What A Real Zombie Apocalypse Would Be Like (Part 4)

Fyi, this is also post 300 on this blog. Thought y'all should know. Anyway. Let's get on with it.


So, it's been awhile, but the suspense is finally over. Today we discover our fate: whether we make it to the french teacher's farm, how many of us make it, and what awaits us there. The moment you've all been waiting for.
I believe we left off in the bus, just departing on our perilous thirty-five mile journey into the unknown. Yeah, that's about right. So. We're crammed into the bus, all forty-eight of us, along with our garbage bins full of provisions and our miscellaneous weapons. Matt starts the bus, and begins, very slowly at first, to drive out of the parking lot. The bus is silent, our breath held and hearts pounding. the vehicle itself, however, is painfully loud, barreling through the silent, sunlit morning like a rhinocerous or something similar. As we reach the main road, our nervousness abates slightly and we breathe, though hesitantly.
"Which way?" Matt glances momentarily at the french teacher as he asks this. She begins to give him directions, but is immediately cut off by a loud bang on the back of the bus, followed by the smashing of glass and a scream. We all turn to see Juliana, covered in glass and blood, with a gray-green hand, missing a finger, clutched around her throat. The hand, obviously, belongs to a zombie, one that is reaching into the now broken back window, thrashing about and moaning hideously. We realize that the bus is still moving, dragging the zombie along on its feet and causing chunks of flesh to fly out behind it. Matt slams on the brakes, which turns out to be a mistake. The zombie, unfazed by the fact that several toes and large pieces of its feet are missing, now climbs into the back of the bus, where it stands, hand still around Juliana's neck (she was been lifted, choking, a few inches from the seat), in its full zombified glory.
Obviously four days of being undead and rotting in the hot June sun hasn't done much for the zombies' looks, because this zombie has decayed far more than the one we saw on the first day in the kitchen or even later, in the church. The zombie, it turns out, is a she-zombie. Her long hair, which I'm sure was once blond and beautiful, is now red and brown with blood and sewage, and has been yanked out in several places. Her skin is greenish-gray and thin, pulled taut so as to see her bulging blue veins, pusling with thick blood. Pieces of her flesh are missing all over. her eyes are green and bloodshot and protrude almost comically from her head. Her teeth, which have developed into razor-sharp, carnivorous, black things, are bared in a wild, ugly grimace.
The zombie growls and bends down toward Juliana's exposed neck. Juliana is paralyzed with fear and can do little more to defend herself than whimper in utter terror. The zombie is seconds away from infecting her when it freezes and looks down. The tip of a large kitched knife is sticking out of its chest. It roars in frustration and tries to remove it, but all it really succeeds in doing is cutting off a few more fingers. Suddenly the knife slides out, and before we know it the zombie's head has been sliced off, fallen out the window, and is now rolling in the street behind us. Nick E stands, panting, behind the crumpled zombie body, holding the now bloody knife. (A few of us notice, in spite of our shock, that the blood is a very dark, sickly red, almost purple, instead of the usual scarlet, and is also slightly clumpy.)
Juliana is crying hysterically and Nick is in a state somewhere beyond shock,  but the rest of us have grown relatively used to these random attacks and the equally random slayings associated with them, and therefore Matt starts the bus again and we continue on our merry way.
We don't go far before we see it. This time Matt stops the bus reflexively, and we all jerk foward. None of us notice this, however, because we are all too focused on the scene in front of us. We are on Highway 5, looking out over the parking lot of Target at what at first must just be a horrible nightmare, but upon some very explitive speculation by a few people in the bus is concluded to be extremely real. The Target parking lot is filled, literally filled, packed, with what seems to be the entire zombified population of our town. They are stacked, smashed, crushed, and shoved together, some dead, but most undead. Sprays of blood and the occasional carelessly tossed body part are observed as we watch them interact; they fight, eat each other, shuffle aimlessly (in what little space there is for aimless shuffling), and some are even...mating. The stench that wafts from the giant stewpot of undead bodies is so incredibly, awfully strong that none of us can breathe, for if we do, the inside of our noses feel like we're breathing in ammonia. The odor burns and gags us, and more than a few people vomit, adding to the stifling smell.
Luckily, the sound emitted from the parking lot is almost as strong as the odor, and most of the zombies don't notice us (either that or they're too busy enjoying their dinner of brain casserole and a side of phalanges to care). Unfortunately, a great many of them do notice us, and start to amble in our direction. Their 'ambling' picks up speed, and just as the mass is almost upon us, someone screams at Matt and he propels the bus forward as fast as it will go.
Our group realizes with dismay that our plans of raiding the grocery stores are no longer possible. Target is off-limits for obvious reasons, and the other grocery stores will be inaccessible with the amount of zombies that are congregated in such close proximity to them. They maybe extremely dull and incapable of concious thought, but it is clear that they are now on alert, possibly because of the smell of fresh flesh that passed so tantalizingly close to them. It looks like we're just going to have to use the food that the french teacher has waiting for us at her farm, and hope that that is enough to sustain the group of us for however long we have to stay there. As we pass through the town in the direction of Victoria (and whatever lies beyond Victoria), we see destruction everywhere we look. Many buildings are burned, though whether they were burned by accident or in some attempt by whatever other humans survived to keep zombies at bay, we don't know. Bodies, of both humans and zombies, litter the sides of the highway and the areas beyond, and whatever buildings aren't burned suffer extreme damages in the form of broken glass, destroyed walls, and utter chaos inside. We do see the occasional live zombie who, when we pass by with our huge rumbling yellow bus, looks up from whatever it's eating to stare hungrily, attempts to follow us in slow, stumbling drunken steps, and eventually gives up and grunts angrily.
Gradually, conversation begins around the bus, though in hushed and nervous tones. We reach Victoria, but upon the french teacher's instruction pass right through it and continue on our way to Waconia and Norwood Young America. A little more than a half hour after we encountered the zombies in Target, we exit the highway in favor of a long, hilly dirt road that seemingly leads to the middle of nowhere. A few miles on this road brings us to another dirt road, which after two long minutes ends up at an isolated, slightly battered-looking farm. Matt stops the bus and we unload, then stand silently in a row, surveying our new, hopefully temporary home.
The house itself is relatively large, looks pretty old, but also give off an air of comfort and invitation with its peeling blue paint and creaky white porch. There is a barn off to the right of the house, once a brilliant red but now faded and chipped, which is huge and could probably fit our school's entire student body, squeezed tightly. Derek aka Backpack Kid immediately goes over to the barn and, with some difficulty, pushes open one of its huge doors. A hayloft lines the perimeter, and the floor is adorned with twelve empty stalls, six on each side. A small hole in the roof lets in a stream of sunshine, lighting the otherwise dark and musty space. Behind the barn is a shed, small and according to the french teacher, filled with weapons. She also assures us that beneath the house is a cellar, filled with food to feed our group for at least a year. Everything we see is comforting, but nothing, nothing even close to as comforting as the fact that there hasn't been a single zombie in sight for the last eight miles of the trip. Here, it seems, we will finally be safe.

So. We're going to live at the french teacher's house, but for how long? Will the zombies really stay away for that long? Will we be able to defend ourselves if they don't? Is there anyone that can rescue us? Find out in -you guessed it- part 5.

It's Been Awhile.

I was going to write part 4 last night, I really was. But I didn't get a chance! Here's the deal. I'll write it tonight while I'm lying in-never mind, you guys are sleeping over tonight. Okay, tomorrow night, I'll write it while I'm lying in bed, instead of reading, and I don't care how late I have to stay up, I'll write it. Not that I usually care how late I stay up. But anyway, I'll write it, as in write it down, with paper, and a pencil. Remember those things? And then tomorrow I'll type it. I mean, the next day. But that will be Wednesday and that day I have band at one aka right when I wake up, so expect it at like four or five. Okay? Okay. Except, really, typing is much easier, because I get all these ideas, and if I write them, by the time I finish writing whatever I'm writing at the time, I forget all the ideas I had. With typing and I can just start a new paragraph and type the things that come to my head, and then go back and edit whatever I was working on before, and everything is still in perfect and logical order. Oh well. I'll probably do a lot of editing on Wednesday. Anyway. On to bigger and better things.

So, the search is over, and really, it leaves me with this giant sense of non-stress. As in, peace. Because I've been looking for a job for a year, and looking especially frantically for the past few months, and now I finally have one. And, you know when you have to do something, and you know you have to get it done, and it's just there, all the time, that feeling that there's still something you need to do? Well, it's gone now. Success. I won't say where I work, cuz it's not a chain and therefore it will be really easy to find me and this is the internet, but it's a pizza place, which is actually where I originally wanted to work, so, success. I start on Thursday. I have a total of 15 hours between then and Sunday, which is about $105, which is an awesome start. I'm going to make a chart so that I know how much I've made and how much I still need to make for Senegal, because I'm gonna be putting it all in the bank, and I'll lose track of it otherwise.

Hey, the fourth of july! It's soon! I'm really excited. For a variety of reasons, the main one being fireworks. My absolute, no question about it favorite part of the the fourth is sitting on top of our truck on Powers, watching the fireworks. We have like the best view in the city because it's right by the creepy cult field if you know what I mean, and they're super easy to see. Plus, you can see the fireworks from other cities too, and we always guess which one is which. We can see Excelsior, Chaska, Minnetonka, Shakopee, and Waconia.

Okay, I don't really have much else to say, but I do have a lot of other things to say. Watch me in the parade. Do it. Anyway, bye.

Stuff

My bedroom door slams behind me, harder than I'd meant for it to, and I fall facedown onto my bed. It's a beautiful day, the first day of summer, and the world is full of possibility, but none of that matters. My dreams are crushed, my hopes ruined. What inspiration the day might have held just a few minutes before has been stamped out, left with not even a flicker.
Okay. Maybe I'm being a bit dramatic. I realize my hormonal teenage brain is made to make everything seem worse than it really is, and I'm obviously overreacting. I mean, my cousin from Louisiana coming for the entire summer can't be all bad, can it? She's the same age as me, and I'm sure she'll have lots of insightful Louisiana things to say. It might even be interesting. Lord knows I need something interesting to keep me from going even crazier in this boring place.
But this summer was supposed to be the best yet. It was so open, so full of the unknown. I was going to go on adventures, find true love at last, get experience, solve mysteries. And now my hicktown cousin is coming for the entire summer. The entire summer. She probably wears overalls and has an accent and doesn't even know what a computer is, leaving absolutely no possibility for adventure or mystery.
I sigh, deciding that I might as well make the most of the few days I have before she arrives. I roll lazily off the bed and go outside, not bothering with shoes. The late afternoon sun is still warm, and I stop for a minute and close my eyes to bask in it before making my way over to the shed.
Now, the shed, though it's called a shed, isn't really a shed. It's more of a house, complete with a kitchen, and bathroom. It doesn't have any separate rooms, just a large open area and a loft circling the outer perimeter, but I like it better like this anyway. We live on an old farm from the 1800's; our house is a hundred years old and the property is complete with a barn, a couple real sheds, and our 'shed'. I've kind of taken over this shed, claiming it as my own and filling it with my many hobbies that come and go. I enter and don't turn on any lights; the windows provide a dusky twilight that provides a mood that I like.
The room is filled with collections of art supplies, musical instruments, antiques, nicknacks, old furniture, and dried flowers. The easel my dad built when I expressed my desire to be an artist sits in the corner, still blank. Although I had discovered a talent for painting, the canvas hadn't been enough and I instead had painted a starry sky on the ceiling and a mystical forest on the walls. The piano I had found at an estate sale in town is beside the easel, covered in antique music books and metronomes. There's a surplus of abandoned farms around here, and it isn't hard to find cool old stuff hidden in rotting trunks and padlocked closets. I've acquired a collection of colorful loveseats and ottomans, a couple stained glass tables and at least six glittering lamps. I also have a rocking horse, a fiddle that doesn't work, a 1985 Fender guitar in pristine condition that I'm afraid to play, hundreds of blank diaries that I never got to in my short-lived attempt at writing, and a pair of beautifully beaded moccasins that are too small but beautiful just the same. Also, I have my books. The one acitivity I never, ever had gotten bored with is reading. Books are stacked in corners, on tables, under couches, and just about everywhere you look. Aside from a couple of giant beanbags from the sixties, courtesy of my ex-hippie father, the entire loft is covered in books. I love them because they're filled with the lives that I'm too afraid to have. Daring heroines and faraway lands, all contained in my books, and I devour every single one; they fuel my dreams and aspirations, even though I know I'm too timid and scared to ever fulfill them.
Just as I settle down with my latest novel, my mother's voice rings across the yard, calling me to dinner. I sigh, flip the book over onto the arm of the couch, and trudge into the house. As I sit down at the table I remember that I'm supposed to be mad at my parents, and quickly arrange my face into a suitably angry expression. Apparently, the look carries out its purpose.
"MayBeth, dear, what's troubling you?" my father asks. I scowl even more, wondering how many times I've asked them to call me May. To avoid answering, I shove in a mouthful of food. Over my beef stew I see my parents exchange a glance. "If it's what we talked about earlier, we hope you'll understand. Your cousin SaraJane wants so much to visit us, and from what your mother has told us about her sister, I'm sure she'll be lovely."
"You'll love her, I promise," my mother assures me in her southern twang. "You two will get along just perfectly, you'll be best friends by the time the summer ends." Somehow I doubt that. I already can't stand the few relatives on my mother's side that I have met, and I'm sure this SaraJane won't be any different. I ponder yet again the Southerners' fascination with double names. My mother's name is MaryEllen, which is perhaps the worst of them all. It's taken many years of practice to keep teachers from announcing my real name to the class at the beginning of the year, and only my parents have ever called me MayBeth.
I finish my dinner and mumble an excuse, then run outside to enjoy the remnants of sunlight. I think about going over to Chris's, my childhood friend who lives just down the road, but don't think I can stand his cheerful optimism at the moment. He'll probably say that SaraJane will be lots of fun and I'll be her best friend, just like my parents, when all I want is for someone to curse her, my parents, and the world, and share in my frustration and disappointment. Instead I retreat back to the shed, where I get lost in the world of an Indian princess whose already wonderful life has just been enhanced by the presence of a foreign prince.

A couple days later, days that have been spent moping about and reading instead of adventuring and dream-fulfilling, SaraJane arrives. One benefit of her arrival is that we get to leave our tiny Midwestern farm town for a day in the city to pick her up from the airport. As we wait for her in the terminal, I gaze at all the travelers around me, concocting exotic stories about each of them. Just as I see a particularly eccentric old man with the potential for a very interesting story, my mother tugs excitedly on my sleeve and points.
"Look! There she is! Oh, isn't she perdy?" she exclaims. "She looks just like her mother, bless her heart, if only EmilyAnn could've come too!" I turn to look at my cousin, and at first think that my mother is mistaken. This is the mysterious Southern cousin that's coming to stay with us all summer? She's not a hillbilly! She doesn't have buck teeth, or even overalls! In fact, she's beautiful, in a naive, Southern kind of way. She has long, flowing blond hair like some kind of movie or something, and perfect skin. Her eyes are sparkly blue, and her bare legs are long and smooth. As she reaches us, I see that she's a little shorter than me, but she has perfect swelling curves, as opposed to my somewhat thin, ganglier build. She's dressed in a cutoff denim skirt and pink flannel shirt, and behind her is a large black suitcase. She looks like a model from a Levi's ad.
"Hi," she says, smiling brightly to reveal sparkling teeth with a cute little gap in the middle. Up close I can see that she has a smattering of cinnamon-colored freckles. "I'm SaraJane. You must be MayBeth." Her accent is even stronger than my mother's, and she stresses the May in my name instead of the Beth. She reaches out to give me a hug, which I awkwardly return even though I'm definitely not a hug person. As soon as she's released me, my mother rushes in for an embrace, cooing about how she hasn't seen her since she was a baby and she's all grown up and a beautiful young woman now.
We leave the airport, and on the way home my mom questions SaraJane about everyone 'back home', like how's cousin Jess doin' and whatever happened to old Uncle Jack (her answer to which my father whistles, shakes his head, and says, "He always was a crazy old bastard.") I realize very soon that while I was right about not liking her, I was wrong about the way I wouldn't like SaraJane. I had thought that she would be some hillbilly freak that I could look down on, who would trail behind me saying, 'you shore do got a lotta doohickies aroun' heere', but instead she's smart, beautiful, and maddeningly innocent and perfect. This is going to be a long, long summer.
When we reach home my father opens the trunk and carries her luggage in for her, instructing me to show her around. I give her a tour of the house, and when we reach my room she gasps and says how lovely it is and blahblahblah. I wasn't planning on showing her my shed, because it's my personal space and I really, really don't want to share it with her, but my mother pops her head in as I'm showing her the room she'll stay in and asks if I've showed her my shed yet. Reluctantly I shake my head and bring her outside. If she was impressed with my room, then she's blown away with the shed. She goes on and on about how beautiful the walls and ceilings are, and when she sees the piano she positively shrieks, of course politely asks if I mind if she plays, and when I shake my head, proceeds to play a brilliant, complicated melody that outdoes my entire six years of piano lessons and intense practicing. To make matters worse, when she notices all my books, she gets really excited and exclaims that she, too, loves to read, and is so glad I do as well. I mean, if she had laughed at my books and told me they were stupid, it would have been easy for me to hate her. But the fact that she loves books is much, much worse, because books are my thing, and she knows nothing about them, she can't possibly love them as much as I do, and I hate her even more because she thinks her love of them even comes close to comparing with mine. When she's finished babbling about her favorite love story or something dumb like that, we go back outside. A slightly awkward silence follows.
The silence is broken by a gasp from SaraJane. I look up to see Chris getting his mail.
"Do you know him?" SaraJane asks me.
"Chris? Yeah," I answer tentatively.
"Is he...your boyfriend?"
I let out a snort.
"Not at all. Ew." Chris has been my friend since we were born, two days apart in the same hospital. We've grown up doing everything together, and it's absurd to think of him in any romantic way.
"Well, he sure is cute," SaraJane giggles. I mime a gagging noise. Just then, Chris notices us and makes his way over. As he comes toward us, I look at him from an objective point of view and realize that SaraJane is, in a way, right. His chocolate brown hair is shaggy and falls appealingly into his eyes, and he's toned and tan from all the work that he and his dad do on their farm down the road. His dark eyes are mysterious and cunning, and when he smiles he has cute little dimples that any girl (except me) would fall for.
"Hi, May," he says when he reaches us, demonstrating said smile."I'm Chris, May's cousin." He takes SaraJane's dainty hand in is.
"SaraJane," she giggled. "I'm MayBeth's cousin. I'll be stayin' here for the summer." Chris's smile widens. I almost gag, them mumble something about forgetting something in the shed and quickly leave the two of them together, though I'm not sure if it's such a good idea. I go back to the shed and watch them from the window. For some reason, the sight of them flirting makes my stomach slightly upset. I figure it's probably because I hate SaraJane so much, even though she is perfectly nice, and lovely, and everything my mother said she would be. Chris and SaraJane start making their way over, SaraJane still giggling at something Chris said that was apparently hilarious, which is weird, because I seem to remember Chris being terrible at making jokes.

Me.

when i wake up in the morning and go upstairs, the draining sound of the coffee maker makes my stomach feel empty.

i like the word robust.

the word corduroy makes me think of a college campus out east in the fall, with leaves all over and sunshine and indie music.

things inspire me all the time, and i want to create things, invent, make stuff, do stuff. by the time i stand up to do all that stuff i dont want to do it anymore, whether its from laziness, short attention span, or loss of interest.

this might be surprising to you, but i procrastinate terribly.

once i start something, i have to finish it. if i stop i'll never get it done. ever.

sometimes im highly passive aggressive. sometimes just plain passive. other times i march right up and say exactly what i want to say.

i dont deal in extremes. im somewhere in the middle about almost everything. when asked my opinion on something, the answer i give most is, 'it depends.'

i eat a lot. when i know ive eaten a lot, i try to balance it out by telling myself im not gonna eat the entire next day. it never works. this is how i know i can never be anorexic. im okay with that. (its a good thing right?)

im extremely awkward.

if i could relive one moment in my life, it would be sixth hour on june sixth, when i went to sixth hour band for the last time. the rest of the moments that i screwed up, i can deal with, and anyway they might ruin the space time continuum or something.

i have excellent spelling and grammar and would have to say that that is the subject that im best at. even if im not currently using said spelling and grammar at this moment.

im a romantic. keep in mind that romantic isnt always related to love. it just means i like those cliche, beautiful situations. you know what i mean? just look it up. i'll look it up for you:
romantic: (noun)  Inclined toward or suggestive of feelings of excitement and mystery. get it?

im also a pacifist. now, contrary to popular belief, pacifists can still hit people. so if i smack you upside the head, dont pull the 'i thought you were a pacifist!' thing. i just dont believe in violence or killing people. unless its virtual.

im an optimist and an idealist. hopefully you know what both of those are. a note about optimism: just because optimists look for the best in situations doesnt mean that they are happy and cheerful all the time. people seem to think that.

i have my entire life planned out, year for year. i hope it works out that way, and yet i also hope it turns out completely different.

there are so many options for my life to be. and my personality. i keep thinking that. i could be a crazy old cat lady whose door some little kid knocks on for a dare, and then i come out looking all mean and then invite him in for cookies and then everyone in the neighborhood loves me after that. i could be a crazy partying college student and end up at a mediocre job in some cubicle, where my husband makes most of the dough, and we end up living the average american life with three kids, a dog, and a house in the suburbs with a well-kept lawn and our heads down. i could travel the world with my crazy weed-smoking artist boyfriend, and meet all kinds of crazy people and be a hippie and sleep in the middle of a field in germany or next to a hobo in rome. i keep thinking of all the different ways my life could turn out, and it amazes me. not that i'd want my life to be any of these things, necessarily. although the cat lady thing sounds kinda fun. just kidding. anyway. think about it. at this point in our lives, we can be anything. (take a look, its in a book, reading rainbow)

I Don't Wanna Grow Up.

I lied, okay? I said I didn't want to be a child anymore? Yeah. That's a lie. I want to be a child forever. Peter Pan is like the smartest kid ever. Seriously, I'm gonna go to Neverland, because it's awesome, and you never have to grow up. I'd be totally cool with being fifteen forever. Or even ten. I mean, I could still be smart. I could be alive for a hundred years and still be fifteen and I'd still be as smart as the hundred-year-olds, because I've had just as much experience as them. Kids don't have to worry about anything. Except, what to have for lunch and similar things. Anyway, everyone always likes kids better than adults. Adults are mean and boring and cynical and they're all nonbelievers. But kids are carefree and imaginative and fun and energetic. I mean, look at the choices. You'd obviously choose kid. Who wants to be a nasty annoying adult? Not I. Unfortunately, I have to grow up, because although Neverland obviously exists, the famous boy in tights hasn't come to my window yet, and I seem to be out of pixie dust, so I have no way of getting there. So when I grow up I'm going to stay as childish and carefree as possible. And probably most likely I"ll always act on impulse. Because that's the funnest way to live your life. I'll have an adult outside but I most definitely will always be a child inside.

I Still Haven't Written Part 4. On the Bright Side, It's Summer!

it doesnt really feel like summer though. a second ago i had a lot to say and so i was like oh! blog! but right when i got here i lost everything i had to say. interesting. hey guess what. my birthday is tomorrow. so i won't be a child anymore! well anyway, it's summer. another year is gone. GONE. that was so fast. did you know that mr garrick is moving to another state?! i really wanted lydia to have him. disappointment.

i just sneezed.

so, i'm a sophomore now. on the first day of christmas my true love gave to me.... okay, i have nothing to say. bye.

Part 4. Or, not.

Yeah, I know you're gonna hate me. Whatever. I need my ramble time and that time is now, so part 4 is gonna have to wait. So wanna hear my decision? You do.

I'm not going to school tomorrow. Or the next day, or the next day, or the next day. I will go to graduation to play in band though. But I most definitely am not going to school. Because, I'm covered in bug spray and sunscreen, was just at a bonfire, and the air conditioning is on. Why does this matter, you ask? Because that obviously means that it's summer. And you don't go to school in the summer. So I'm not going to school. And I'm not doing my stupid finals study guides. And I have to test out of gym this summer which means that I have to read The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Teens. Do you think that by reading that I will become a highly effective teen? I don't think so. I don't think I'm going to gain anything by reading that. Honestly, who even falls for those stupid self-help books? I'm serious! Like, anybody who reads it either reads it because they're like ha look at this what a load of crap (which is what I'm gonna be doing, hence I'll be learning NOTHING and it's just plain a big huge waste of time) or else they're dumb and they actually fall for it. Which in this case is the teachers who make us read it. Anyway. That's something to be excited for this summer.

ANOTHER thing to be excited for is Harry Potter. I shouldn't start because I won't stop. I won't start.
But just know, I'm excited.

So, I just got back from Kaity's going away party kinda, (it was like an hour ago but whatever) and it was fun, even though I was the obvious outsider because I was the ONLY ONE that never went to east. But, I felt pretty much accepted so, problem solved. I met this kid, Michael. He was the only one I didn't know. And there was also Georgia who was cool and I didn't really know her but I had met her before at pep band, and Stephen who I also didn't know but had met at pep band and he's really cool also and also gay which makes him cool. And Bennett was there and I realized I don't really know Bennett and I was going to say that, but I didn't get a chance until later I was roasting a marshmallow and he said that to me instead and I thought it was funny cuz I was thinking the same thing. (He was like, "Hi Raisa. I don't really know you.") Anyway yeah it was a pretty fun party that got even more fun when we played truth or dare. Keep in mind that the dares were created by Kaity. Yeah. It was entertaining.

I was working on my history study guide, which I am almost done with, but then I got distracted. It's almost midnight. Didn't I say I wasn't gonna do homework? Oh my gosh. I can't handle this. I want it to be summer. As in, no school. At all. AGHHHHHHHH FINALS. DIE. Die now. Before I do. Okay. Back to history. I'll write part 4 later. Tomorrow maybe. I don't really feel like it though. Can't I just leave you hanging? Can you write part 4? No don't do that never mind. I dunno. I'll write it eventually. Anyway. History. Ehh.

What A Real Zombie Apocalypse Would Be Like (Part 3)

So, just to recap on the previous events of our zombie apocalypse adventure, we (the entire group) have just arrived at St. Hubert's, and half of the group is venturing upstairs to get all the food in the kitchens, while the other half secures our shelter. Both endeavors are eventful, and so I'll describe both. I'll start first with those that are to collect food. Now, if you've ever been to St. Hubert's you'll know that the kitchens are upstairs, and so this trip for food is going to be all but easy. The group of us, about fifteen, quietly begin to ascend the stairs. Those that are handling our few weapons are in front. When we reach the top of the stairs, we look cautiously around before continuing to the kitchen. We go in through the gym, and eventually reach the kitchen. When we push open the door, however, we see one of the church custodians, in zombie form, of course, prowling in one of the fridges. As we enter, he turns, and upon seeing us his face contorts into a twisted, wild rage. With inhuman ability, he leaps toward us and pounces on Reid, who is in the front. Fortunately, he jumps right into Reid's outstretched arm, which wields a knife, and the custodian falls limply to the floor. Reid, who is now sweating and shaking, turns to look at us, and a few in the group rush to comfort him (Reid may seem like a big strong football dude, but killing a zombie is no easy feat, so cut him some slack.) When we have checked out the rest of the kitchen to make sure there are no other zombies hiding about, we hurry to collect all of the food and water in the kitchen, and put it all the in the empty (clean) garbage bins that are located to the right of the door. A couple kids, who are obviously thinking, point out that we should probably also grab the knives stored in a drawer next to the fridge, as well as anything else that might be useful. We end up with, in addition to the food and knives, three lighters, two buckets, twelve packages of dish soap and four packages of hand soap, two pairs of rubber gloves, two boxes of latex gloves, six towels, a box of hairnets, two rolling pins, and a ladle. Unfortunately, the only food that remains for the summer is canned or boxed, besides two boxes of donuts leftover from the previous Sunday mass. Once we are sure that we've collected everything of value, we begin the task of getting the large garbage bins (on wheels) down the stairs.

Meanwhile, downstairs, the other half of the group (actually, it's more like the majority) is busy finding a place for the 48 of us to stay. They walk through the school portion of the building, attempting to find a suitable classroom (in this case, a suitable classroom would retain the following characteristics: large, relatively spacious, windowless, and with some sort of potential for all of us to sleep more or less comfortably). Eventually, they come across the room that is inevitably the band room, as there are a smattering of music stands lying around, as well as a large tuba case and a piano. Other than the previously mentioned items, the room is empty. The next task at hand is, of course, securing the room in case any vicious zombies do decide to come to call. It isn't too hard to find paper, and the small window on the door is soon covered. Unfortunately, no one has the key to the lock, so that particular amenity won't do us any good. The group decides to move the piano next to the door in the hope that if need be, they can easily move the piano in front of it to block any unwanted visitors. Finally, the room must be soundproofed. Everyone wanders around the school looking for as much paper as they can find. When they have provided a very large stack, they crumple it all up and stuff it around the corners of the room, tape it to the walls, and cover every surface possible with it. Just as this task is finished, the second group (our group) arrives with the food. We designate an area where the food will be kept, and then set off in search of blankets and pillows. Most of these are found in the kindergarten classrooms. At long last, the room is ready, and gradually the people sit down. There is nothing to do now but wait.

Now, we all know that people, especially a lot of people, don't do well together when enclosed in a small space for a long time, and our group is no exception. It isn't long before people become irritable. The air conditioning in the church is not on, and, being June, it is quite hot. Any attempts to make conversation end in snappy retorts and dirty looks, so the room is also pretty quiet. As we explored the school, a few of us brought books along, and those who didn't brought markers. We busy ourselves reading, coloring on the walls, or staring at them. Although there are no windows in the room, we can tell when night falls. Everything becomes more still, and the air cools slightly, something we are all thankful for. Suddenly Nick E stands up and breaks the silence, announcing that he's hungry. He make his way over to the food and helps himself. This, of course, causes a panic. Gabe is the first to say something.
"You can't just stuff your face Nick. There's not that much food and a ton of us."  Luckily, Nick sees the logic in this and slows down, replacing the dried Ramen that he had grabbed. Thomas takes charge. "Okay. Let's sort out the food, and then figure out how much each of us get on each day." He appoints Jacques, Callie, and Andrew to do it, and the rest of us gather to watch. When they finish, this is what they have: 14.5 packages of Ramen (the other half being eaten by Nick), seven cans of green beans, four cans of tomato concentrate, forty-five individual containers of cereal, sixty boxes of Poptarts, twelve cans of baked beans, five bags of hotdog buns, one bag of rice, thirty cans of chicken noodle soup, four boxes of raw spaghetti, and seventy bags of Baked Lays. The random kid that Dan hangs out with, who it turns out is really smart, quickly calculates that if we divide the food up evenly between all of us, it's only going to last us five more days. This, of course, is a dilemma, but the group of us is too hungry to try to think about it now, so we divide up the food and dig in to our day's portion. Then, we eventually form our little huddles again and, after long debates on our future that last far into the night, drift, one by one, off to sleep.

The next three days are spent sleeping, eating, and, of course, arguing. None of us can figure out where to find food, where to go, or how to get there. Of course the suggestion pops up more than once that we just leave the area, as the zombies must be contained into some general zone, however large. Unfortunately, there is only enough gas in our bus to get us forty or so miles away, and the zombies are sure to have spread that far by now, so any hope of escaping the infected area is crushed (we can't get gas, of course, because as all the gas station attendants have become zombies, the gas pumps are no longer running.)(Also, although the zombies have spread, the areas surrounding Chanhassen have obviously been evacuated, so the original zombies have wandered but few other people have actually been infected.) By the fourth day, we are running out of options, and also out of food, and we need to make a decision as soon as possible, because we will need some of our food to take with us wherever we go in case there is no food immediately on hand.

Now, I want to take a short time to tell you why this group of teenagers is having such a hard time coming to an agreement, when there are two perfectly able teachers present. The answer is that something seems to have snapped in both the french and the german teacher, and as of now they are both completely useless. The french teacher, who hasn't spoken a word since the zombie attack, spends the time staring at the floor, wall, or ceiling. She appears to be in shock, and thinking intently about something. The german teacher, however, hasn't shut up since the attack, and mutters incessantly to herself in a combination of English, German, Spanish, and gibberish.

Just as the arguing in the room is coming to a dangerously high level, potentially high enough for any zombies lurking nearby to hear, the french teacher stands up and enters the circle. We immediately quiet as she begins to speak softly in French:
"J'ai toujours peur que cela se produise, mais je n'ai jamais vraiment pensé que ce serait une réalité. J'ai un endroit où nous pouvons aller. Il est complètement rempli de tout ce que nous aurons besoin, de nourriture et un abri aux armes à feu et des munitions. Nous pouvons aller à ma ferme. Il est de trente-cinq miles d'ici, et nous allons utiliser la quasi-totalité de notre gaz avant de l'atteindre, mais c'est un risque que nous devons suivre si nous voulons survivre."
Fortunately, Matt, being quite good at French, can understand almost all of this, and he quickly asks, "But why would you think that this would happen? And why is your farm stocked with the supplies necessary for a zombie apocalypse, anyway?"
The french teacher replies, still in her eerily quiet voice, "Mon mari était un homme bon. Il était drôle, gentil et intelligent. Son métier était la chimie. Nous avons toujours eu un bon moment ensemble, lui et moi. Mais un jour ... Je ne suis pas sûr ce qui s'est passé. Il est devenu fou. Mousse sortit de sa bouche, il ne parlait pas, ses yeux étaient ... méchant. Il a sauté sur moi, a essayé de me mordre! Je l'ai poussé hors de moi, mais il a sauté à nouveau, les dents découvertes, les bras tendus. Je ne savais pas quoi faire. J'ai couru. Il m'a chassé, ce qui rend étrange, bruits d'animaux. J'ai couru à la cuisine, avec lui loin derrière. Tout comme il m'a saisi, je suis arrivé au couteau et se tortillait libre. Il allait s'élancer à nouveau, et j'ai tenu le couteau ... et il a sauté à droite sur elle. Je ne savais pas quoi faire. Je l'ai enterré dans la cour, a dit aux gens qu'il avait quitté le pays, et espère que personne ne poser des questions. Heureusement, ils n'ont pas. Je ne savais pas ce qui lui était arrivé, mais je me doutais que c'était quelque chose près de devenir un zombie. Je craignais que la apolcaypse zombie prédit vraiment se passerait-il, alors je préparé ma maison juste au cas où. Au fond, je ne pense pas qu'il serait vraiment. Je viens d'être en état de choc ... Mais maintenant, nous devons agir. Nous devons aller à ma ferme, où nous serons en sécurité."
Once Matt had translated this for the kids who didn't understand it, we stood in shock. I mean, we'd always known this lady was weird, but until now, we'd had no idea just how weird. Luckily, her weirdness finally came in handy. We agreed to venture to her farm tomorrow, stopping first at all the local grocery stores in hopes that there would be few zombies present and maybe some food left. We ended the day in good spirits, with new hope of survival brimming in our hearts.

Just as the last of us are drifting to sleep, we hear a low moaning outside the room. Those of us who are awake freeze, our hearts still, listening hard. The lights are completely off and it is impossible to see, so we have only our ears to rely on. A moment later, there is a thud, coupled with another moan. If this is in fact a zombie, it's definitely a clumsy one. (Just so you know, there is a small bathroom located inside the band room, so there is no reason for any of us to leave the room, and therefore we haven't in the four days that we've been here. Yes, it's started to smell a little, as no one has showered, but with the door cracked slightly during the day it is bearable and also slightly breezy.) As a third moan is heard, more people begin to wake up and those who haven't are shaken by those who have until eventually the entire room is awake, sitting up, waiting in the heavy silence. Suddenly, there is a bang on the door, so loud and so hard that everyone jumps. We all stand, and Ryan R, who is closest to the door, turns on the light and backs away quickly. The piano, which we have taken to moving in front of the door every night, has moved a considerable distance, and before anyone can hurry to move it back, there is another bang on the door, followed by two more, until the door springs open. Standing outside it, breathing heavily with a hungry, inhuman look on their faces, are four zombies. As soon as they see us they start forward, grinding their teeth horrendously. Now, forty-eight versus four may not seem like a competition at all, but keep in mind that the forty-eight of us are weak from our meager diet of a couple of Poptarts and a half a bowl of cold soup a day, not to mention half asleep and somewhat apprehensive about leaping forward to fight zombies, while the zombies are wild, cruel, manic, strong, and energized from their recent meal of what was probably human brains. All of us are wary, and although we grab our weapons, no one steps forward. The zombies, however, do. Just as Dan is attempting to inch closer to take a stab at them, he is pushed out of the way by none other than the french teacher. She is wielding one of Derek's metal pipes in one hand, which she adeptly uses to club the first zombie to death, and a kitchen knife in the other, with which she slices another's neck. The other two jump backward, forcing her to get closer and give them an advantage. As she swings at one and misses, the other barrels forward, teeth bared. She hits his teeth with the pipe, and they crack and fall out. The zombie, mouth pouring blood, grunts in anger and reaches for her neck, but the french teacher is too quick. She stabs the zombie, spins around, and hits the last zombie right in the temple just as he is about to sink his teeth into her outstretched arm. Then, breathing heavily, she drops her weapons, kicks the dead zombies aside, and sits on the nearby tuba case, apparently in shock yet again.

The rest of us are completely stunned, although also thankful that the surprises that the french teacher keeps showing us are proving to be so useful. Eventually Chad, Bryson, Dan's friend, and Andrew drag the zombie bodies out into the hall, and we close the door and move the piano back into place (although it obviously isn't doing much good). One by one, we make our way over to the french teacher to thank her for saving us with her spontaneous heroic action. All she can do is nod in return. The rest of the night passes without much sleep, and eventually all of us get up and begin packing up our few belongings, even though it is still night. By the time dawn shows its first light, we are ready to go. We file silently out of the room, a few of us pushing the garbage bins that are now considerably lighter. Luckily, we don't come across any more zombies as we cross the golden-lit parking lot to the bus. After we awkwardly load the garbage bins onto the bus, Matt starts the engine, and we begin our journey to the safety of the french teacher's farm.


What will we come across on our journey to the farm? Will we even make it there safely? Will the madness ever end? These questions and more will be answered in Part 4.