Zombie Apocalypse at Third Base

Marcus felt like a zombie walking into first period Monday morning. Three hours of sleep will do that to you — thanks to his brother keeping him up playing co-op zombie apocalypse mode until 3 AM. His eyes burned, his brain was fried, and honestly? Kinda worth it.

"You look dead," Jayla said, sliding into the seat next to him. "Rough night?"

Marcus cracked a weak smile. "Zombie hordes don't sleep, apparently."

He'd crushed it in the game, but real life was hitting different. His goldfish, Bubbles — who'd survived three months of Marcus's "expert care" — was doing this weird floating thing. Suspiciously vertical. Probably not good. And baseball tryouts were Friday, which meant Coach would definitely notice if he was playing like the walking dead.

"Did you hear about Tyler?" Jayla lowered her voice. "Someone said he's basically a spy for the seniors now."

Marcus scoffed. "A spy? What is this, a YA novel?"

"I'm serious!" Jayla insisted. "He's been hanging out with them at lunch, reporting back on who said what about who. It's weird." She paused. "Wait, aren't you supposed to be friends with him?"

Marcus thought about it. Were they? Tyler had been acting kinda distant lately, always whispering with the popular kids, always on his phone. Suddenly, Jayla's theory didn't sound so crazy.

After school, Marcus walked home feeling heavy. Not just from the exhaustion. Everything felt like it was shifting — friendships, expectations, the stupid social hierarchy that apparently still mattered even though they were supposed to be too cool for that stuff.

His dog, Barnaby, met him at the door, tail thwacking against the wall like always. Barnaby didn't care if Marcus was cool or tired or if Tyler was allegedly playing double agent. Barnaby just wanted belly rubs and possibly the sandwich Marcus was mentally already eating.

Marcus flopped onto his bed, Barnaby jumping up to squash him with love. He checked on Bubbles — who was, thankfully, swimming horizontally again. Small wins.

Friday came too fast. Baseball tryouts. Coach Anderson yelling about hustle and grit. Marcus's arms felt like noodles, but he somehow nailed a line drive to left field and made it to third base without dying.

"Not bad, Walker," Coach said, nodding. "Not bad at all."

Afterward, Tyler found him by the dugout. "Hey, I was gonna tell you — the seniors are doing this thing next weekend. Wanted to see if you wanted to come."

Marcus paused. The spy. The alleged traitor. Standing here inviting him.

"Why?" Marcus asked. "So I can be your little insider too?"

Tyler looked confused for a second, then laughed. "Dude, no. Jayla's been saying that forever. I'm just trying to get them to stop being so weird about who they hang out with. Besides, someone's gotta make sure they don't play only top 40 music the whole time."

Marcus grinned. "I'm in."

Barnaby greeted him at the door like he'd been gone for years. Bubbles was swimming in circles. Everything was still weird and complicated and honestly kind of exhausting — but maybe that was just what growing up felt like. Not a zombie apocalypse, but close enough.