Zavier's Guide to Not Being Eaten

Chapter 2: The Meat Cleaver Meet-Cute

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

He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the sensation of teeth meeting jugular. Instead, a heavy thud vibrated through the floor tiles, followed by a sound like a wet sack of flour being slapped against a sidewalk.

"Move your head if you want to keep it attached to your neck, kid."

The voice was low, sharp, and definitely not Mrs. Gable's. Zavier opened one eye. A heavy, stainless-steel cleaver was embedded deep into the side of the woman’s neck, pinning her to the linoleum like a macabre butterfly specimen.

Standing over them was a woman who looked like she’d just walked out of a high-end kitchen and into a war zone. She was wearing a blood-splattered apron over a black tank top, her dark hair pulled into a messy knot. She didn't look scared. She looked profoundly annoyed.

"Are you going to keep laying there like a decorative rug, or are you going to get up?" she asked, putting a boot on Mrs. Gable’s shoulder and wrenching the cleaver free with a sickening shloop.

"I... she... you just..." Zavier stammered, scrambling backward on his elbows. "You just decapitated a grandmother!"

"I just neutralized a biohazard that was trying to eat your face," she corrected, wiping the blade on her apron. "There’s a difference. Barely."

Zavier’s phone chimed. He looked down, his hands shaking so hard the screen was a blur of neon green.

[ Tutorial Task: Survive First Encounter. STATUS: COMPLETED. ]

[ Reward: 10 Survival Points. ]

[ Achievement Unlocked: 'Damsel in Distress' — You were saved by someone cooler than you. ]

"I wasn't a damsel!" Zavier yelled at the phone. "I had a tactical plan! I was... I was lure! I was being the lure!"

The woman arched an eyebrow, staring at him as if he were a particularly disappointing vegetable. "You were talking to your phone. While a zombie was trying to make a three-course meal out of your collarbone. Is this a Gen Z thing? Do you guys T****k your own autopsies now?"

"It’s not a T****k! It’s a survival app! It’s telling me things!" Zavier scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping on his laces again before frantically stuffing them into his boots.

"Great. Does the app tell you that the front window is about to cave in?" she asked, gesturing toward the storefront.

The teenager in the sports jersey and the businessman were throwing themselves against the glass, their faces smearing red streaks across the 'Buy One Get One' posters. Behind them, a dozen more figures were shuffling across the parking lot, drawn by the sound of Zavier’s screaming.

"Oh, god. There's so many. Mike! We have to help Mike!" Zavier turned back toward the counter.

The woman grabbed the strap of his backpack, jerking him back. "Mike is currently a buffet, kid. Look at him."

Zavier looked. Mike wasn't screaming anymore. He was twitching, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his throat a ragged mess of red. As they watched, Mike’s fingers curled into claws, scratching at the floorboards.

"He’s... he’s turning? That fast?" Zavier whispered, the reality hitting him like a physical blow.

"The world ended ten minutes ago. Get with the program," the woman said, her eyes scanning the store. "I’m Maine. I work at the bistro next door. Or I did, until my sous-chef tried to garnish the salad with his own thumb. We need to move. Now."

"Zavier. My name is Zavier," he managed, his brain struggling to process the 'Maine' part. "Wait, Maine? Like the state?"

"Like the lobster. Do you want to keep talking about geography, or do you want to help me barricade the back door before the 'Early Bird Special' out there breaks the glass?"

"Right. Barricade. Tactical defense. I’m on it." Zavier looked around wildly. "The soda crates! We can use the soda crates!"

"Too light," Maine said, already grabbing a heavy wire rack filled with bags of ice. "Help me move the freezer chest. And stop looking at that damn phone!"

"I can't! It’s giving me data!" Zavier held the phone up. A new notification had popped up.

[ New Entity Detected: Maine. ]

[ Scanning... ]

[ Analysis: High combat proficiency. Low patience for idiots. ]

[ Assignment: Potential Meat Shield (Grade: S). ]

Zavier blinked. "Meat shield? It called you a 'Grade S Meat Shield'."

Maine paused, her hands gripping the edge of the ice freezer. She turned her head slowly, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "What did you just call me?"

"I didn't! The app did!" Zavier held the screen out as proof. "Look! It says you're a high-combat-proficiency meat shield. It’s a compliment! Grade S! That’s like... top tier!"

"If you ever use the words 'meat' and 'shield' in a sentence involving me again, I will see how many Survival Points I get for feedng you to that teenager in the jersey," Maine said, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper.

"Understood. Maximum silence on the shield front," Zavier squeaked, grabbing the other side of the freezer.

Together, they shoved the heavy unit in front of the side exit. Outside, the glass finally shattered. A chorus of guttural groans filled the store, followed by the sound of heavy boots and dragging feet hitting the floor.

"They're inside," Maine whispered, checking the edge of her cleaver. "We can't go out the front. Is there a roof hatch?"

"I don't know! I just buy soda here!" Zavier hissed.

"Check the back room. There’s usually a ladder near the loading dock," Maine commanded.

Zavier ducked into the storage area, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The air back here smelled of stale cardboard and bleach. He fumbled for his phone flashlight, but the App had already switched modes. The screen was now a glowing radar, showing two red dots closing in on his position.

"Maine! Two of them! Coming through the vent!"

"The vent? You've got to be kidding me," Maine muttered, stepping into the back room just as a ceiling tile crashed down.

A man in a delivery uniform tumbled out, his limbs twisting at unnatural angles. He didn't even try to stand; he just hissed and began scuttling across the floor like a giant, rabid spider.

"Use your shovel, Zavier!" Maine yelled, dodging a lunge from the scuttler. "You've been bragging about it for ten minutes, now use the damn thing!"

"I didn't brag! I stated its versatility!" Zavier fumbled for the folding spade at his hip. His fingers were slippery with sweat, and the locking mechanism jammed halfway. "It’s stuck! The 'Versatile Soul of Survival' is stuck!"

"Useless!" Maine swung her cleaver in a wide arc, catching the delivery man in the shoulder. It wasn't a killing blow, but it slowed him down. "Do something! Throw a can of beans! Anything!"

Zavier’s phone buzzed in his hand.

[ Survival Tip: The 'Lace Protocol' can be inverted. ]

[ Action: Use the trailing lace as a tripwire. ]

"Oh, you think you're so smart?" Zavier yelled at the phone. He didn't use his laces. Instead, he grabbed a heavy gallon of industrial-grade floor cleaner from a shelf and hurled it with both hands.

The plastic jug didn't hit the zombie. It hit the corner of a metal shelf, burst open, and coated the floor in a thick, slippery layer of 'Lemon Fresh' wax.

The scuttling zombie tried to pounce, but its hands hit the wax. It slid sideways, its head slamming into the corner of the loading dock with a sickening crack. It slumped over, twitching.

"Did you... did you just use a 'Home Alone' move?" Maine asked, staring at the downed creature in disbelief.

"Tactical application of environmental hazards!" Zavier shouted, his chest heaving. "App! Did you see that? Give me my points!"

[ Notification: Accidental Genius detected. ]

[ Reward: 5 Survival Points. ]

[ Current Balance: 15. ]

[ Note: You still look like a clown, but at least you’re a slippery clown. ]

"We need to go," Maine said, grabbing Zavier by the collar of his jacket before he could celebrate. "The smell of lemon is just going to mask the smell of us being eaten. Ladder. Now."

They scrambled up a rusted iron ladder in the corner, emerging onto the flat, gravel-covered roof of the Quick-Stop. The cool autumn air hit Zavier’s face, and for a second, he thought they were safe.

Then he looked over the edge.

The parking lot was a sea of moving bodies. Cars were smashed into one another, sirens were wailing in the distance, and plumes of black smoke were rising from the residential district. It wasn't just the store. The whole suburb was screaming.

"Oh... oh, no," Zavier whispered, his knees turning to jelly. "My mom. My house is only three blocks away."

"Don't," Maine said, her voice surprisingly soft. "Don't look at the distance. Look at the immediate problem."

She pointed toward the far end of the roof. A bridge connected the Quick-Stop to the Bistro next door, but the door to the Bistro’s roof was hanging off its hinges. A group of three zombies—dressed in server uniforms—were already wandering the rooftop, sniffing the air.

Zavier looked at his phone.

[ Objective: Reach the Bistro Roof. ]

[ Warning: High density of 'Meat Shields' in the area. ]

[ Recommendation: Let the S-Grade Shield go first. She has a bigger knife. ]

Zavier swallowed hard. He looked at Maine, who was testing the weight of her cleaver, her eyes fixed on the undead servers.

"Hey, Maine?"

"What?" she snapped, not looking back.

"The app... it just gave me a recommendation."

Maine turned her head, her gaze icy. "If it involves the word 'shield' again, Zavier, I swear to God—"

"It said you should go first!" Zavier blurted out, holding the phone up like a shield of his own. "Because you're 'top-tier'! It’s an objective analysis of your combat value! It’s not my fault the app recognizes greatness!"

Maine stared at him for a long beat. She looked at the phone, then back at Zavier’s terrified, sweating face. She let out a long, weary sigh and stepped toward the servers, her cleaver held low.

"Fine. I’ll go first," she muttered. "But if we survive this, I’m taking that phone and burying it in a very deep, very dark hole. Along with whoever programmed it."

"Fair! Totally fair!" Zavier followed her, keeping a safe five feet of distance.

As Maine lunged toward the first zombie, her movements a blur of practiced, violent efficiency, Zavier’s phone chimed one more time.

[ Notification: Social Engineering Successful. ]

[ You have successfully delegated 100% of the risk. ]

[ Title Earned: 'Professional Coward'. ]

[ Reward: 10 Survival Points. ]

"I am not a coward!" Zavier hissed at the screen, even as he ducked behind a ventilation duct to avoid a splash of zombie blood. "I’m an Optimizer! There’s a difference!"

Maine’s cleaver buried itself in the skull of the last server. She stood over the body, breathing hard, her apron now almost entirely red. She turned back to Zavier, her face unreadable.

"What did it say?" she asked, wiping a smudge of gore from her cheek. "Did it give you more points for 'optimizing' my labor?"

Zavier looked at the 'Professional Coward' badge on his screen and then at the very sharp, very bloody cleaver in Maine's hand.

"It... uh... it said you’re doing a great job," Zavier lied, his voice hitting a high-pitched note of pure terror. "It said you're basically a superhero. Grade S... Super-hero."

Maine walked over to him, the tip of her cleaver trailing along the gravel with a grating skreeeeee. She stopped inches from him, the blade’s edge resting just below his chin.

"You’re a terrible liar, Zavier," she whispered. "Now, show me the screen. I want to see exactly what this 'Potential Meat Shield' label looks like."

Zavier gulped, the cold steel of the cleaver pressing against his skin. "Technically... it’s a compliment in the gaming community?"

"Show me. The. Phone."

Zavier held up the device with a trembling hand. The screen flickered, and the sarcastic female voice spoke aloud for the first time since they’d been on the roof.

[ Alert: Meat Shield is showing signs of aggression. ]

[ Advice: Run. Just... run. Your laces are still untied, by the way. ]

Maine’s eyes widened. Zavier’s eyes widened.

"I really, really hate this app," Zavier whispered.

"Run," Maine said, her voice dangerously calm. "I’m going to give you a five-second head start before I show you exactly how a 'Meat Shield' handles a 'Professional Coward'."

"One... two..."

Zavier didn't wait for three. He turned and bolted toward the Bistro door, his tactical backpack bouncing against his spine, screaming at the top of his lungs.