My name is Wade. I’m fifteen years old. I lived with my parents and my brother, Tyler, in a 2 story house in the suburbs. I hated school, but I was still a decent student, and I wanted to become a scientist after I graduated.

It was June, and Tyler was going to spend the summer at camp. My parents decided that they’d drop him off in North Carolina by themselves, and that it just wasn’t worth the effort for me to come with- after all, it would only take them a weekend. I agreed, I guess, but I did want to spend a little more time with Tyler before he was gone for two months. Tyler was 10. He had a round, freckly face that was framed by a smattering of sandy blond hair. He liked swimming. He was good at drawing. He still thought that girls had cooties, and he had only recently ceased to believe in Santa Claus.

Tyler was wonderful and innocent and believed in all of the good in the world that I had abandoned a long time ago. He was a reminder that everything didn’t suck, and remembrance of a time in which I felt that way myself.

Tyler and my parents loaded up the minivan and left for camp on Friday.

It began on Saturday. Nothing major at first- everybody thought that it was a joke. Zombies? Are you serious? This isn’t a George Romero film. And then the infection spread beyond the town in which it first festered. And then people got serious.

On Sunday, my neighbors and I began to worry. The news stations were constantly showing a map of the country and the contamination zone. Instead of becoming contained and neutralized, like we had all hoped, it continued to spread. On that day, I turned on the local news and saw that my town was disturbingly close to the ever expanding red zone of death.

On Monday, I turned on the local news to see that the local news no longer existed. This is the point at which we all began to panic. My neighbors and I banded together and took refuge in an old lawyer’s office. One woman was a technician and managed to set up a makeshift communication system for us to find other survivors. The nearest group we could find was 10 miles away- too risky. I tried to contact my parents, but to no avail.

So we lived, if that’s what you’d call it. Groups of us would go out and raid nearby supermarkets so we could eat. Eventually, the zombies got too close and we had to make do with what we had left. It wasn’t much. After a week, we were starving.

Someone contacts the nearby group. It’s a lot bigger, and it’s inside of a mall. There’s food and weapons to spare. They say that we can come and join them, since our numbers are so small. Should we go? It’s so dangerous. Someone could easily be killed on the journey.

But we’re too hungry to turn down the offer. We spend the entire day preparing for it and leave at sundown. 10 miles used to be going across town for a carton of milk. But on foot, at night, across an undead wasteland? Crossing the Sahara would be easier.

I thought it was supposed to be cooler at night, but apparently zombie apocalypses have their own rules. It’s boiling. I want to tear off my clothes, and my mouth is so dry it feels as if my tongue could just shrivel up and fall out. How close are we, I ask. About 5 miles away, someone answers.

5 miles. That’s halfway there. The town may be completely decimated, but it’s still the same place. I know my way around. I can find a drink, right? I can find a drink fast enough to return before anyone notices, I know I can! If I have to walk any longer with this sandpaper in my mouth, I’m gonna crack.

I was right- at least, I was partially right. It only took a few minutes for me to find some water, and it only took a few minutes for me to become completely lost from my group. I should have told someone, I shouldn’t have thought it would be a quick stop, I shouldn’t have thought that I could handle anything by myself.

I look up from the dark glimmering pool and I realize how alone I am. They were so close when I started drinking, and now they’re gone. I begin to panic; I sprint like I’m training for the Olympics(that is, if the Olympics still existed.). Where are they? I hear a rustle, let it be them, dear god please let it be them!

A low moan begins to accompany the sound of the rustling, and I slowly turn towards the source. A zombie, a boy who must have been no older than me when he died, emerges from a bush on the side of the road. I lock my brown eyes with his grey, lifeless ones and back up, faster, faster, until I turn around and break into a full run.

But it’s no use. He’s not alone. Hundreds of zombies slide out of their hiding places and into the open to block my path. They each emit the same deep moaning sound, as if they’re radios communicating on the same frequency. The pack corners me, tears at me, bites at me. Undoes me. A few minutes later, my tormented body revives itself and joins the mob of rot and decay.

I am no longer in control. I’m the same person in my head, but it’s as if some twisted demon has taken the steering wheel. Every movement I make is not my own. I’ve been locked up; a prisoner in my own mind.

This new me follows the pack throughout the ruins of the country. The more we walk, the more hungry I feel. Our hive mind directs us to a group of traveling survivors, much like the one I was once a part of. I don’t want to attack them. I don’t want to make anyone become like me. I want to stay put, but I don’t have the option. My body keeps on moving until the target is clearly in sight.

We all hide until the group is closer. There’s about five of them, but I can’t make out their faces. Suddenly, something in the mind snaps and we all jump out and begin to attack. I run towards what appears to be a younger boy, catching him off guard. He turns around and-

No. Stop. Please. I know this boy, I know this face. My brother may not recognize my mutilated form, but I could pick him out anywhere. He takes out a knife to fight back and I use every amount of willpower in this body to try and talk to him and say something, but all that comes out are those low, wretched, guttural moans. Tyler, please, I’m sorry, I say, as I rip at his flesh and shatter his bones. Tyler, Tyler, I didn’t mean to, Tyler, I scream, as I bite into his brain.

I’m so sorry, please, I’m so sorry.

But all I can do is moan.