The Z Academy

Chapter 1: Alone

The joy of an empty house was a luxury I rarely got. This weekend was supposed to be epic: a marathon of junk food, loud music, and an entire season of that new series I'd been dying to watch on Netflix. 

By noon, I sprawled out on the living room floor, surrounded by snacks, doodling in my notebook. I daydreamed about school, friends, and the party next weekend. One daydream, in particular, made me blush: Jamie. There he was, smiling at me from across the room. Our eyes locked for a brief, electric moment before we both looked away. In reality, Jamie probably saw me as a permanent fixture in the friend zone, but a girl can dream, right? Shaking off the daydream, I decided to grab another slice of bread.

However, as I headed to the kitchen, a strange sound halted my steps. It was a mix of whimpering and... growling? Slowly approaching the window, I peeked through the blinds. Mrs. Patterson, my elderly neighbour who lived two houses down, was on my porch. She was hunched over, clutching her chest, looking lost and disoriented.

Alarmed, I rushed to grab my phone to dial 911, but there was no signal. "Come on!" I muttered, seeing the emergency call fail. Heart pounding, I decided to check on her directly. Unlocking the door and stepping out, I softly called, "Mrs. Patterson? Are you okay?"

She slowly lifted her head, and Iooked in horror. Her eyes were a disturbing shade of blood-red, and she was making a low, growling sound. Sensing my presence, she locked eyes with me and, with a sudden burst of speed, charged towards me.

I spun around, yanking the door open and slamming it shut just in time. Panting, I locked it, my heart racing. My mind struggled to process what had just happened. Whatever was going on, it was clear that staying inside was the safest option.

A few seconds after locking the door, the sound of heavy pounding echoed through the house, followed by Mrs. Patterson's shrill, desperate scream. Panic set in as I tried to reason with the situation. Mrs. Patterson had a dog, right? Maybe she was bitten, maybe she had rabies? Or was this some kind of mental breakdown? Regardless of the why, the reality was clear: I had to keep her out.

With adrenaline-fuelled strength, I pushed my living room couch, manoeuvring it in front of the door as an extra barrier. Once it was in place, I took a few steps back, my heart still racing. I reached into my pocket, grabbing my phone and trying 911 again. Desperation surged as the screen displayed the two dreaded words: 'No Service'.

I approached the door cautiously, peering through the peephole. What I saw made my stomach turn: Mrs. Patterson, with her head tilted back, was slamming her forehead against the door in a disturbing, rhythmic manner. Blood trickled down, staining the wooden surface. My heart wrenched at the sight. Was she trying to harm herself? Would she die if I didn't intervene?

Trying to keep my panic at bay, I hurried to the front window, praying that there was someone, anyone, nearby to signal for help. Cautiously parting the blinds, the grim sight before me extinguished any hope. Two of my other neighbours, Mrs. Carter and Mr. Ramirez, aimlessly wandered the street. They moved with a sluggish posture, their eyes vacant and the same disturbing shade of red as Mrs. Patterson's.

A cold wave of realisation washed over me: this wasn't just about Mrs. Patterson. Something was horribly, inexplicably wrong, and I was in the middle of it.

As I stared at the wandering neighbours, a fragment of a memory bubbled to the surface. It was from a movie night with friends, where we had laughed and screamed at the antics of zombies on the screen. The parallels between the movie and the nightmare playing out in front of me were uncanny. Could they be... zombies?

I quickly shook my head, dismissing the wild idea. It's fiction, it's not possible, I tried to assure myself. Regardless of the reason or the label, the primary concern was ensuring that Mrs. Patterson and anyone else out there couldn't get inside.