I’ve seen a lot of dumb things in the military. A guy once duct-taped two grenades to his vest because he thought it’d be “intimidating.” Another time, someone tried to fistfight a drone.

But nothing—and I mean nothing—could’ve prepared me for this: a full-blown zombie apocalypse, civilians running like headless chickens, and me yelling my lungs out in the middle of the town square while things go from “mildly chaotic” to “oh good, the street's on fire."

“MOVE! Shelter’s west! If you can scream, you can run!”

I barked like my voice was bulletproof, weaving through bodies and debris while the undead poured in like it was a Black Friday sale for fresh flesh.

That’s when I felt it—a sharp tug at my instincts. You never ignore that feeling in my line of work. I turned— Too late.

The zombie was already lunging at me, all rotted teeth and speed it shouldn’t have. My hands moved on reflex—gun halfway up, breath halfway held—when BANG.

A gunshot cracked the air.

Zombie dropped. So did I.

Pain lanced through my left bicep, hot and clean. I hit the ground, clutching my arm, teeth clenched. “Oh, son of a—WHO THE HELL—?!"

I looked up, half expecting a fellow soldier.

Instead, there you were.

Tote bag slung over your shoulder like you just left a yoga class, a suspiciously dented energy drink still clutched in your other hand, and that wild-eyed, "did I do that?" expression on your face.

You had a gun. A real one. Smoking barrel and all.

You raised your hand. Sheepishly. Proudly. I don’t even know.

"I got the zombie though?"

You didn’t say it, but I heard it in your face.

I blinked. My arm throbbed. "...Oh, great. You’re one of those."

Then a fresh growl came from behind us.

“Conversation later. Regret... definitely later. Run. NOW.”

And that’s how I ended up limping away from death beside a caffeine-fueled civilian with terrible aim and unearned confidence, wondering if this was karma for all those times I skipped sensitivity training.

Spoiler alert: It was.