Spy in the Dead Cast

Maya regretted everything. Especially the spinach. That green mess was currently wedged between her front teeth, a neon flag announcing I'm a loser to everyone at theater rehearsal.

"You're on as zombie #4," called Marcus, the student director who was way too hot to be ordering people around. "Remember: you're not just walking dead, you're *hungry* dead."

Maya groaned. She'd only joined the play because Layla—her best friend who'd abandoned her for the volleyball team—had signed up. Now Layla was at practice while Maya was shuffling across stage in gray face paint, moaning about brains.

She wasn't even supposed to be a zombie. She'd been cast as a tree. But when the original zombie #4 got mono, Mr. Harrison had volunteered her without asking.

But here was the thing nobody knew: Maya had become a spy.

Every day at lunch, she'd positioned herself in the far corner of the cafeteria, earbuds in (no music), sketchbook open (blank pages), watching Marcus. Not in a creepy way. Okay, maybe a little. She'd memorized how he leaned his chair back on two legs, how he twisted his pen when he was thinking, how he laughed with his whole body. She'd collected these details like they were gold.

Because last week, she'd overheard him talking to Mr. Harrison about wanting to be a director. About having all these ideas but being too afraid to share them.

And Maya got that. She got it so bad it hurt.

She'd been writing her own stories for years—notebooks hidden under her bed, files buried in password-protected folders. But showing them to someone? Might as well jump off the school roof.

"Places everyone!"

Maya shuffled to her mark, practicing her best undead stagger. The scene was the big zombie chase—her cue was to stumble out from behind the cardboard graveyard and groan dramatically while the main characters ran for their lives.

She was mid-moan when she saw it: Marcus's notebook. Open on the director's table. Pages filled with notes, camera angles, dialogue tweaks—his actual vision for the play. The vision he'd been too scared to share with anyone.

Her zombie brain stopped working. This wasn't just spying anymore. This was stealing someone's secrets.

But as she lurched past the table, something caught her eye. A Post-it note on top of the page: *"Ask Maya about her writing. She's got that writer vibe."*

Maya froze. The prompter hissed at her to keep moving.

Marcus had noticed her. Marcus—Mr. I-Have-Vision-But-I'm-Scared—thought *she* had something worth saying.

"Cut!" Mr. Harrison called. "Zombie #4, you're standing still. Dead people don't stand still."

"Maybe this one does," Marcus said, grinning at her. "Maybe she's having a moment."

The spinach was still stuck in her teeth. She had gray paint smudged on her chin. She was supposed to be hungry for brains, but for the first time in forever, Maya felt completely, terrifyingly alive.