Zombie Guy

Chapter 1: The Man I Was

A month ago, I was just another guy, clumsy and a little awkward, trying to get by. I worked at a high-security biological research facility, the kind of place where scientists wear lab coats and talk about viruses like they're discussing the weather. My job? Virus research. I wasn't a scientist, though-more of a "research assistant" (fancy words for "do everything that no one else wants to do"). My days were filled with tasks that ranged from organizing samples to cleaning equipment to making sure the coffee machine worked. The latter, I was surprisingly good at.

The lab itself wasn't glamorous. It smelled faintly of antiseptic, and the walls were lined with rows of high-tech equipment and cold storage units. You couldn't exactly describe it as a "fun" place to work. But it paid the bills, and that was enough for me.

Every morning, I'd stumble into the lab at 8 AM, a few minutes later than I meant to, still trying to rub the sleep from my eyes. There were always the same few people already there, focused on their work. I never seemed to be able to join them in that zone of calm and competence. No, I was more the type who made a mess of things before I even started.

My first task each day was checking the viral samples in cold storage. It sounded easy enough, but there was something about those giant, steel-framed refrigerators that made me nervous. And of course, I had a tendency to overstuff them, resulting in more than one "oops" moment when things fell over or-on one memorable occasion-an entire box of test tubes decided to launch itself from the shelf and scatter across the floor. The researchers would look at me, sigh, and say, "Kevin, try not to break anything today, alright?"

I'd nod sheepishly and start cleaning up the mess, hoping they didn't notice I'd knocked over a sample containing a particularly "interesting" viral strain. Fortunately, nothing exploded. Yet.

The rest of the day went by in a haze of quiet tasks and quiet panic. I had a routine: log the data, organize the samples, check the equipment. And of course, find a way to mess it up. One time, I was supposed to test a new viral strain under controlled conditions. Simple enough, right? But I ended up mixing up two vials, causing a minor hiccup in the test. Thankfully, no one noticed the mistake... well, no one but me. And that's when I learned the true meaning of "contingency protocols."

Most of the researchers worked in silence, their eyes glued to their monitors as they studied the viral cultures. I didn't have much to do with the complicated stuff. I was the guy who made sure the culture plates didn't get contaminated, or the lab stayed stocked with supplies. I wasn't making any breakthroughs. I was just trying to keep things from falling apart.

But every now and then, I'd get a moment of clarity-a rare instance where my clumsiness led to something useful. Like the time I noticed a minor variation in one of the viral strains while trying to locate my missing coffee mug. That ended up sparking a conversation among the researchers about a potential mutation that no one else had caught. For a brief moment, I felt like I actually belonged. Until, of course, I knocked over the coffee mug. But, hey, at least I had contributed to something.

Lunchtime was always a bit of a break. I'd head outside, stretch my legs, and pretend I wasn't terrified of screwing up again. The others, though polite, never quite let me forget my less-than-stellar moments. But it was all in good fun. I had thick skin by this point. "Careful, Kev," they'd joke when I returned to the lab, "don't spill anything else."

I'd roll my eyes and get back to work. After all, there wasn't much else I could do. I didn't do the most, but I did a lot. It wasn't about being perfect either-it was about being there. About keeping things running. And for all the mishaps and mistakes, I was somehow still managing to stick around.

I didn't end up here by accident. Well, I "guess" I did, but not the kind of accident people usually talk about. I was just a kind when my life changed forever-when everything I knew, everything I thought was safe, was suddenly ripped away from me.

The house I grew up in wasn't fancy, but it was home. My mom, my dad, and I-just the three of us, always together. My parents were kind, loving people, the kind who would light candles on my birthday and always had homemade cookies in the kitchen. My dad used to read me stories before bed, the same ones over and over again, but they were my favourite. He'd let me pick out what we'd do on weekends, and I'd always choose to help him in the garden. Those were the good days.

One night, it all changed. A fire started in the kitchen-some faulty wiring, an old stove that hadn't been checked in years. We didn't know it was happening. By the time we smelled the smoke, the flames were already racing through the walls. I remember running down the hallway, calling for my parents. They were gone. The smoke, the heat-it was too much. I was the only one who made it out.

By the time the firefighters arrived, it was too late. My parents-gone in a matter of minutes.

I was twelve.

That's when Dr. Elias stepped in. A family friend, really, though I hadn't known him very well before that night. He'd known my parents, of course-had even worked with my dad on a few projects over the years. He was a scientist, a brilliant man. He took me in, told me everything would be okay. I didn't believe him, of course. How could I? But he was there, and I didn't have anywhere else to go.

Dr. Elias was an odd kind of father. He wasn't really the type to show affection or comfort. He just... taught. And he pushed. He'd put books in front of me, tell me to read, then quiz me on what I'd learned. Science, math, history-it didn't matter. I was expected to be as sharp as he was. The man didn't give me space to grieve. He didn't understand that I wasn't ready to be anyone other than a scared kid.

He insisted that I become a scientist, follow in his footsteps. "It's what your parents would have wanted," he'd say. And maybe, in some twisted way, he believed that. But the truth was, I didn't want to be a scientist. I didn't want to be anything. I was angry. Lost. But Dr. Elias didn't let me wallow in my emotions. He didn't believe in that. His idea of coping was to throw a textbook in my hands and say, "Focus. Learn. It's the only way to move forward."

I did what he told me, of course. I was smart. But I never really cared about it. I just wanted to escape, to find something else to do-something that felt real, something that didn't involve staring at microscopes and equations. Dr. Elias didn't understand. He'd push me harder, thinking I wasn't trying hard enough. He'd say, "You're smarter than this. You have to be. Make your parents proud."

But I couldn't. I didn't care about making anyone proud. I just wanted to live.

So, I did what I always did-I distracted myself. Sports. Building things. I was good with my hands. I was always building something: a treehouse, a makeshift car, whatever I could get my hands on to keep my mind busy. It wasn't science, but I was good at it. And, for a time, that was enough.

But eventually, I couldn't run away from the life Dr. Elias had planned for me. He arranged for me to work at the research facility. The work wasn't exciting, not for me, but it was science. I wasn't a scientist, but I was in the field, doing what he wanted. I wasn't sure what I was looking for by being here. I wasn't trying to make my parents proud anymore, but I was stuck with this legacy-this idea that I should be something I wasn't.

Maybe, in some way, I hoped Dr. Elias would finally see that I wasn't like him. But I couldn't say that. I didn't have the heart to tell him I didn't want this life.

So here I was-smart enough to get by, but still just trying to find my place in a world I never really understood.