of wet foliage masked the embering numbness deep in her chest.

“Shane…” She mutters, recalling the dream, recalling the attempt to ditch her homework to play video games with him.

“I at least want to see you one last time before…” Zoie can’t finish the sentence, her thoughts colliding, making torrents within her mind. How will she tell him - how would he react towards her wound? Then another torrential recollection intertwines with her already complicated demise.

Zoie shakes her head, “ I won’t accept that. “ She responds to the potential outcome that he’s gone, “He’s smart enough.” Zoie buries it with hopeful thoughts, covering her own pitted feelings.

An inner voice softens the clustering probabilities, You just have to see him.

The inner voice disguised as her own brings a small fire of determination, bringing sensation back into her numbing arms.

She peers out the window one last time, attempting to foil up a plan.

Perking half of her body out the window, she takes a moment to gather her surroundings, noting that there isn’t a single corpse to be found in the streets. What she does see is the city before her sporting clouds of smoke, and faint objects fleeing the scenes - intelling that there’s still life within the crumbling silhouette.

This is the direction she’ll be taking in order to find Shane, his house should only be two blocks away according to her recollection.

She pulls herself back into the room, doing a huff in order to steady her nerves.

“I’m sure dad took it.” Zoie says, strolling over to her parents closet where her dad stashed his hunting shotgun. Upon opening it, the closet door gently mumbles to her, making the zombie in the other room groan.

She kneels down, scrummaging around in the closet, but to her assumption, her dad snatched his gun. “At least they’re carrying.” Zoie mumbles to herself, knowing that they have a sense of protection.

Zoie’s still frustrated that they’ve left without her, but maybe they didn’t leave her to die - maybe they’ve left to go find her.

As she gets up, the thought of them brings back a sting in her chest.

“That’ll be number two on the list…” She says as her figure strolls towards the exiting door. With a striking recollection, she remembers her phone. Zoie does a patting dance to locate the cellar device, but to no avail.

“From the scuffle I had..” She envisions the memory from her encounter, she got tripped. Zoie’s mind imagines her phone falling out of her pocket.

“I have to go back for it - maybe there’s still service - maybe they’ve tried to call me.” She scavenged for the possibilities.

It could be risky, She thinks, still planning the recovery mission.

“Maybe I could try to get a hold of Shane..” Zoie creates the connection, bringing a grip to the doorknob, with a twist, she’s out the door.

The mumbling from the zombie pitches into her ear as she stroll past the enforced door and down the stairs.

The muffled clupping of her shoes against wooden-carpeted stairs vents throughout the stairway hall, with an inch of moments past, she’s into the kitchen.

“I’ll need supplies..” She looks at her envisioned list. Zoie wanders towards the entrance closet, searching inside for a spar backpack that they bring on occasional trips, the closet door creaks open.

Finding the inflated bag pressed up against the inside wall, she brings her hand towards the strap, lifting it up like a sack of feathers.

Zoie’s free hand closes the door as she pivots her way towards the kitchen, enlisting a series of steps to gather supplies.

With a gentle motion, Zoie places her bag up-top of the counter, prying it open before she fishes around the contents of the cabinets.

Pulling out a collection of wrapped tin cans from the storage space, she examines the label before tucking it into her bag.

After restoring the cans, she moves onto the next cabinet; bringing out snack food, and stuffing it into the front pocket.

With a solid motion, she zips the bag up. “Maybe bring clothes?” She suggested to herself, while she stared through the bag.

“After I grab these…” She confirms the request, turning towards the drawers.

Zoie lightly waltzes to the drawers, guiding her hand to open them upon arrival; a quiet mumble reeks out into the kitchen, motioning its showcase of contents.

She grabs a piece of silverware to eat with, and a kitchen knife for protection - strapping it along the side of her bag, storing it away for another sparking idea.

Her arms reach for the straps, huffing it over her shoulder blades before she strolls back towards the stairs.

Reintroducing the commune of its sound as she escalates them, with it, along came the oh so comforting grumbles of the zombie.

Without emitting an expression towards their new house guest, she enters her parents bedroom, Zoie’s recollection brings her back to the closet - grasping her dad’s baseball bat, doing a fancy twirl of its figure before reading it at her side.

While feeling the moment, she gets brought back to the question as she reaches her bedroom, "How am I going to retrieve my clothes?”

Zoie debates decisions in her head as she observes her bedroom door, hearing sluggish walks behind it.

The debate comes to an end as a distinct feeling urges her to go through with the plan, yet another possibility emerges; maybe she can go through the bathroom window to sneakily go through her bedroom window to grab her clothing.

She huffs, and proceeds with the new plan, entering the bathroom to begin the formula of the plan.

Scents from the air freshener sweep against her nose as she brushes past them, with a solid motion of raising her hands, the window grumbles open.

Zoie can feel her stomach and her elbows mimicking movements of butterflies when she brings her leg out of the window.

She ducks as she escorts the rest of herself out, the feeling of butterflies amplifies with the setting of facing another corpse.

Her legs begin to mock the bubbling of a carbonated drink, thinking that this could all be avoided if she simply left without additional clothing, but deep down, something made it imperative for her to retrieve them.

While forcing herself to push forward, she makes it to her bedroom window, the glare from the sun making it hard to locate the walking corpse.

Her chest begins to flutter as she softly perks the window open from the other side, the sensation changes as the sun visualizes the deceased body shuffling side-to-side in her room.

A numbing pain branches through her chest as she observes the undisturbed corpse.

Conjuring up an inhale, she holds her breath before adventuring in, her mind telling her, This is a bad idea.

She wholeheartedly agrees, but she needs her clothing. Her sneaker covered feet softly meets her desk. Zoie’s head adjusts upwards, her eyes informing herself that the zombie hasn’t been disturbed from her movements.

With a compiled scheme, she reaches for her headphones. Her head quivers from the idea, but she follows through with it.

Zoie arch’s her arm, tossing her headphones at the door, numbness boils in her chest simultaneously as it thuds on the wall next to it; her aim unsuccessful.

The walking corpse grunts, flinging itself towards the noise, triggering her third step of her plan.

She swiftly brings herself towards the closet, doing her best to open it quietly, but to her luck, the door whispers wooden creaks.

Zoie jolts her head towards the deceased body, seeing it munching down on the headphone’s band.

Her chest gets tight as she gently lays down her bag, dreading the series of sounds she’ll have to make in order to store her clothing.

With dread captivating her, Zoie’s eyes dart towards another pair of shoes, rehashing the same action she did with her headphones - tossing it in the far corner of the room at the same time as unzipping the bag, bringing the zombie to lash towards the loudest noise made by the shoe.

She quickly places any pair of clothing that meets her grips, stuffing it into another pocket of the bag.

The corpse in front of her is occupied by making her shoe a pallet, however it slightly gets disturbed by the ruffling of the clothing - making a growl of annoyance.

Its menacing growl tears her vision towards the corpse’s direction, with milky eyes, the Zombie meets her gaze.

Zoie’s lungs tighten, having her breath coming to a freezing stop.

However her luck prevails, having the zombie regaining its focus towards dining on the shoe.

She tightens her eyes as her hands quickly zip the bag closed, the zombie growls again lunging at her. With reintroducing luck, she dodges the incoming attack; her heart pounding a thousand miles per minute.

Her back tingles as she escapes out the window - the Zombie following close behind.

Zoie swiftly turns around, bringing the window’s frame down onto the corpses thrashing arms, the Zombie screeches in pain from the action.

Her breathing changes into a panic state as she holds the frame down, her muscles tensing as the corpse continues to thrash in an attempt to grab her.

She manages to grab the baseball bat that she pivoted against the outside wall, the window flies open from loose tension, with a panicked reaction, Zoie swings the bat - landing an impact on the corpse’s face, it staggers back in time for her to safely seal the window shut.

The zombie on the other side begins to bang on the window as she quickly finishes zipping her bag closed before darting back inside the bathroom.

Her feet meet the cold tile of the bathroom floor as she brings herself inside, she strolls past the scented air fresheners again to pace herself down the flight of stairs, hearing the zombie still pound on the thick glass of her bedroom window.

Zoie greets the kitchen once more, grabbing the leftover gauze from the night before off of the counter, then taking herself to place the bat alongside the fridge as she opens it, grabbing any cold water to fill in the remaining spaces of her traveling bag.

She quickly stuffs the gauze into the side pocket of the bag as she hears the corpse escalating its tantrum, with her hand equipping her dads bat and bringing her momentum to the back door.

Looking out the door’s patterned window, she spirits herself with a giant inhale, grasping the door handle and flinging it open as she exhales.

Her complexion meets a sudden gust of wind, kick-starting her recovery mission into motion.