I forgot this momentarily, but I'm back on it now. Also, I may be able to write a oneshot. I want to for the Victorious Awards this coming March, just so I have a shot! If not, I promise to vote faithfully to all those deserving. Anyway, just please write and read and vote!

Robbie's head bumped against the side of the van's door as Tori sped down the street. He wasn't buckled in—therefore, his body was not protected from jolts and jumps. He didn't dare ask Tori to slow down so he could put on his seatbelt. She was scary in survival mode, very scary. She got freaky in any stressful case, but this was different. Her eyes were glowing, her fists clenching, and her teeth gritting. One word could invoke some kind of frightening action on her part. He'd seen what she'd done as she swerved along the road; it didn't matter if the zombies were coming at them or not, she just drove straight into them, splattering their black-red blood all over the asphalt. He didn't want to risk any of this rage on himself.

Trina, however, wasn't as cautious. Even in the face of such danger, she kept babbling about insignificant things from not getting to play a bush in Tuesday's play because the teachers were probably all dead to listing reasons that Ted kid didn't call her back ("1. Zombie. 2. Dead. 3. Has a girlfriend!"). Such rants were completely ridiculous and, to Tori, revolting. But it kind of soothed Robbie with the semi-normality it had. It must've been a form of coping; people dealt with stress in different ways. Robbie's father used to make sock puppets and put on shows for a little Robbie to make himself feel better. Trina rambled ceaselessly about this occurence in the same style as she would an inopportune rainfall. It set Tori's teeth on edge, but to Robbie, he could handle it if that was what it took to feel better.

But it didn't make him feel better. He didn't have a method like Trina. All he had was his mind clawing for a sense of familiarity, with its claws a tad too dull to get a firm grasp. The world was overrun by zombies; his Mamaw was dead, and he didn't know the fate of his parents; Rex wasn't speaking, only shaking in his hand; and there was a possibility that every breath he took would be his last.

His eyes looked out the windshield: the early morning's sky hadn't shifted from black to blue. Instead, the stars faded into a swampy brown-orange color. No clouds dotted the sky, but then, that would conjure up some kind of hope in the hearts of those who watched it. There wasn't any hope to be had here.

"Ugh," he murmured, "It looks like someone ralphed upwards." The girls didn't react to his unpleasant comment, and he let himself hide in the backseat again as Trina continued her mindless tirade.

The car ride went on like a blur. Every time the van banged against something Robbie was pulled out of his stupor, but then he settled back in, his eyes glossing over so that the houses and cars swam together as one. He didn't even have enough will to operate Rex. Yes, he did believe Rex to be an individual rather than a puppet, but deep within he knew Rex was just a manifestation of his inner desires. He had no chance to be "the cool one", so he transmitted all that attitude into Rex so he somehow got that powerful sensation of cool. But he blocked this many times, referring to Rex as his own person as if he had come from a womb, not a factory. Sometimes, he even began to believe it himself. However, right now, nothing existed. Everything was one giant splotch on his retinas, and he preferred that to facing reality.

Eventually, Trina's voice weakened, and then petered out. An eerie quiet settled without her rambling about anything and everything. The smudge of the foreground came back into detail for Robbie without something to buzz in his ear. The screech of tires and faraway groans wasn't enough, because it wasn't things he heard routinely. He shifted in his seat, suddenly vulnerable.

"Where're we going?" he asked out of the blue. At once, something in Tori's mind snapped. Where were they going? She had escaped in a rush of adrenaline-induced confidence, her plan to just get supplies and go. But where to go? She wasn't even sure why she had driven to Robbie's grandmother's apartment in the first place. It was nearby, and she knew it was likelier he'd be there than home, but other than that, she had nothing. As the question sunk in, and the adrenaline steadily washed out of her bloodstream, she began to realize that the circumstance required a plan. They had supplies, and each other, and a getaway van, but that was barely half of what they needed to survive. They needed a plan, and they needed it fast.

"I…" she said, Trina and Robbie's eyes were trained on her, their leader. "I…don't know."

"Well, we need to go somewhere." Trina said, as if this too was a flimsy everyday mistake. "We can't just aimlessly drive around, smacking zombies and junk." Tori wanted to smack something other than a zombie at that moment, but she kept herself levelheaded for the time being.

"We need a place that has protection," she said, "and food. Food's a biggie." Silently the others agreed. Batons and the bumper of the van could keep the zombies away, but other killers could destroy them, like hunger. Just uttering the word food created daydreams of burgers and salads and buckets of chicken in their heads. "Any suggestions?"

They had none.

Tori sighed. "Then let's keep driving."

The metal was solid ice in Beck's palm. His fingers trembled under the overbearing sight of the trigger, poised to kill. He was never easily scared; monster movies made him laugh and strange noises were dismissed as alley cats outside his RV. Even faced with this strange new world, he didn't bat an eye. Sure, it was unnatural, but what good would it do to lay down in a fetal position? He had to keep his chin held high and his reflexes at their best. But this…this thing in his hand…he couldn't bear to even look at it. A thing like this could kill a man tens of feet away from his post. Other objects like it had done so, in wars, robberies, and many other places. That was the point of the invention, the reason he had it in his hand right now. To murder, to slaughter, to kill. Even though the people they were meant to slay were already dead themselves, the thought of releasing a bullet into somebody's chest…it sickened him.

He knew Jade would feel no remorse if—when—anything happened upon the campus. The first gunshot to be fired would likely be from her rifle. When Sikowitz had assigned them posts near doors, Beck had confided in her that this whole thing was making him queasy. She had rolled her eyes and ordered him to "lighten up, they're dead brain-eaters".

"I don't know if I'll be able to do it." he said, "I know it doesn't seem like it, but I can't even shoot duck, let alone a person."

"Y'know, I'd so put that on my Slap page if anybody with one was alive to ridicule you." she said, then, with a darkly serious tone, "Look, it's not as though it's anyone you know. They're just creatures—lifeless, emotionless creatures. It's not like it's gonna be André, or Tori, or Cat—"

"But what if it is?" he said, "What if they've gotten to them, and they're like them too?" The next words out of Jade's mouth still chilled Beck's blood:

"Then treat them as such, and shoot them."

Beck knew that was precisely how he should treat that situation if it occurred, but the heartless way Jade had explained it was horrifying. Cat was her best friend and, even if she wasn't fond of her, Tori was in their circle, and André had been respected by her for quite some time. And if they had been captured by that horrible fate, her conviction about the matter—about re-killing their friends if it came down to that—made the metal handle of the gun against his flesh feel all the more cold and bitter.

Sixteen minutes at the front entrance to the school passed, and Beck found Sikowitz hobbling toward him. The man walked with buoyancy as he always had, a silly smile on his face and his hands clasped behind his back. His bare feet slapped against the tiles, creating an echoing noise in the hallway. Beck's hand with the gun quivered; another person in this building who held a bizarre outlook on this situation.

"Well, well, Beckett, how's the job been going?" he said, removing one hand from his back to clap onto Beck's shoulder.

"Nothing so far, sir." Beck replied, edging ever so slightly away from Sikowitz's rough hand.

"Good!" Sikowitz exclaimed, "Then my booby-traps are working perfectly. Tell me, do you know how Jade is doing?"

"No, sir," Beck said, "but I haven't heard a gunshot."

"Excellent." The man's eyes glittered proudly as he crossed his arms. He gave Beck an imploring look that unnerved the younger boy. "Have you your phone?"

"My what, sir?" Beck asked, not sure he had heard him right.

"Your phone." he clarified, "Have you your communication device?"

"Erm, yes." Beck said, "Why?" Again Sikowitz's arm managed to grab hold of Beck, like a huggy relative's on Thanksgiving.

"I want you"—he poked Beck in the chest—"to try and contact your other friends. Even with my highly efficient anti-zombie protections, we will need more soldiers in this war, more hands. Honestly, you cannot expect the four of us here to survive on our own? We need anyone with two limbs minimum to assist us. Excluding you and Jade, we might need André, Tori, Trina, Robbie, Cat—even Robbie's weird puppet. Anything is useful." He removed his arm from Beck's shoulders. "Now, I'll take your post. You retreat to Lane's office and try to get anyone you can, and inform them. Shoo, shoo!" Beck gratefully galloped away from the entrance as Sikowitz removed a deadlier pistol from his many layers of clothes. The idea may not have been the best, but it would be something to busy Beck with other than waiting for an onslaught of green, decaying bodies to come into view. Also, he could possibly be able to contact his friends. If any were still alive, there was a chance he'd be able to find out. Even though he would possibly have to face an answering machine versus an actual voice, evidence of something terrible, that was kicked aside as the hope of finding them swirled about. Running to Lane's office, and taking out his phone, he prayed for the best—for an answer.

It would take awhile for Beck's call to reach them, but for the time being Cat and André weren't doing that badly. While they didn't have the weaponry and shelter like Jade and Beck or the escape vehicle like Robbie and the sisters, André's instinct and sensibleness had blessed them with food, supplies, and comfort for Cat. There was assurance in André's presence that all would be well. His sureness was enough to cloak Cat with safety, whether or not it was real. Even with André so courageous and composed, he wasn't indestructible. He could ward off zombies and keep them alive for as long as possible, but in the end, there was a grave possibility neither of them would have their lives in the following days.

For now, though, Cat let the fire crackle in front of her face, her eyes observing the popping embers and dancing flames with much interest. They had traveled a long way from when he had taken control of her bicycle, and now he had said the time was right to break for a rest. It being at least seven o'clock in the morning, sleep wasn't exactly an option, but the idea of staying put for an hour or two to sit and eat a little was heavenly to both. They had stopped near a gas station that was void of people. The candies, sodas, beers, gums, and other assorted snacks were untouched, until André loaded up his knapsack. Cat wondered how big it was, and how much stuff could fit into it. Her reasons were hardly believable but they kept her distracted for awhile. Her heart was still heavy without her family to wrap their arms around her, and the loss of her cute pink bell was one of the trivial things she tried to focus on.

The chilling breeze frightened her more than froze her, but that wasn't the reason André had lit the fire. It was to keep away zombies, and perhaps mask their smell with the burning embers. Either way, he kept the shovel at his side as he patrolled the station. The used matches lay at Cat's feet, and she shuffled the ashes with her toes playfully. André tried to fix her a sandwich, but she insisted on candy, so he allowed her a Hershey's if she had some turkey. Happily, she agreed. The turkey had been nibbled on, sweet enough for Cat to enjoy eating, but once she was half-done, that candy bar was shoved so far in her mouth she could barely speak. André told her to savor it, because she may not get much more candy in the future, but she didn't listen—not that he expected her to.

"Come on and eat, André!" she said, "You look starved." Indeed he was; his belly was monstrously snarling, and every rumble felt like something scratching at his insides. But an attack could come at any time, and he didn't trust Cat could swing that shovel quickly enough to fend off anything. He could just pop a few SweeTarts in to calm his stomach, and give him enough sugar to fuel his energy.

"Nah, I'm cool, Little Red," he said, waving her off, "Gotta keep watch after all."

"Can't you just sit for a sec?" she questioned, "Eat something?" André shook his head.

"Later. I have business right now." Cat let a small whimper escape her lips. André noticed, and almost took pity on her—Cat's childlike mannerisms sometimes affected her friends. Her puppy-dog faces were twice as effective, looking like a little girl's, and her whimpers, cries, laughs, and words could all influence people who imagined a six-year-old staring back. But André could resist giving in like a weak father when their lives could be taken if he took even a bite of a sandwich.

He continued surveying the streets as Cat finished up her chocolate and turkey. Once done, she entertained herself with the ground. Whenever she was bored and outside, she could always get amused by the antics of insects in the dirt. She'd watch as they zigzagged across the ground. Sometimes she'd sprinkle a little dust, a little grass over them to see their reaction. Usually they rubbed their heads, changed direction, and then went about their business. Other times she cupped her hands and made them a cage around the bug, watching it scurry around and nuzzle her palms for a crack to escape. Eventually she'd have mercy and release the little bug, who would in turn scuttle away.

But there were no bugs. No ants, no beetles, and no pill bugs. Not even a spider. The first word that ran through Cat's head was peculiar. You could always find at least one ant among weeds and grass. So she dug around, moved blades of dying grass aside, even resorted to calling them. None came out. As the peculiarity of this situation increased as she searched, so did the fear. Life had disappeared. They had weird undead beings crawling about the city, and the only other living person they'd found was each other. And now not even a bug could be seen in grass.

"André…" she whispered, "André…André!" Her whisper rose into a frantic almost-shriek, and André came to her aid, waving the shovel. When he saw she was in no danger, he let the shovel clang against his hip.

"What's the matter?" he asked, trying to steady his heart.

"There are no bugs." Cat said simply. André stared at her, trying to grasp her words.

"Uh…what?"

"There. Are. No. Bugs." She dragged the sentence into four parts, leisurely repeating them. André wanted to treat this effectively, but, really—no bugs? That was what had prompted her to shout his name, beckon him from his post? A lack of bugs?

He waited a minute, then "Yeah?" Suddenly, Cat began to cry, and she flung herself into his chest, bawling like a month-old baby. This resulted in him dropping the shovel and reluctantly soothing her. He rubbed little circles on her back, speaking words of comfort, while simultaneously assessing the roads in case of an attack. It was hard to do so with a girl in his arms, weeping. So he took a minute to lend his attention to consoling her until her sobs lessened.

"Hey…hey, it'll be okay." he said, "You'll find a…a bug soon. They're just hiding…I guess."

"Or dead." she muttered. The tone she used struck André, and he realized it wasn't just bugs she was referring to. Tori's face flashed across his mind, followed soon by his best friends Robbie and Beck, and then acquaintances like Jade and even Trina. Sinjin managed to squeeze into the party too. All of them…they could be dead. Robbie, who he gave advice to…Beck, who he laughed with…Tori, who he sang to. Dead. They could be dead.

"Or not." he muttered in return. Because that was an option too. They could just be someplace else, defending themselves like he and Cat were. Even if they were separated, it didn't necessarily mean they were gone. He tried to hold onto this fact, wanting it to be true. He didn't want to believe everybody he loved had been cursed with this appalling event. He knew that some may've died, that some may've morphed into killers, but then some may've survived. Holding onto that possibility would keep him sane. He hoped.

"I want a sign." Cat whispered. Her hands, balled into fists, clutched his T-shirt. He swore she had ripped a couple chest hairs in the process from the small sensation of pain he felt when she collided with him. "A sign they are alive. That some of them are alive. Robbie…Jade…Beck…any of them. Just…just one sign."

That sign would come. But not for awhile.

"Look at this stuff, isn't it neat? Wouldn't you think my collection's complete? Wouldn't you think I'm the girl—the girl who has everything?" Jade's hushed singing was all she heard besides the whistling of the wind. To her, the feel of the rifle was calming, and she barely flinched when it bumped against her back. It wasn't even in her immediate thoughts as she paced along the threshold leading to the outdoor cafeteria, humming Disney tunes (yeesh, Cat much?). It was, frankly, boring. Nothing was in sight or jumping out of nowhere. It was her and the rifle alone. She knew that a zombie ambush in this, their Safe Zone, wouldn't be a good thing, but darn it if she didn't want to just pull that trigger and blast a few. She recalled her earlier conversation with Beck, and her eyes rolled while her lips cricked upward. He used to be so laidback; but now he revealed he was sensitive too. Chick flick babes may want that, but she could deal without the "compassion". She preferred stony-faced, careless guys with windswept hair and biceps the size of her fist. While Beck was no bodybuilder, he was handsome (especially with that hair), and apathetic—until today.

"What's a fire and why does it—what's the word?—burn?" she continued, "When's it my turn? Wouldn't I love—love to explore that shore up above!" She wandered away from her post, out onto the campus, still quietly singing. It was a wasteland with burrito wrappers and empty soda cans floating in the gust of wind. The scraped blue tables by now would've had students sitting on them, talking and eating breakfast. There'd be hundreds of radios and PearPods on them as they blasted music for kids to dance. Her eyes drifted to the table where they sat—her, Beck, André, Cat, Robbie, Rex, even Tori. Her fingernails tapped against the wood, stroking the tabletop. Her hand went over a yellowish-brown spot, the remains of a meat stain that dripped off Beck's hamburger. Back when all was normal…

Jade shook her head. She had to snap out of this. There weren't going to be those moments anymore. Now they just had to man their guns and try to live on the nasty cafeteria food leftover from the day before. She went over to the van at the thought, peering inside at the contents. It was dark in there; the freezers were locked tight, and the fryers were damp with grease, and perhaps mold. She craned her neck to further search, but the window was much too high. She traveled to the backside of the van, and saw the door ajar. She surveyed the inside swiftly, in case something shriveled and hungry had opened it, but there was nothing—so she entered.

The locks on the fridge and freezer weren't all that tight; or even locked. With one jiggle they were off and she could get in. Opening the doors, she found endless amounts of cold food. They weren't the healthiest choices—preheated burritos, fries, frozen burger patties, ice cream, popsicles, and veggies for the herbivores (as Jade called them)—but if they were to survive for a few months, they'd have to eat what they were given. She kept this lodged in the back of her brain for when she next met up with Beck.

She reached for one of the carrots, frigid with a thin ice layer, when she heard the long, grueling moans. Instantly the rifle's strap burned against her back as she turned it to her front, hands on the trigger and the snout, ready to shoot. She aimed the nozzle outside the tiny window, looking out over the property. In the distance, several creatures stumbled. She could hardly make out their appearances, but she was sure they were what she had suspected. The bullets whizzed fast and furiously, hitting each target with expert precision. The attackers fell down one by one—except for three. There were three that dodged the bullets with quick, humanlike reflexes, scrambling on their bellies. Jade tried to gun them down, but they were too speedy to get at. They had to be alive still.

Jade hesitated, waiting for the trespassers to move. Without the blitzkrieg of bullets, they braved the front. They were squirrelly at first, bouncing and falling as they neared the campus, but once they were positive they weren't at risk, they moved faster and more efficiently. They passed through the gate surrounding the school. The shadows weren't hiding their faces as much now, but Jade still couldn't recognize them. She did see they were alive, maybe not well, but she kept the rifle positioned in case some threat other than zombies arrived.

Eventually they passed onto the cracked pavement with the blue tables and pillars of the building. Jade squinted as the shadows gradually disappeared from their faces. What she saw tempted her to pull that trigger; they weren't zombies or cannibals or gun-toting dunderheads, but they were just as bad. They were dorks that had roamed the halls of Hollywood Arts many times. Jade couldn't remember their names except for the one in the center with his glasses and curly hair the shade of cat litter: Sinjin. He and his Special Effects Crew weirdo friends were head to toe in dust, with blood specks all over their clothing. They didn't have any supplies or weapons; just the clothes on their backs and the fear in their hearts.

Sinjin trembled as he collapsed onto one of the table's benches. His friends (let's call them Ron and Harry) stood beside him, looking haggard. One had bright, deer-in-headlights eyes with dark red hair; the other had an ugly bowl-cut with bangs that fell over his eyes and a smile that could give someone cancer, it was so disturbing. They did look like two nerdy wizards, except less attractive than the movie actors.

Jade had to give them mercy, in spite of her desire to blast them into oblivion just to get them away. She prayed Beck would come to her aid, or these freaks would magically vanish like some hallucination brought on by the panic, but of course neither was possible. She slung the rifle over to her back again, and leaned her head out the window to shout at them.