Zavier's Guide to Not Being Eaten

Chapter 1: Rule Number One: Check Your Shoes

"Four dollars? For a literal bottle of corn syrup and brown dye? Mike, tell me you’re joking. Tell me there’s a hidden camera and I’m about to win a lifetime supply of dignity, because this is highway robbery."

Zavier leaned against the sticky linoleum counter of the 'Quick-Stop Mini-Mart,' staring at the digital readout on the register. He adjusted the strap of his oversized tactical backpack—a purchase his friends called 'prepper-lite'—and scoffed.

Mike, a guy whose facial hair looked like it was losing a battle against his skin, didn't even look up from his phone. "Inflation, Zay. Don't like it? Go drink from the garden hose. It’s free and only sixty percent lead."

"The garden hose doesn't have the crisp, refreshing bite of a corporate-mandated sugar high," Zavier countered, digging into his pocket for a crumpled five-dollar bill. "And don't give me that 'inflation' crap. Yesterday this was three-fifty. You’re taxing me for being your only friend, aren't you?"

"We aren't friends," Mike said, finally scanning the soda. The red laser flickered over the barcode with a tired beep. "We are an exchange of goods and services. You provide the annoyance; I provide the caffeine. Now pay up so I can get back to watching this video of a guy eating a five-year-old MRE."

"You have a problem," Zavier muttered, sliding the bill across the counter. "Both with your diet and your business ethics. I should report you to the Better Business Bureau. Or my mom. She’d be very disappointed in your markup."

"Your mom loves me. She says I’m the 'stable' influence in your life," Mike shot back, popping the drawer and fishing for change. "At least I’m not the one walking around with a survival shovel attached to my belt in the middle of the suburbs."

Zavier patted the cold steel of the folding spade. "It’s a multi-tool, Mike. Versatility is the soul of survival. If a sinkhole opens up under this crappy store, who’s going to dig you out? Not the guy eating the MRE."

"If a sinkhole opens up, I’m letting it take me," Mike sighed. "Anything to get off this shift. You want your receipt, or can I throw it away so we can both pretend this interaction never happened?"

"Keep it. I might need it for a tax write-off when the world ends," Zavier said, reaching for his soda.

Suddenly, the bell above the door chimed—a frantic, tinny sound. A woman stumbled in, her hair a bird’s nest of graying strands, her floral dress stained with something dark and wet.

"Whoa, Mrs. Gable?" Mike leaned over the counter, his bored expression flickering into genuine concern. "You okay? You look like you went twelve rounds with a lawnmower."

The woman didn't answer. She just hissed, a wet, rattling sound that made the hair on the back of Zavier’s neck stand up.

"Mrs. Gable? Seriously, you need a seat?" Zavier took a half-step back, his hand instinctively hovering near his backpack strap. "Mike, she’s bleeding. Like, a lot. Is that her shoulder or just... a very realistic Halloween prop?"

"It’s October, Zay, but it’s the third," Mike said, stepping around the counter. "Hey, Mrs. Gable, talk to me. Did your dog get loose again? That husky is a menace, I keep telling you—"

"Mike, wait. Don't get close to her," Zavier said, his voice dropping an octave. "Look at her eyes. They’re... milky. That’s not a 'dog bite' look. That’s a 'I’ve seen the abyss and the abyss is hungry' look."

"Shut up with the drama, Zavier," Mike grunted, reaching out a hand. "Mrs. Gable, let's just—"

Mrs. Gable didn't wait for him to finish. With a speed that defied her age and the apparent gravity of her injuries, she lunged. Her teeth clamped onto Mike’s forearm with a sickening crunch of bone and a squelch of fabric.

"AGH! WHAT THE—! SHE’S BITING ME! ZAVIER, SHE’S ACTUALLY BITING ME!" Mike screamed, flailing his free arm, trying to push the woman’s head away.

"I told you! I literally just told you!" Zavier shouted, frozen for a split second as blood sprayed across the candy display. "Get her off! Use the mop! Use anything!"

"HELP ME! SHE’S TEARING PIECES OFF!" Mike’s voice hit a pitch that shattered the store's midday silence. He slammed her against the chip rack, sending bags of Nacho Cheese Doritos flying like confetti.

Zavier’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Okay, okay, tactical response! I have a tactical response for this!"

He fumbled for his pocket, his fingers slick with sweat. He didn't grab his shovel. He grabbed his phone.

"What are you doing? Call 911!" Mike yelled, his face turning a ghostly shade of white as he struggled on the floor with the snarling woman.

"I'm trying! But the screen is—what is this?" Zavier stared at his phone.

A neon-green interface had overridden his lock screen. A mechanical, slightly sarcastic female voice chirped from the speakers, cutting through the sounds of Mike’s agony.

[ Survival Guide App: Version 1.0 Unlocked. ]

[ Detected: Biological Anomaly (Class: Shambler). ]

[ Advice: Stop screaming. It’s embarrassing and attracts more of them. ]

"What? Shut up!" Zavier hissed at the phone. "Unlock the keypad! I need to call the police!"

[ Keypad disabled during Tutorial Phase, ] the app replied. [ Welcome, User Zavier. You have 0 Survival Points. Please survive the next sixty seconds to earn your 'Not Dead Yet' badge. ]

"I don't want a badge! I want a SWAT team!" Zavier screamed.

On the floor, Mike’s struggles were becoming weaker. Mrs. Gable—or the thing wearing her dress—jerked her head back, a chunk of Mike’s bicep dangling from her mouth. She turned her clouded eyes toward Zavier.

"Zay..." Mike wheezed, his eyes rolling back. "Run... you idiot..."

"Mike! Hang on! I’ll... I’ll..." Zavier looked around wildly. He grabbed a gallon of milk from the nearby fridge and hurled it. It clipped the woman’s head, exploding in a white spray, but she didn't even flinch. She just started crawling toward him, her joints popping like bubble wrap.

[ Tactical Analysis: Poor projectile choice. Milk is for cereal, not combat. ] the app remarked. [ Recommendation: Move your feet. Preferably in the opposite direction of the biting lady. ]

"I’m moving! I’m moving!" Zavier scrambled backward, his boots squeaking on the spilled milk and blood. He backed into the aisle of canned goods, his eyes locked on the Mrs. Gable-monster. "Why is she so fast? Zombies are supposed to be slow! George Romero lied to me!"

[ Fact Check: This is not a movie. This is a budget-rebalancing of the human population, ] the app chirped. [ Warning: User movement is suboptimal. Efficiency: 42%. ]

"I’d like to see you walk in these conditions!" Zavier yelled at his phone, tripping over a display of discounted beef jerky. He scrambled up, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Okay, okay. Door. Out the door. I can make it to the car."

He turned to bolt for the exit, but the door hissed open again. Two more figures stumbled in—a teenager in a sports jersey and a man in a business suit. Both were covered in blood. Both had that same vacant, predatory stare.

"Oh, come on! Is there a sale on human flesh today?" Zavier darted toward the back of the store, weaving between the aisles. "Phone! Survival Guide! What do I do? Give me a weapon! A laser! A drone strike! Anything!"

[ Requirement: 50,000 Survival Points for 'Orbital Strike'. Current Balance: 0. ]

[ Suggested Action: Utilize the 'Lace Protocol'. ]

"The what? What the hell is a Lace Protocol?" Zavier shouted, rounding the corner by the frozen pizzas. Mrs. Gable was gaining on him, her fingernails scraping against the metal shelves.

The teenager in the jersey lunged from the side, his fingers grazing Zavier’s backpack. Zavier spun, swinging the heavy bag like a flail. The bag slammed into the teen’s face with a heavy thud, sending him crashing into the soda cooler.

"Ha! Tactical backpack for the win!" Zavier cheered, though his voice cracked.

[ Correction: Luck is not a strategy, ] the app stated. [ Warning: Immediate hazard detected at floor level. ]

"What? What hazard?" Zavier looked down.

In his frantic sprint and the scuffle with the teen, his right shoelace had come undone. The long, nylon string was trailing through a puddle of spilled Mountain Dew, looking like a tripwire designed specifically for his demise.

"Are you kidding me? Now?" Zavier reached down to grab it, but the app’s voice turned sharp and urgent.

[ ALERT: Enemy within lunge range. Probability of infection: 98%. ]

Zavier looked up. Mrs. Gable was mid-leap. Her jaw was unhinged, revealing rows of stained teeth and a gullet that smelled like a trash fire in a slaughterhouse.

"Get back!" Zavier screamed, trying to pivot his foot to kick her away.

But the loose lace was quicker. His left heel stepped firmly onto the trailing end of his right lace.

"Wait, wait, wait—!"

Time seemed to slow down. Zavier felt the familiar, sickening jerk of his own feet betraying him. His balance evaporated. The world tilted as he began to fall backward, his arms windmilling uselessly in the air.

He crashed onto the floor, his head narrowly missing the edge of a metal shelf. His vision swam for a second, and when it cleared, Mrs. Gable was right there. She had landed on her hands and knees, hovering directly over him.

The smell was the worst part—the smell of old meat and copper. Her jaw snapped shut inches from his nose, a drop of black bile landing on his cheek.

"App!" Zavier shrieked, his hands shaking as he held his phone up like a cross to ward off a vampire. "App, do something! I’m about to be an appetizer!"

[ Notification: Tutorial Task - Survive the first encounter. Status: In Progress. ]

[ Helpful Tip: Your laces are untied. I did mention that, didn't I? ]

"I HATE THIS APP!" Zavier screamed, as the rotting neighbor lunged for his throat.