Zavier's Guide to Not Being Eaten

Chapter 6: Tinsel and Terror

"GET IT OFF! MAINE, IT’S TASTING MY WARRANTY! IT’S LITERALLY BITING THE FIVE-YEAR EXTENDED WARRANTY ON MY TACTICAL GEAR!"

Zavier’s scream was muffled by the concrete floor as the attic-dweller—a man whose moth-eaten sweater smelled like a damp basement and failure—gnawed furiously on the reinforced nylon strap of his backpack. Zavier thrashed like a beetle flipped onto its shell, his legs kicking uselessly at the air.

"I’m a little busy, Zavier!" Maine’s voice cracked over the roar of the garage door’s failing motor. She was currently shoulder-deep in a shoving match with a tinsel-covered mailman and a jogger who had way too much cardio for a dead person. "The front door is turning into a mosh pit! Handle your own backpack buddy!"

"He’s heavy! Why are zombies so dense? Is it the lack of a soul? Does a soul provide buoyancy?!" Zavier rolled hard to the left, slamming his back—and the zombie—against the leg of the heavy wooden workbench.

THUMP.

The zombie let out a wet, rattling grunt but didn't let go. If anything, its teeth sank deeper into the padding.

"App! App, I need a divorce! I want a divorce from this situation!" Zavier shrieked, his arm-mounted phone vibrating against his skin.

[ Notification: Tactical Analysis - You are currently being used as a chew toy. ]

[ Suggestion: Use the 'Glitter-Gale 3000' at point-blank range. ]

[ Warning: High probability of self-inflicted sparkle-blindness. ]

"I’ll take the sparkles! Give me the sparkles over the rabies!" Zavier fumbled for the trigger of the leaf blower, which was still pinned beneath his hip.

"Zavier, the door is giving! If you’re going to do something weird, do it now!" Maine yelled. She had her cleaver jammed into the track, trying to keep the metal from sliding further up, but the silver-glittered mob outside was a force of nature.

"Maine, close your eyes! For the love of God, close your eyes!"

Zavier finally wrenched the nozzle of the leaf blower upward. He didn't even aim; he just tucked the plastic tube under his armpit, pointing it directly at the head of the man in the moth-eaten sweater.

"MERRY CHRISTMAS, YOU CLOSET-DWELLING CREEP!"

He pulled the trigger.

WHOOOOOOOSH-CRUNCH!

The leaf blower, packed with the remaining pea gravel and a tangled mess of silver tinsel, erupted. Because the nozzle was pressed almost directly against the zombie’s face, the back-pressure was immense. A localized cyclone of decorative plastic and jagged stones exploded.

The zombie didn't just let go; its head snapped back so fast Zavier heard its neck vertebrae pop like bubble wrap. It was thrown backward off Zavier’s spine, a shimmering cloud of silver dust and gravel following it like a low-budget special effect.

"My eyes! Everything is a disco!" Zavier wheezed, scrambling to his knees. His vision was a chaotic blur of lens flares and floating silver spots.

"Is it dead?" Maine shouted, still fighting the door.

"It’s fabulous, Maine! It’s the most glamorous corpse in the tri-state area!" Zavier lunged forward, grabbing a heavy plastic bin of holiday ornaments and hurling it toward the garage door. "Here! More festive projectiles!"

"I don't need ornaments, I need—actually, wait!" Maine caught the bin, kicking it over. Dozens of glass spheres shattered across the floor in front of the opening.

The zombies trying to crawl under the door suddenly found themselves sliding on a carpet of broken glass and 'Lemon Fresh' wax from the earlier spill. The jogger’s hands went out from under him, his face meeting the concrete with a sickening crunch.

"Zavier, the sweater guy! He’s getting up!" Maine pointed.

Zavier looked. The moth-eaten zombie was shaking its head, tinsel hanging from its eye sockets like festive streamers. It lunged again, its jaw unhinged.

"Oh, no you don't! This is my tactical space!" Zavier swung the leaf blower like a club.

He missed. He missed by a mile. He swung so hard that the momentum carried him in a full circle, but his trailing boot caught the edge of a discarded bungee cord.

"Whoa—!"

Zavier tripped. He fell forward, his arms windmilling. The leaf blower’s nozzle accidentally jammed directly into the zombie’s open mouth as Zavier’s weight drove the creature back down.

"Maine! Help! I’m accidentally performing dental work!"

Maine didn't hesitate. She abandoned the door for a split second, her cleaver flashing in the dim light of the garage.

SHLOOP.

The blade took the zombie cleanly across the throat. The body went limp, pinning the leaf blower—and Zavier’s hand—underneath it.

"Did... did we win?" Zavier asked, his voice trembling.

"We’re alive. That’s not the same as winning," Maine panted, wiping a thick glob of black blood from her cheek. She turned back to the garage door and slammed a heavy metal pipe into the track, wedging it shut. "The glass and the wax will buy us a few minutes, but we need to move into the house. Now."

Zavier stayed on the floor for a second, staring at the dead man in the sweater. "He really liked my backpack, Maine. He had taste."

"He had hunger, Zavier. Get up before I leave you here to discuss fashion with his friends."

Zavier’s phone chimed. It wasn't the usual short beep. This was a long, triumphant fanfare that sounded suspiciously like a synthesized version of 'We Are the Champions'.

[ TUTORIAL PHASE: COMPLETED. ]

[ Calculating Performance... ]

[ Combat Skill: 2/10 (Painful to watch). ]

[ Tactical Genius: 9/10 (The 'Glitter-Gale' was inspired idiocy). ]

[ Survival Odds: 0.01% (Statistically, you should be dead). ]

"Hey! My tactical genius is a nine!" Zavier pointed at the screen. "See? I told you I was an optimizer!"

"It says your combat skill is a two, Zavier. My cat has a higher combat skill than a two," Maine remarked, though she was already checking the lock on the kitchen door.

[ LEVEL UP! ]

[ New Rank: 'Persistent Nuisance'. ]

[ Passive Trait Unlocked: 'Luck of the Fool'. ]

[ Effect: 15% chance that a catastrophic failure will result in a weirdly positive outcome. ]

"Luck of the Fool? That’s an insult! That’s a literal, digital insult!" Zavier stood up, dusting silver tinsel off his tactical vest. "I want a refund. I want a trait that makes me a ninja."

"The app knows you better than you know yourself," Maine said, sheathing her cleaver in a loop on her apron. "Now, are you going to keep arguing with the hardware, or are we going to see if this house has any real food?"

"I’m coming, I’m coming. But for the record, I’m a 'Strategic Anomaly', not a nuisance."

They stepped into the kitchen, Maine leading with her blade, Zavier trailing with his leaf blower held like a holy relic. The house was silent, filled with the smell of vanilla candles and the distant, muffled sound of the mob scratching at the garage door.

"Search the cabinets," Maine commanded. "Water, canned goods, anything high-calorie. I’ll check the perimeter."

Zavier moved toward the pantry, his boots squeaking. "Do you think they have those little fruit snacks? The ones shaped like dinosaurs? I feel like I’ve earned a dinosaur."

"If you find a dinosaur, eat it quietly," Maine muttered, moving toward the living room.

Zavier opened the pantry. It was a suburban goldmine. Jars of peanut butter, boxes of pasta, and—his eyes widened—a literal crate of energy drinks.

"Maine! We’ve hit the motherlode! It’s a caffeine sanctuary!"

"Keep your voice down!" Maine hissed from the other room. "And get away from the window!"

Zavier ignored her for a split second, reaching for a blue-raspberry energy drink. As his fingers touched the cold aluminum, his phone vibrated with a violence that nearly made him drop the can.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

A new interface appeared on the screen. It wasn't the snarky green text anymore. It was a pulsing, bright blue signal bar, radiating from a point on a new, expanded map.

[ EMERGENCY BROADCAST DETECTED. ]

[ Frequency: 104.2 FM (Shortwave Relay). ]

[ Signal Source: City Center - Saint Jude’s Hospital Helipad. ]

[ Message: '...survivors... extraction... twenty-four hours... clear the zone...' ]

Zavier’s breath hitched. "Maine! Maine, get in here! The app... it’s picking up a signal!"

Maine appeared in the doorway, her eyes sharp. "A signal? Like, a real one? Not just the app being a jerk?"

"Listen!" Zavier hit the speaker button.

Through the static, a voice—hoarse, desperate, and very human—crackled through the phone’s speakers.

"...this is Captain Miller. We are holding the roof at Saint Jude’s. The city is... it’s bad. But we have a bird coming in. Twenty-four hours. If you can hear this, get to the center. We can’t wait, and we can’t come to you. God help us all."

The signal cut out, replaced by the rhythmic hum-hiss of the apocalypse’s white noise.

Maine and Zavier stood in the quiet kitchen, the reality of the message sinking in. The city center was five miles away. Five miles of suburbs, highways, and shopping malls, all currently populated by the caffeinated, sprinting dead.

"Twenty-four hours," Maine whispered. "That’s... that’s not a lot of time."

"Five miles," Zavier added, his bravado finally flickering. "The app says the density in the city is 'Extreme'. It’s not red dots anymore, Maine. It’s a solid wall of fire on the map."

Maine looked at Zavier, then at the leaf blower, and finally at the 'Luck of the Fool' notification still flickering on his wrist.

"Well," Maine said, a grim smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You’ve got fifty points and a passive trait for being an idiot. You think you can optimize a path through five miles of hell?"

Zavier looked at his phone, then back at the pantry full of energy drinks. He cracked the tab on the blue-raspberry can, the hiss of carbonation sounding like a battle cry.

"App?" Zavier whispered.

[ New Objective: The Long Walk. ]

[ Goal: Reach Saint Jude’s Hospital. ]

[ Difficulty: Suicide Mission. ]

[ Advice: Drink that energy drink. You’re going to need to run. A lot. ]

"I’m ready," Zavier said, his voice only shaking a little bit. "But Maine?"

"Yeah?"

"If we get to the helicopter... I’m picking the music."

Maine sighed, heading for the back door. "Just keep your laces tied, Zavier. We’ve got a long way to go."