It was a textbook apocalyptic scenario.
Except, they weren’t people anymore. They were missing jaws, dragging intestines, and groaning with a distinct hunger for human flesh.
Reanimation of deceased cellular tissue, Dia noted, pressing her tiny nose against the glass. A viral pathogen? Fungal parasite? The motor functions are severely impaired, but their persistence is admirable.
She knew what they were.
Apparently, some things from her memories were surprisingly useful.
A dozen rotting figures suddenly turned toward the station wagon.
One of them had once been a businessman.
He still had a briefcase hanging from his decaying hand.
His jaw dangled from his face by a single stubborn tendon.
Then—
He ran.
Dia’s eyes widened.
"He’s fast."
"They’re breaking through the fence!" Vernon screamed, his voice cracking an octave higher than what was socially acceptable for a grown man.
A dozen rotting figures turned their milky white eyes toward the station wagon. A former businessman with a briefcase still fused to his decaying hand began sprinting toward them, his jaw hanging on by a single, stubborn tendon.
"Vernon, do something!" Martha wailed, grabbing a crowbar from the floorboards, though she looked more likely to hit herself with it than a zombie.
"The car won’t start! We need a distraction!" Vernon yelled, his panicked eyes darting to the rearview mirror. They locked onto Dia, who was currently analyzing the structural integrity of the approaching businessman’s kneecaps.
A dark, cowardly understanding passed between the aunt and uncle.
’Oh,’ Dia thought, recognizing the shift in their heart rates and pupil dilation. ’They are calculating my mass-to-distraction ratio’.
"You... Get out!" Martha lunged over the seat, grabbing Dia by the collar of her oversized, faded t-shirt.
Before Dia could logically point out that offering a 40-pound severely malnourished child to a horde of zombies would buy them exactly four point two seconds of time, the car door was flung open.
Dia stared at her.
"But..."
"GET OUT!"
Martha grabbed Dia by the collar.
Dia’s feet left the ground.
She kicked helplessly.
"Wait!"
Her voice cracked.
"I’m scared."
For just a moment, Martha hesitated.
Then she threw her out.
Dia flew through the air.
For one strange second, everything seemed slow.
Then—
THUD!
She hit the asphalt.
Pain exploded through her knees and elbows.
She rolled twice before stopping.
With a grunt of exertion, Aunt Martha literally lobbed her niece out of the vehicle.
Dia soared through the apocalyptic air. For a brief second, she appreciated the physics of her trajectory.
She ended up scraping her elbows and knees, before skidding to a halt right at the feet of the rotting businessman.
Behind her, the station wagon’s engine finally roared to life, and the tires squealed as her "family" sped away, leaving her as a human appetizer.
Dia sat up, dusting off her tiny, scuffed knees, as she stared after the car.
Her little mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Then a shadow fell over her.
She slowly looked up.
The businessman zombie was standing directly in front of her.
Black saliva dripped from his ruined mouth onto her shoulder.
Dia stared at him.
He stared at her.
She sniffed.
"You smell bad."
The zombie roared.
Dia scrambled backward.
The zombie lunged.
She threw herself sideways.
Its teeth snapped shut less than an inch from her cheek.
The zombie crashed face-first into the pavement.
Its loose jaw finally detached.
Clack.
"Hello," Dia said politely, using her most clinical lab-voice. "Your mandible appears to be detaching. Have you considered surgical reattachment?"
The zombie responded with a guttural roar, lunging downward to bite her face off.
Survival instincts, a completely new phenomenon for the formerly suicidal lab rat, kicked in.
Dia didn’t scream or didn’t cry. She just rolled to the left with the grace of a slightly uncoordinated potato, dodging the zombie’s teeth by a millimeter.
The businessman face-planted into the pavement, his loose jaw finally snapping off entirely and skittering across the road like a gruesome hockey puck.
Dia scrambled to her feet.
Analysis: Host body has stubby legs, low lung capacity, and zero combat training. Conclusion: Tactical retreat.
She ran.
It wasn’t a heroic, cinematic sprint.
It was the desperate, waddling scurry of a six-year-old wearing sneakers two sizes too big. Her tiny legs pumped furiously, her arms flailing at her sides as she bolted down the ruined street.
"Roarrrr!"
"Go away!"
The zombies chased her.
"Don’t eat Dia!"
She didn’t know why she shouted her own name.
She just knew she was scared.
A chorus of moans echoed behind her. She glanced back over her shoulder.
The horde had abandoned the departing car and was now entirely focused on the bite-sized snack running down the middle of the road.
Leading the pack was a former soccer mom in yoga pants, missing an arm but still maintaining excellent cardio speed, and a teenager in a fast-food uniform who was practically galloping.
’This is mathematically unfair,’ Dia thought, her tiny lungs burning as she wheezed for air. ’My stride length is approximately 40 centimeters. Theirs is over a meter. I am going to die again. And I haven’t even had a chance to try ice cream yet.’
She ducked under an abandoned bus, crawling through the grime and discarded food wrappers, popping out the other side.
Dia made a face.
"Yuck."
She scrambled over a pile of rubble, her small fingers slipping on the blood-slicked stones.
"Pant... pant..." Dia wheezed, her vision swimming with black spots. The host body was giving out. The original Dia had survived on tap water and moldy bread; she simply didn’t have the ATP reserves for a prolonged chase scene.
Her chest hurt.
Her vision blurred.
She didn’t have enough strength.
She had barely eaten in her entire new life.
Her body was simply too weak.
She turned a corner into a narrow alleyway, hoping to lose them.
Dead end.
A towering brick wall stood before her, entirely unscalable for a child whose upper body strength was equivalent to a wet noodle.