Zombies in the Outfield

Marcus stood in right field, sweat dripping down his back like tiny rivers. The July heat was no joke. His orange Gatorade bottle sat empty in the dugout, mocking him from fifty feet away. He felt like a zombie—dead on his feet, brain barely functioning, just going through the motions because that's what seventeen-year-olds did when their dads had big dreams about varsity scholarships.

"Heads up, Marcus!" someone yelled.

A baseball sailed toward him, and he barely moved. It landed with a thud in the grass three feet away. Coach Bennett sighed from the dugout. That sigh—that specific, disappointed sigh—had haunted Marcus since Little League.

"Sorry," Marcus mumbled, though he wasn't sorry. He was just tired.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Probably the group chat, everyone making plans for the weekend. Marcus wouldn't be there. He'd be here, or at home studying, because that's what "good kids" did. But Marcus didn't feel good. He felt hollowed out, a zombie version of himself shuffling through innings he didn't care about.

Then he heard it—familiar yipping from beyond the fence.

Buster.

His golden retriever had escaped again. Buster trotted along the perimeter of the baseball diamond, tail wagging like he'd just won the lottery, carrying something in his mouth. Marcus's stomach dropped. That orange fabric—Buster had grabbed the Zombie Apocalypse Response Team hoodie Marcus had ordered online. The one his parents would freak out about. The one that represented the real Marcus, not this baseball-robot version they wanted.

"Is that a dog?" The shortstop, Tyler (perfect, popular Tyler), pointed.

Buster squeezed through a gap in the fence, prancing onto the field like he owned the place, still clutching Marcus's secret identity in his mouth.

Marcus ran. Not because Coach yelled, not because it was the right play. He ran because Buster was everything genuine in his life—unapologetically himself, messy and weird and perfect.

He scooped up the dog, ignoring everyone staring. The hoodie fell from Buster's mouth, revealing the cracked, bleeding zombie face printed on the back.

"Dude," Tyler said, "that's sick."

Marcus froze. "You—you don't think it's weird?"

"Weird?" Tyler laughed. "Marcus, I've been to Comic-Con three years in a row. My whole family is obsessed with The Walking Dead. That hoodie's actually fire."

The zombie feeling lifted. Maybe he wasn't undead after all.

"Hey," Tyler called, "after practice, you wanna come over? We're marathoning zombie movies."

Marcus felt something shift inside, like water breaking through a dam. "Yeah," he said, really smiling for the first time all summer. "Yeah, I'd love that."