Zombie Dash

by Mark Matthews

and quickly notice the full body pink pajamas of the baby zombie with the bloody binky from the start. Before I can ask for helps she screams;

  “No, no! What did you do? What happened?”

  She ran and knelt down by his side and I stood ready to collapse. Nothing made sense. I recognized this voice.

  “Leslie, it's you, it's you. We need help. Oh my gosh I’m so glad it’s you…”

  And as I approached I recognized the body she was laying over. The red clown nose had been taken off his face and the fake bald cap was pulled back, and there was the unmistakable iron jaw of Dr. Borgstorm. The massive, steroid-driven body lay dead before her.

  “He was a genius,” she cried, “more than you know. How could you do this? What did you do!  He can’t die, don’t you know this? Oh, no no no… this isn’t happening, not to him.”

  Bile bubbled in my guts, blood was seeping from my wound, and her eyes pierced into mine.

  “Do you realize what he was working on? Do you have any idea? That he had fused Juevenus-1  into an injectable that was regenerating him? Can’t you see how he’s not like us? Not like me and you? And we were going to start something… but…”

  Leslie stood up, leaves from the ground still sticking to her both real and fake blood-stained pink pajama outfit. I watched in silence, unable to respond to the absurdity as she rose out of her sadness into something different, something powerful.

  Revenge. She wanted revenge, I could feel it. This wasn’t Leslie, her friend anymore, this was Leslie the demon. I could feel it underneath my shivering skin and sense it in the way she gripped the knife in her hand.

  “Leslie, he attacked me!  Don’t’ you see? He stabbed Becca, she’s dying. I had to do something.”

  And then I realized what had happened. They had summoned me here. I was a rat, not a runner, and this event was a way to trap us and kill us both off for our whistle-blowing.

  I took two steps back as Leslie advanced. Slowly I crept backwards, sliding my feet through the leaves, making a mental map of the minefield of trees I would have to sprint through to get out of here.

  But before I could run, a shadow rose behind her. The huge presence of the doctor stood a full foot over Leslie, right behind her, somehow alive and standing. I gasped as he reached one hand around her stomach, right around her navel, the same way he may have done tenderly many times before, but after pulling her into him his jaws immediately chomped down on her shoulder and locked in. Leslie’s face looked at mine in astonishment and pain.

  I could hear the sound of her clavicle snapping in his jaws and her arms reached out to me. I took a step and grabbed her hands and pulled hard as I could, ripping her from his bite and sending her sprawling forward.

  The beast stood there, vacant staring eyes and the taste of skin on his palate, but I could feel that he was still hungry for more.

  Leslie was hurt and I needed to go, and we both started our dash through the trees, rushing towards the open trail. Our paths forked, and Leslie disappeared into the darkness.

  But it was me that the beast chose to follow. Close enough I could feel him.

  This was no Romero staggering zombie, this wasn’t a slow motion man with wooden legs and no dexterity wearing an old faded suit he’d been buried in years ago. Nope. This was a super-sonic zombie made of new drugs and Danny Boyle style, so I ran. I sprinted. I hauled ass running on the tips of my shoes like a 5 year old child after the ice cream man. Footsteps clopped behind me like a wild bunch of horses ready to stampede everything in their way.          

  I yelled for help, yelled loudly, and came upon a pack of volunteer zombies doing a slow, hesitant walking shuffle. Their heads turn absently mimicking what they had seen in so many movies, only behind them there was just me, one runner with three flags coming, screaming, ready to shoot right by.

  I yelled for them to run too, “I mean it. I mean it. Run, run. This is for real.”

  But that’s all I could get out as the creature behind me, who could have grabbed a flag had he wanted to but actually wanted my flesh, began to rip into the necks of these volunteers. I heard screams, gurgles, volunteers cussing at him to relax who had no idea what was happening and that they were speaking to the real undead and not an overzealous volunteer.

  But I went on, and this gave me time, and I realized I was leaving Becca behind but I had to get there. To get where? Somewhere, and then what? Help from David maybe, from the race officials, those wonderful people at the finish line who seem to be like your mother greeting you at the door and help you off with your winter coat and boots and would make everything okay.

  I passed runners who had been barely moving forward the whole race and were slow walking to the finish. I startled straggling zombies by dashing right by them. Some had given up their role, but others were still playing the part and walked with heads cocked and hands clutching forward. They wore bloody baseball uniforms, white bridal dresses, or shambled, blood-stained outfits while I cruised by in my Gel Asics, also bloody dry-fit top and sports bra, and legs full of behemoth adrenaline.

  The end was in sight. The bright lights and banners of the finish beckoned me. Names of the finishers were being read off by the announcer, but just then I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see someone gaining on me. The memory of Leslie's face when she was bitten flashed through my mind, and I made a terrified pivot to the right, tried to zig-zag but this zombie was gaining on me. I could feel his breath and prepared to be grabbed and bitten but instead he reached out and snatched a flag off my shorts.

  Ahh, relief, and I crossed the finish line with a time of one hour, three minutes, and twenty-two seconds on the clock, with a minute added on for one lost flag.

  My head was woozy like I was walking on a broken dock. Blood still dripped since my heart was pounding but I fit right in. My eyes circled the area, looking around and expecting ambulances and policeman.

  So many things I needed to say. “Medic, we need a medic. My friend is hurt, bleeding bad.” that was all they could understand, I couldn’t say more in between breaths gasping for oxygen. Runners are grabbing bagels and Gatorades and waters and smiling under their sweat but I’m cut and bleeding.

  Then David spotted me and came out of the crowd, ready to give me the ceremonial pre-race hug, but I stopped him with arms outstretched.

  “Becca’s hurt,” I pleaded, hoping someone will finally believe, “And Leslie too. You have to come with me.”

  “Oh no, she’s not going to finish?”

  “No, you don’t understand, she’s cut, bleeding, she’s going to die if we don’t help her.”

  “What? I don’t understand. She’s still running, right? Or is she walking, can she not walk? Where is she?”

  “Damn it, this is real,” I plead, and he finally sees the blood on me, runs a finger along the slice in my shoulder. I wince but it feels like nothing compared to my damaged throat.

  “Come on” and he can’t help but obey and he follows me, running with me down the trail, opposite the course back towards the start, pulled ahead by trying to save our friend’s life.

  Where is she? I’m unable to find her, thought for sure she had walked away somehow, but we finally arrive at the spot after David has called 911 on his cell and summoned ambulances.

  A Brooks shoe is what I spot first, and then I follow one leg up to the rest of her body. She’s lying in the leaves and right away I feared the worst. Her flesh seems dull and grey, motionless. We leaned down over her body, and I see the knife next to her, which I instinctively grab and it feels huge, much bigger than I realized, like a sword, and my hand trembles yet my heart is comforted to know I have it in my hands.

  The knife wound was too much, her flesh is cold, her muscles hardened and stiff, and she is dead. I never had a chance to save her.

  Tears begin to stream down my cheeks, but David remains in shock and shakes her whole body as if she’ll wake up. Her body rustled in the grass and I see that one of her thighs is
nearly gone. Ligaments are exposed, part of the bone is visible, and it is clear that the muscle and the meat are gone. They’ve been chewed away. 

  Becca's been bitten and partially eaten, and her legs will never run as fast again.

  Growling noises come from deep within her chest.

  “She’s not dead, she’s alive,” David says, and leans forward and checks her neck for a pulse. And when Becca opens her eyes, rises from her spot, and lunges to bite David, I realize I do need to behead somebody today in this race. I know exactly what to do, I have seen it so many times before, and my muscles act from movie memory and I destroy the head to kill the body.

  And this city, and maybe this country, is going to need runners like me who know how to survive the zombie apocalypse.

  Read the riveting prologue to; “On the Lips of Children” by Books of the Dead Press