Water Under the Bridge

Elena watched the zombie apocalypse unfold on CNN while eating toast, the cable news anchors trying to maintain their professional composure as reports flooded in from London first, then New York. Meanwhile, her husband Marcus was packing padel gear into the trunk of their BMW, oblivious to the world ending around them.

"We're still playing?" she asked, gesturing to the television where the chyron now screamed UNCONFIRMED REPORTS OF REANIMATION.

Marcus shrugged. "The courts are booked. We already paid."

That was Marcus — practical, disciplined, emotionally constipated. Their marriage had been dying for three years, and somehow this felt fitting: playing padel while the literal dead walked the earth, both of them going through the motions of normalcy because they didn't know how to stop.

The drive to the club was surreal. Emergency vehicles screamed past them on the highway. A person — once a person — shambled across an intersection, ignoring traffic. Marcus tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to some podcast about productivity.

At the courts, the water fountain still worked. Elena drank deeply, the cold liquid shocking her system. She watched Marcus stretch, his lean body moving through familiar patterns. How many times had she watched him do this? Two decades? They'd met at this club, back when everything felt possible.

The first game began normally enough. Marcus's serve hit the padel ball with a satisfying crack. Elena returned it. They fell into their old rhythm — competitive, sharp, wordless. Back and forth, back and forth.

Then she saw them through the chain-link fence: three figures moving unevenly toward the courts. Former tennis members, now something else entirely.

"Marcus," she said softly.

He hit the ball back. "Focus, El. You're taking your eyes off the return."

The fence rattled. Three dead hands gripped the metal mesh.

Elena stopped. She looked at her husband, really looked at him, and felt something break open inside her — not fear, but clarity. All those years of waiting for him to change, for their marriage to somehow resurrect itself. She'd been living like a zombie too, moving through a dead relationship.

"We need to go," she said, dropping her racquet.

Marcus finally looked. His face went pale. "Oh. Oh god."

"Yeah."

They ran to the car, leaving everything behind — padel gear, emotional baggage, twenty years of disappointment. The world was ending, but Elena felt strangely light. Maybe this was what they needed: an apocalypse, fresh water, and finally, finally, the courage to let the dead things stay dead.