Zombie Apocalypse at Third Base

Marcus stood in the outfield, sweat already dripping down his back even though it was only 8 AM. The varsity baseball tryouts. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Last year, he'd been the kid who struck out in gym class so hard his glasses flew off. Now he was here, wearing his lucky orange socks—the ones his older sister said made him look like a traffic cone.

Coach Martinez blew his whistle. "Alright, new blood. Let's see what you got."

Marcus stepped up to the plate. The first pitch zoomed past him. Strike one. He adjusted his grip on the bat, palms sweating. Second pitch—he swung and missed. Strike two. His face burned. Behind him, someone snickered.

"Looking a little zombie-ish out there, bro." It was Tyler, last year's starting pitcher, grinning with that perfect smile that made everyone forget he was kind of a jerk. "Maybe we should call an ambulance, get you some water?"

Everyone laughed. Marcus's grip tightened on the bat. Third pitch came—fast.

CRACK.

The ball sailed over Tyler's head, past second base, kept going, going, gone into the parking lot. Silence. Then Coach Martinez shouted, "Now THAT'S what I'm talking about!"

That night, Marcus couldn't sleep. His mom found him at 2 AM, sitting at the kitchen table, still in his uniform, staring at his orange socks.

"You did something brave today," she said, setting a glass of water beside him. "That's the kind of thing that changes you."

Maybe she was right. Maybe tomorrow at school, he wouldn't be just another zombie shuffling through the halls, invisible. Maybe tomorrow, he'd be the kid who hit the parking lot shot. Maybe he'd even talk to Sophie, the girl from his English class who always wore zombie-themed band shirts and smiled at him in the hallway.

Marcus smiled, took a sip of water, and finally felt like he could sleep.