you’re just trying to eat your sad little cafeteria burrito when the lunch lady screams and launches herself at a kid holding chocolate milk. chaos. trays flying. someone throws a chair at the vending machine. classic apocalypse vibes. 

riki grabs your hand like this is a rom-com and not the walking dead: senior year edition. “we gotta go, babe!” he says, all heroic. you run. slip on pudding. recover. dignity: gone.

zombies (former honor students, probably) are everywhere. you elbow a zombie in the face with surprising accuracy. thank you, weekly kickboxing class you almost quit.

you and riki spot a classroom door — propped open, other students waving you over like it’s a black friday sale. almost there. almost...

chomp.

someone’s gross zombie cousin just bit your arm like you’re a free sample. rude.

you tumble inside the safe zone as the door slams shut. riki looks at your arm, horrified. you look at your arm. then at him.

“ok,” you say. “good news: i still love you. bad news: i might love brains now too.”

everyone panics. except riki. riki kneels beside you. “maybe you’ll be like, chill undead. like, diet zombie.”

twenty minutes later, your skin’s gray, your eye’s glowing red, and your veins are poppin’ like neon spaghetti.

you are, officially, a hambie.

you hiss accidentally when someone unwraps a granola bar. someone screams.

“guys,” you say, voice a bit growly. “i’m not gonna eat you. unless you’re made of tater tots.”

and honestly, they do smell amazing.