zombie, twenty more had crept in and their circle was almost completely around us.
“Run,” I said. “And don’t fucking stop.”
I sprinted as hard as I could through the one opening in the enclosing group and headed north. I could hear Oz and Tobey on my heels, but I didn’t look to check. After about five minutes at full speed, Tobey called out for a break, but I kept running. The Swedish Cottage was coming into view. I remembered the cottage from walks with Romaya. It was over 130 years old and, according to its sign out front, had served as a WWII civil defense headquarters, a tool house, a library, and now, a marionette theater. It was at the upper end of the park, and for some reason that meant something. Maybe because breaking out from the trees seemed like freedom. I’d never seen zombies in taxis or subways.
Oz called out to me with the desperation Tobey lacked, and I had to look. She was holding Tobey up, and he was dripping with sweat, ready to hurl. Apparently, his running habits were like his blogging: best for impressive sprints and incompatible with marathons. He held on to Oz, hunched over and sucking wind while limping toward me. I scanned our surroundings. We seemed to have outrun the zombies. What they had in a focused determination, they lacked in proper nutrition. Although, it seemed my steady diet of Scotch hadn’t slowed me down.
I helped Oz, keeping Tobey between us with his arms around both our shoulders, his right hand gripping me for support, his left hand hanging limp and, arguably, caressing Oz’s left breast more than absolutely necessary.
“Let’s just sit down for a sec,” he said, pointing to a bench outside the cottage.
“We can’t stop until we’re out of this park.”
“He’s right, Tobes,” Oz said. “And how the fuck is a skinny guy like you so out of shape anyway?”
“Sssh,” Tobey said. “Or I’ll start to doubt the cardio benefits of constantly being high.”
Then he threw up across the entrance of the cottage, and sat down on the bench anyway.
“Cri—Christ!” Oz exclaimed, jumping a foot from the spew.
“You were gonna say ‘crikey,’ weren’t you?” I asked.
Oz denied it with a defiant three syllable “No-o-o.”
“You were totally gonna say crikey,” Tobey agreed, spitting out the remains of what I imagined was lunch. “And may I also offer, I don’t think we should head north anymore. Or south.”
I turned around to see nearly fifty Internet zombies closing in from all directions. I pulled on the main door to the cottage, but it was locked.
“Quick. Give me a bobby pin,” I said to Oz.
“It’s 2014. Who the fuck has a bobby pin? You think I keep it with my emery boards and curlers?”
They were getting closer. I took the pen from the pages of my journal and popped the clip off to make a tension wrench.
“I need something like a bobby pin. A paper clip. Anything.”
Oz started feeling around in her backpack and scavenging the ground.
“Will a paper clip work?” Tobey asked, pulling that and some change from his pocket.
I had no time to hate him. And not just because zombies were approaching from thirty feet, but because of the jolt of déjà vu as I took the clip. Suddenly, I was with Romaya and Martin in my law school dorm, working another window. The one on the twentieth floor in the hallway that led to the roof. I stood on top of a radiator to pick the window’s top lock as Martin worked the bottom. Romaya kept watch, just like Oz was doing now, except she was looking for RAs coming around the corner instead of approaching Internet zombies. Martin popped his lock first and passed his superior paper clip pick up to me.
A moment later, I popped mine, too, and we had access to the roof. I took a step out of the dorm and into the air, completely aware that I had lived my very short life in such a rule-based way that this simple act of rebellion was clearly the worst thing I’d ever done. The night welcomed me, wet
“Run,” I said. “And don’t fucking stop.”
I sprinted as hard as I could through the one opening in the enclosing group and headed north. I could hear Oz and Tobey on my heels, but I didn’t look to check. After about five minutes at full speed, Tobey called out for a break, but I kept running. The Swedish Cottage was coming into view. I remembered the cottage from walks with Romaya. It was over 130 years old and, according to its sign out front, had served as a WWII civil defense headquarters, a tool house, a library, and now, a marionette theater. It was at the upper end of the park, and for some reason that meant something. Maybe because breaking out from the trees seemed like freedom. I’d never seen zombies in taxis or subways.
Oz called out to me with the desperation Tobey lacked, and I had to look. She was holding Tobey up, and he was dripping with sweat, ready to hurl. Apparently, his running habits were like his blogging: best for impressive sprints and incompatible with marathons. He held on to Oz, hunched over and sucking wind while limping toward me. I scanned our surroundings. We seemed to have outrun the zombies. What they had in a focused determination, they lacked in proper nutrition. Although, it seemed my steady diet of Scotch hadn’t slowed me down.
I helped Oz, keeping Tobey between us with his arms around both our shoulders, his right hand gripping me for support, his left hand hanging limp and, arguably, caressing Oz’s left breast more than absolutely necessary.
“Let’s just sit down for a sec,” he said, pointing to a bench outside the cottage.
“We can’t stop until we’re out of this park.”
“He’s right, Tobes,” Oz said. “And how the fuck is a skinny guy like you so out of shape anyway?”
“Sssh,” Tobey said. “Or I’ll start to doubt the cardio benefits of constantly being high.”
Then he threw up across the entrance of the cottage, and sat down on the bench anyway.
“Cri—Christ!” Oz exclaimed, jumping a foot from the spew.
“You were gonna say ‘crikey,’ weren’t you?” I asked.
Oz denied it with a defiant three syllable “No-o-o.”
“You were totally gonna say crikey,” Tobey agreed, spitting out the remains of what I imagined was lunch. “And may I also offer, I don’t think we should head north anymore. Or south.”
I turned around to see nearly fifty Internet zombies closing in from all directions. I pulled on the main door to the cottage, but it was locked.
“Quick. Give me a bobby pin,” I said to Oz.
“It’s 2014. Who the fuck has a bobby pin? You think I keep it with my emery boards and curlers?”
They were getting closer. I took the pen from the pages of my journal and popped the clip off to make a tension wrench.
“I need something like a bobby pin. A paper clip. Anything.”
Oz started feeling around in her backpack and scavenging the ground.
“Will a paper clip work?” Tobey asked, pulling that and some change from his pocket.
I had no time to hate him. And not just because zombies were approaching from thirty feet, but because of the jolt of déjà vu as I took the clip. Suddenly, I was with Romaya and Martin in my law school dorm, working another window. The one on the twentieth floor in the hallway that led to the roof. I stood on top of a radiator to pick the window’s top lock as Martin worked the bottom. Romaya kept watch, just like Oz was doing now, except she was looking for RAs coming around the corner instead of approaching Internet zombies. Martin popped his lock first and passed his superior paper clip pick up to me.
A moment later, I popped mine, too, and we had access to the roof. I took a step out of the dorm and into the air, completely aware that I had lived my very short life in such a rule-based way that this simple act of rebellion was clearly the worst thing I’d ever done. The night welcomed me, wet
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