The Zombie Survival Guide

The vitamin D deficiency hit me hard during sophomore year winter. Not the actual medical kind—though Mom definitely worried about that—but the soul-sucking, fluorescent-light kind. I was basically a zombie shuffling through AP Bio, surviving on caffeine and three hours of sleep.

Then Lucas Chen found my beanie.

I'd dropped it after gym class, this maroon knit thing I'd stolen from my older brother before he left for college. It was basically my personality at that point—covered, slightly too big, and surprisingly warm.

"Nice hat," Lucas said, dangling it from his finger like he hadn't just watched me faceplant trying to grab it from the floor.

I froze. Lucas Chen, who sat behind me in history and had those unsettlingly intense discussions with Mr. Harrison about whether the zombie apocalypse could actually happen. Who I'd been secretly low-key obsessed with since September.

"Thanks," I managed, my voice cracking. Smooth.

"You know," he said, "zombies actually would have trouble with beanies."

I stared at him.

"What?"

"Think about it. If the virus spreads through bites, head coverage is basically your first line of defense." He handed me my hat. "I've been working on this survival guide. Want to see it?"

That's how I ended up in his room during fourth period study hall, surrounded by detailed sketches of barricade strategies and zombie speed calculations.

"You're really worried about this," I said, flipping through pages that looked like they'd taken weeks.

Lucas shrugged. "Not really. But it's easier to plan for fake problems than real ones."

The real problems: his mom's new job in another state. The move happening over spring break.

"Oh," I said. "That sucks."

"Yeah." He pulled a bottle from his desk—vitamin C supplements. "My mom says I need to boost my immune system before we go. Like that's gonna help with being the new kid."

"Won't help with zombies either," I pointed out.

He laughed, and something in my chest did that fluttery thing that definitely wasn't a vitamin deficiency.

"True," he said. "Hey, take this." He ripped out a page from his notebook—Zombie Survival Guide, Chapter 7: Making Friends in the Apocalypse. "For when I'm gone."

The page had bullet points about shared trauma and the importance of having someone watch your back. At the bottom, in tiny letters: *Or you could just text me.*

"I'm not great at this," he admitted, not looking at me.

"Me neither," I said, pulling the beanie over my hair so he wouldn't see me grinning. "But I'm pretty good at zombie movies. We could start there."

We're watching Shaun of the Dead this weekend. I've got emergency snacks, Lucas's survival guide, and zero intention of becoming a zombie anytime soon. Real life's weird enough without that.