Page 1 of Invasion of Sorority Z

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Chokecherry: A common wild cherry of eastern North America having small bitter black berries favored by birds.

Stevie

8 Months, 22 Days Post Outbreak

An apocalypse did this to me.Zombiesdid this to me. Gazing down at my mud-covered hands, a frown tugs at my lips. I used to be hyper-sensitive to all sorts of textures. Still am, really. But months of exposure to this exact feeling—this grainy and damp horrible feeling—on my skin has made the aversion much duller. Dry dirt is by far more offensive to the touch, but using tools or wetting it has become one of my best aids in coping with the sensation.

Though the exposure to mud has made the touch easier to deal with, it doesn’t soothe me by any means. I will never understand pre-apocalypse spa treatments involving bathing in the stuff, but it doesn’t make me want to shrivel up into a ball and cry on contact any more.

I’ve become a gardener. A freakingfarmer, to be exact. Nearly nine months ago, I was in my final semester at West Virginia State. The taste of my hard-earned degree practically dripped from my mouth each morning before I shoved it full of whatever caffeinated beverage I could get my hands on. Literature was my life.

Books were my every escape, and sometimes, my whole entire happiness. And then, the outbreak tossed my unreceived bachelor’s degree into the fiery pits of Hell. So now, the only place I bury my head is in muddy vegetable patches.

How does a twenty-two-year-old English student from the middle of nowhere end up surviving almost nine months into a devastating zombie apocalypse? Dumb. Freaking. Luck.

Blowing some stray curls from my eyes, I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my wrist. Wet dirt can absorb pigment from natural stone, apparently. At least, that’s my guess as to why the soil around here is crimson. It stains my skin on the days that I’m out here for too long, so much so that my hands are pinker than my cheeks when it’s hot. And it’s the end of summer now, so it’s still stiflingly hot some days.

In January, a weaponized virus with unknown origins struck the globe. Half of the world’s population was affected in mere hours, according to the very brief news we were able to see before every outlet went dark. They say it’s not airborne, only transmitted through bites. Some of the girls aptly dubbed it, theVZ Virus.Vampire Zombie Virus or not, we haven’t come into contact with it.Yet.

I grimace, trying not to remind myself that luck runs out. My sorority sisters and I, we’ve had more of it than I could have ever expected.

Our shelter is strategically placed in the most remote area owned by the University. What was once something we moaned and groaned about has been the thing that saved us the most. No sorority wants to be planted a thirty-minute drive away from campus, surrounded by trees, and sat in the middle of a mountain. But that’s exactly what Kappa Alpha Zeta was subjected to.

Two years ago, while they made renovations to Greek Row, the administration shucked us up here into an older manor that they used for storage. It was ancient and dusty with hardly a lick of potential. Not to mention the basement was the most chaotic pit of storm survival supplies we’d ever seen. Totallynotsorority material. But one sorority’s burden is that future sorority’s biggest asset.

Our true saving grace though, was the canned food drive we’d held only three days before the first outbreak. With only six of us living here, and the supplies already inside of the house, we estimated a year and a half of food. Which meant we needed to be preemptive. Hence, the garden.

Where’d the plants come from? Anna’s family. A week into the outbreak, her dad and two beefy big brothers came by like their visiting wasn’t the most bizarre activity ever. They brought fully dug up plants from their garden in the bed of their truck and weapons. DoorDash but for the apocalypse, apparently.

Anna was pissed, and if they hadn’t given her so much, I think she might have laid them out. As small as she is, she’s vicious. And they weren’t here to collect her or to stay. They were going hunting, and they wouldn’t take her. Their boys club didn’t have room for the little sister of the bunch.Ouch.

I tried to cheer her up with the bright side. Her family was alive, and they’d brought plants. I was given a deadly glare and the comment, “so you can deal with the plants then!” Seems as though everyone else agreed, because no one else has helped me tend to them. I suppose we all have our roles, though.

“Stevie! Dinner!” Brooke calls, her cheerful voice almost singing it.

Brooke smiles more than any of us, but I can see her frown every time she eats the food she prepares for us. Once a thriving culinary arts major, and the daughter of a local chef, she’s been relegated to making meals whenever possible. Unfortunately for her, the art and love is lost when your options are as limited as ours. She brightens a bit now that we have some fresh food. It’s not enough for the light to really reach her eyes, but it’s something.

Not receiving a response quick enough, she calls out again. “Stevie?”

“I’ll be a minute!” I holler, not turning around in case she’s watching from the porch. I don’t have anything left to do out here, but I’m not quite ready to be back inside for the night. Even introverts can yearn for change when confined to one area for too long. As much as this place is a sanctuary, it’s also a prison.

The garden isn’t entirely open, being closed in by the wonky wooden fence of the backyard. Still, it isn’t as stuffy as the house has become. Big or not, it feels tiny to me. Maybe it’s that I’ve spent so much time out here, making the garden safe for weather conditions dependent on season, configuring a water filter, and connecting a distribution system from the nearby pond. Maybe it’s that no one comes out here with me. Either way, I’ve grown to prefer the yard over anywhere else.

Sighing as the sun dips even lower in the sky, I clean up quickly. Tools clank into their correct containers, and water trickles down my hands and legs, slowly taking care of my dirtied limbs. It’s not a shower, but it does the trick just fine for now.

A warm gust of wind sends chills over my damp body as I turn to head inside—like the earth knows I’m leaving it for the night, giving me a last goodbye.

Approaching the house, I’m stopped in my tracks by a sight I can’t quite digest. Anna returning from her perimeter checks is not unfamiliar to me. We spend the most time outside, so our paths cross regularly, but I haveneverseen her returning like this.

Her skin is sticky with blood and sweat, her copper brown hair is a mess as half of it has fallen from her ponytail, and she looks dejected. Her jeans are more red than they are blue, and her tank top is more like a t-shirt with the blood on her shoulders molding to her body like sleeves. Her rifle is in her hand rather than slung around her back, and I wonder if it’s to keep it clean, or because she’s still on edge from whatever has clearly happened to her.

I’m slow to snap out of my frozen state, but come rushing to her side as soon as my feet are able to move.

“Holy shit!” I gasp. “Are you okay?”

“S’not my blood,” she replies, starting to maneuver around me.

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