Grey Matters

Chapter 1

Prologue

The Zombie Apocalypse. 

We’ve played the video games, seen the movies—the blood, the gore, the disgusting creatures ripping people open with claws and teeth, pulling out guts like link sausage, shoveling fistfuls of organs into their putrid mouths. We’ve cheered or cringed when the hero went after them with a pair of hedge clippers, and a purple-grey, bloody-mouthed head rolled across the floor. The really terrifying zombies, the fast ones, the ones that chase you down, tackle you, start tearing off chunks of flesh while you scream, they made us shiver. And the predators, the ones whose only brain function is tenacious, vicious, savage stalking, they haunted our dreams. I read the books, had the nightmares: the rabid ghouls gashing my flesh as I clawed at the ground, desperately crawling away, only to come nose to toe with the rest of the pack, blood dripping off their chins, and guts smeared on their torn pant legs. I woke up sweating, gasping, wondering if they were out there. 

But that doesn’t even compare to the real horror. The real horror, the soul-wrenching terror, is when you wake up one morning and the blood shot eyes, the sick purple-grey skin, the ghastly cravings for human flesh…they’re yours. No, you’re not having a nightmare. You are the nightmare: the monster, the enemy—and the target.

Chapter 1

They bash our heads and chain us up because we’re different. Well, maybe knowing we would happily throw on a bib, rip out their guts, and devour them like hotdogs on a stick, without the stick—or the bib for that matter—probably has something to do with it. Maybe I don’t blame them. No one really wants to hang out with a girl whose idea of a Slurpee is grey matter and blood splashed in the snow, hold the straw. 

I used to be like them—not the same, not by a long shot. I was different the way everyone wants to be different—like everyone else, but bigger, brighter, and better. Little kids used to stop me in the mall and ask for my autograph. They thought I was Taylor Swift, until I got the Z-Virus.

All I have to do is crawl out of the dark, through the trap door under the third pew from the front on the left, and I can remember what I was. I do that sometimes on clear nights, when the moon breaks through the jagged panes of broken stained glass, frightening the bare walls.

When I drag my suitcase up, the moonlight highlights its frays and dents. It’s pretty much trashed: only one of the zippers works, and the handle is half broken. It’s more grey than black now and wobbles on one wheel. But inside, I still have my tiara. Yeah, there are at least fifty jokes about that waiting to make someone’s milk shoot out their nose. But there’s also a letterman jacket in there. I lettered in track my sophomore year: ran the women’s 400m and the 4x4 relay. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed: I was a beast back then, and I still am. I may not look like Taylor anymore, but I am swift. 

On the team, I could compete with most of the boys. My boyfriend Bridger was never freaked out that I could outrun him in Capture the Flag. But he was an amazing golfer and I suck at golf, so it evened out. 

It never seemed to bug Bridger that I was smarter than he was too. 3.98 GPA, none of those lame standard classes—all AP—except for the couple of electives I took so Bridger and I could have a class together. He wasn’t much for studying. Sometimes I wrote English papers for him. It wasn’t all that hard. He only needed a “C” to stay on the golf team.

I run my fingers along the jagged white edges of our picture from the Track Awards Banquet. The night I ran, I stuffed it in my jacket pocket—for company, I guess. It’s pretty wrinkled and Bridger’s foot is torn off in the corner, but I can still see how cute he is. He brought me lavender roses to match my dress. He looks so hot in black. We made an awesome couple. Sometimes it seems so odd that we ever broke up. It was Julie that told me he cheated on me over the summer while I was gone to Dallas. Like I could just let that go.