Stability (by D&N)

Ch.7- Jada

Hi readers! Hope you enjoyed that last bit. Here's the next chapter, from Jada's perspective, on the aftermath. Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading! :D --N

        A gigantic mass of zombies had clustered around the deceased music teacher's body and had viciously stuffed handfuls of bloody meat into their groaning mouths. The fairly small group of survivors-- a total of about twenty-three kids-- grimaced at the scene. Angelina, probably the strongest of us all, was weeping into her hands. Short, little Joe, eyes bloodshot, along with Brandon, a small frail kid with social ineptitude, walked up to Angelina and tugged on her long-sleeved shirt. She looked up, her own eyes a rosy pink, and sniffed, peering down at Joe. She glanced up, her eyes searching, and landed on me. I treaded over and rubbed her shoulder, which she replied with a shy, downtrodden smile. I gazed at Joe and embraced him in my arms. I sensed his tears fall and I hugged him tighter.

        As I let go, I scanned the rest of the cast. Vanna was hurling in the corner, bending over and hacking. Kyra was sitting cross-legged and kind of dazed, staring at Danika who was situated on the floor. Her ankle looked uncomfortably askew and was being examined by Michael F. Michael F. Amongst the chaos and confusion and grief over our lost ones, Michael was there, asking Danika to rate her pain on a scale of one to ten. The sensitivity in his eyes contradicted the concentration resting on his brow and the composure held tightly together in his very visible jawline. Standing off to the side, Alex, Nathaniel, Dylan, and Michael C were nervously trying to make awkward conversation. I honestly didn't know what they possibly could've been talking about. Hey, nice weather huh? Oh yeah totally, I really thought the weather reporter was totally bogus when she said 30% chance of zombies! HAHAHA! Yeah, no. Alex shuffled on his feet, staring intently at the floor, his cheeks still semi-flushed from his duty to carry Danika. I guess I never really got to talk about Alex. He's the perfect package. Sounding too straight forward? See him for yourself. His height plus his manly jawline and asian eyes isn't it. His brain is also quite attractive, taking pre-calculus at the nearby highschool, West High. He is very involved with extra-curriculars: marching band (percussion), orchestra (strings), rock band (piano), math olympiad, et cetera. There isn't a girl in the whole school who wouldn't find him attractive. But once you get to know him, he really shines. He has a shy aura, but is hilariously funny and has the purest personality. Nathaniel stood rubbing his hands nervously, his mouth muttering something about politics most likely. Michael C remained emotionless. He was a thin asain boy with small eyes and the best jokes. After that day though, the jokes seemed to die down from every day to every other day to maybe once a week and finally, none.

        Logan, Anthony, Josie, Yanessa, and were still gazing at the scene unfolding below. I dared glance past them and was met with a gruesome pile of bones and a skull, littered with the occasional patch of meat. They were all open jaws and tears, streams running down all of their eyes, except Logan. I figured he was tough like that. He could witness raw homicide without blinking. I guess all those years spent playing FPS games finally paid off, in a really unexpected way. Anthony, on the other hand, was coughing and had tears running down his cheeks. In my mind, it wasn't a sign of weakness. It was a sign of strength. We, as humans, cry not because we are feeble, but because we are alive. Anthony was alive, and so were some of my close friends. Not all, but some. That was all that mattered. Carlos, a young Mexican and Filipino kid with rosy cheeks and fast legs, was perched with his legs hanging off the roof, and next to him was Robert, a tall Mexican runner who also had an excellent sense of humor and was strangely, very flexible. Kundhan, the sassy Middle-Eastern kid and Sujoy also stood with them. He was a dark-skinned Bangladeshi boy who was slightly overweight and was the definition of hipster. He wore the latest vans shoes and graphic or band tee shirts. He wore skinny jeans that sagged below his bottom and sometimes wore a beanie along with his penny-board at his side. However, it was probably strapped to his backpack in the bandroom, surrounded by rotting bodies. On the opposite side of the roof, facing away from the morbid spectacle that had occured moments before, Shamar sat, his shoulders hunched and his breathing heavy. His long legs dangled off the side of the roof like the tears slipping down everyone's faces. His shoulder blades, visible through his sweaty shirt, were shaking and his hand flew to his face, wiping his tears fast and frenzied. He didn't want anyone to see his vulnerability. I never thought I'd see Shamar cry. It was only in one moment in PE two years ago where a dodgeball had come flying at his face and had knocked his glasses into his eyes, causing an excruciating pain where I had seen his eyes water. Just seeing him cry made me want to cry even more; it meant this was actually happening. This was real.