Zombie Heartbeat at Midnight

Maya felt like a zombie going through her junior year. Wake up, school, homework, sleep, repeat. She was 16 and already on autopilot, scrolling through TikTok until her eyes burned, watching other people live actual lives while she existed in the background like an NPC.

The only thing that kept her semi-sane was Barnaby — her obese orange cat who judged her from across the room with eyes that said, "You're doing it wrong, human."

"You're my only real friend," she told him, scratching behind his ears while he purred like a tiny motorboat. "That's pathetic, right?"

Barnaby didn't answer. He just licked his paw and continued his silence judgment.

Then Connor happened.

Connor from her AP History class who sat behind her and made terrible puns during lectures. Connor who somehow convinced her to join him for the town's annual Zombie Run 5K because his usual partner had bailed.

"Come on," he'd said, leaning against her locker like he belonged there. "It's basically just running in cheap makeup while pretending the undead are chasing us. What's not to love?"

"Everything about that sentence," she'd replied.

Yet somehow she'd said yes.

The night before the run, her hands shook as she applied the gray face paint. The mirror showed someone unfamiliar — a dead version of herself, hollow eyes and fake blood dripping from her mouth. A literal zombie.

"Weird how this looks exactly how I feel," she muttered.

Barnaby meowed from the doorway, probably reminding her that cats don't need validation from 5K runs to feel complete.

The next morning, Connor was waiting outside her house in full zombie makeup, his green-tinged face breaking into a grin when he saw her.

"Nice," he said. "Very dedicated to the bit."

"Shut up and start running, zombie boy."

They took off at a slow jog, surrounded by hundreds of other undead teens in torn clothing and smeared makeup. The first half-mile sucked — her lungs burned, her legs felt like lead, and she questioned every life choice that led to this moment.

But then Connor started telling stories between breaths. About how he moved here freshman year and knew exactly zero people. About how his cat, Pickles, had once brought him a "gift" of a dead moth that he pretended to appreciate. About how he'd signed up for the zombie run because he thought maybe shared humiliation could birth actual friendship.

"Bold strategy," Maya had panted.

"Working so far," he'd grinned back, makeup cracking around his eyes.

By mile three, Maya wasn't thinking about how much she hated running. She was laughing — actually laughing — at Connor's terrible zombie impressions between strides. The fake blood on her face felt less like costume and more like war paint. The teenage zombies around them weren't just classmates anymore; they were co-conspirators in this bizarre rite of passage.

When they crossed the finish line, Barnaby waiting at home became the furthest thing from her mind.

"Next year?" Connor asked, breathless and sweaty and wonderful.

"Hard pass," she said. "But I might be convinced to do the Color Run."

"Deal."

That night, Maya caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror, zombie makeup washed away, cheeks still flushed from running. For the first time in months, she didn't feel dead inside. The zombie autopilot had cracked open.

Barnaby wound around her legs, purring loudly.

"I made a friend," she told him, lifting him up. "And I didn't even die of cardio."