The Last Girl Standing (#1)

Bite This, Apocalypse

Naomi

Stapler. Highlighter. Expense report for the third time this week because Mr. Bigglesworth (yes, that's his real name) couldn't decide between salmon or steak for his "business lunch." Thursdays were always a nightmare with Bigglesworth out golfing and me, Naomi Johnson, Queen of the TPS Reports, stuck deciphering his hieroglyphic scribbles.

Suddenly, the building lurched. Like a giant had it by the shoulders and gave it a good shake. Papers rained down, the fluorescent lights flickered and died, plunging the office into an unsettling twilight. Screams ripped through the sudden silence, punctuated by a low, guttural growl that sent shivers down my spine.

My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. A bomb? Earthquake? Alien invasion, even? My inner cynic scoffed at the last one, but the primal fear gnawed at me anyway.

Just then, Margaret, from accounting, stumbled past, her eyes wide and manic. Before I could ask what was happening, a dark shape lunged from the cubicle jungle. Margaret shrieked, a sickening wet crunch echoing in the unnatural quiet

My scream died in my throat. This wasn't a drill. This was bad. Really, really bad. But even as terror threatened to paralyze me, a different part of me kicked in. Years of secretly practicing karate in my basement, fueled by cheesy action flicks and a desperate desire to be more than just an office drone, surged to the forefront.

Adrenaline pumping, I vaulted over a fallen chair, years of takeout fueling a surprising agility. More screams, more growls. The air smelled metallic, acrid. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Stan, the office gossip, get tackled by something that looked vaguely like a dog, but way angrier and far too many teeth.

Then, a searing pain ripped through my arm. I yelped, instinctively swatting away whatever had bitten me. It darted back into the shadows, leaving a puncture wound that burned like fire.

But something was wrong. Everyone else who'd been bitten was...well, different. Now. But me? Just a searing pain and a growing sense of something simmering beneath the surface.

Ignoring the throbbing in my arm, I grabbed a stapler. Not exactly a katana, but it would have to do. My office, once a battlefield of TPS reports, had become a battleground for survival. And Naomi Johnson, reluctant warrior princess by day, stapler-wielding badass by night, was ready to fight. Maybe this Thursday wouldn't be so bad after all.

~
So there I was, stapler in hand, staring down a pack of what looked suspiciously like flesh-hungry accountants. Turns out, even the undead have a taste for gossip, Stan the office rumor mill being Exhibit A.

He lumbered towards me, tie askew and eyes glazed over, a truly horrifying sight. But hey, years of Mr. Bigglesworth's "management techniques" had prepared me for anything. With a battle cry that would make a Valkyrie proud (or maybe just scare the pigeons nesting on the window ledge), I launched myself at him.

The stapler connected with his decaying forehead with a satisfying thunk. It wasn't exactly a headshot, but it did the trick. Stan stumbled back, moaning incoherently, giving me a precious moment to sprint towards the emergency exit.

The hallway was pandemonium. Desks lay overturned, filing cabinets spilled their guts onto the floor, and the air thrummed with the moans of the newly zombified. I weaved through the chaos, dodging a lunging IT guy (never underestimate the wrath of a tech support hold gone wrong) and using a fallen bookcase as a makeshift shield.

The stairs were a warzone. A pack of undead salespeople, still clutching their briefcases like security blankets, blocked the way down. Taking a deep breath, I channeled my inner Jackie Chan and leaped over the railing, landing squarely on the back of the nearest zombie. It let out a surprised gurgle before collapsing under my weight.

The remaining salespeople turned their vacant eyes on me, their suits looking oddly out of place amidst the carnage. With a feral grin, I grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall and unleashed a torrent of white foam. Blinded and disoriented, the zombies stumbled around like confused pigeons. I took advantage of the chaos, bounding down the stairs like a caffeinated mountain goat.

Reaching the ground floor, I burst through the glass doors (adrenaline is a hell of a drug, who knew?) and landed in a heap on the sidewalk. The world outside was bathed in the eerie orange glow of a distant fire. More screams pierced the night, but they seemed to be coming from a different direction.

Taking a shaky breath, I surveyed the scene. My stapler was bent beyond repair, a true warrior fallen in battle. But hey, at least I was (mostly) alive.

Now, the question was, where to from here? The city, judging by the moans echoing from the darkened streets, looked like a giant buffet for the recently deceased. Maybe the rooftop? Or the sewers? Honestly, anywhere beat battling zombie accountants in cubicles.

With a renewed surge of determination (and a growing awareness of the throbbing pain in my arm), I picked myself up, ready to face whatever this messed-up apocalypse threw my way. Because honestly, between Mr. Bigglesworth and the stapler incident, I felt strangely prepared. Bring it on, world. Naomi Johnson, reluctant office warrior, is ready to rumble.

~

The sound of shattering glass ripped through the night air. A pack of shambling figures, their clothes ripped and stained, emerged from a smashed storefront, their moans echoing off the deserted street. I ducked behind a dented car, heart hammering against my ribs. My stapler, RIP brave warrior, had met its demise during my escape down the stairs. Now, I was weaponless and surrounded by the hungry undead.

Panic gnawed at me, but I forced it down. My survival instincts, honed by years of enduring Mr. Bigglesworth's motivational speeches (which could only be described as psychological warfare), kicked in. Spotting a dimly lit convenience store across the street, I decided it was a gamble worth taking. Maybe there were supplies inside, a weapon, anything to even the odds.

With a silent prayer and a surge of adrenaline, I darted across the street, weaving between abandoned cars. A scraping moan sent chills down my spine as I realized I wasn't alone. A lumbering figure, its face a grotesque parody of a human, was hot on my heels.

I slammed through the convenience store door, the bell jangling wildly. The air inside was thick with the stale smell of cigarettes and expired candy. Shelves lay toppled, their contents scattered across the floor. Ignoring the mess, I scanned for anything remotely useful.

A metal baseball bat gleamed from behind the counter. Jackpot. Grabbing it with a yelp of triumph, I whirled around just in time to see a zombie shambling towards me, its vacant eyes locked on mine.

This time, fear didn't paralyze me. With a primal yell, I swung the bat. It connected with a sickening crack, sending the zombie sprawling back. It wasn't a clean kill, but it bought me some time.

But just as I raised the bat for another swing, a sharp pain lanced through my shoulder. I yelped, dropping the bat with a clatter. A searing heat snaked up my arm, a horrifying realization dawning on me. I'd been bitten.

Panic clawed at my throat. This was it. I was going to turn. My vision blurred, the room tilting at a precarious angle. Then, before I could scream, a blow to the back of my head sent the world spinning into blissful oblivion.