Orthodontics in the Zombie Apocalypse

13. Skinny Jeans to Hurdle Fences (1/2)

The five of us quickly toss every nonperishable item of food into an extra duffle bag, courtesy of Sean. Every time I open my mouth, Mikah shoots me a warning look before a word comes out.

We check the perimeter of the house through the various, grimy windows on all sides. To the north, a pair of scraggly bushes guard the walkway up to the house. The lot isn't big enough to host a driveway. To the east, the remains of the zombie I beat to a pulp last night still twitch in some spots. To the south, the back of a neighboring house hides whatever may lay beyond. And, to the west, the sun sinks towards the horizon, bathing the sky in blood.

We exit through the back door. "Zombies have a hard time getting around obstacles, so we have the advantage if we travel through backyards. Just gotta hurdle the fences," Shaniya says in a rough whisper.

I glance at my choice of outfit: ripped skinny jeans, a silk blouse, and a rather inflexible leather jacket. And heels--not stilettos, of course. Just heeled combat boots that may or may not blister my feet in a few hours. The outfit looks pretty darn badass, but I can't say I had the prospect of "hurdling fences" in mind when making my wardrobe decision earlier.

I also look around at the different luggage choices: duffle bags strapped onto Shaniya and Sean's backs, a small tote bag slung over Angel's shoulder, and a backpack for Mikah. And my choice: a clunky roller bag, too heavy and awkward to run with, let alone hurdle with.

I sigh and trudge along at the group's rear. Angel slows to keep pace with me.

"You okay?"

I ponder whether or not to glare at the little girl. I opt instead for an annoyed scowl with one eyebrow raised. "Why do you ask?"

"You've just been quiet, that's all."

I roll my eyes. "I wonder why," I reply, voice dripping bitter sarcasm. I do my best to keep my voice low, as to not upset Shaniya.

"So now you'll play the submissive little girl that does what she's told out of fear?" Angel shakes her head in a judging manner. "Not that I mind--since most of what you say is mean to me."

I look at her with both eyebrows raised, as if to ask, "And your point?" But I let the expression do the talking.

"I'm just saying, I wanted to stick around you because you never let fear get in your way. I know I've only known you for two days now, but I think that was your only decent quality. But now you won't talk because Shaniya told you not to? Pathetic." She trots up ahead again.

I shake my head.

She's right....Damn it. She's right.

I take a breath. "That's it," I mutter to myself. I stop walking, tip the suitcase onto its side, unzip it, and pull out the large messenger-style purse I had thrown on the top. What can I say? It's cute--and name-brand. I meticulously shove outfits that I think will be more functional for the zombie apocalypse. They are by no means hideous--I wouldn't dare dress up hideously—but at least they allow more movement. Only a third of the outfits I managed to stuff into the large roller bag fit into the messenger purse, but that's alright. I force myself to consider it a form of Darwinism, and I get to play God. Finally, with a new bag slung over my shoulder and more comfortable sneakers on my feet, I slide the handle out of the roller bag, with difficulty, and brandish my new makeshift weapon. It's not a pipe, but I'll make it work.

I jog to catch back up to the group; my feet sing happily in the new shoes. None of them noticed I had stopped. Or they didn't care.

It doesn't matter. I'll make them care. I'll be the member of our sad, little group that takes on the end of the world like a badass.

It doesn't take long for the opportunity to prove myself to arrive. A small band of zombies turns a corner ahead, right into our path. What a shame. As inflexible as these jeans are, I hate to see them ruined.