Moving through high school was a zombie apocalypse flick made real. Filthy creatures packed wall to wall, snarling, groaning, ready to tear apart anything they could (typically through irony or apathy). Mr. Cheek hated them. He never knew why he became a teacher.
It was eerie how they reacted to him. Hushing their conversations, watching him pass by before giggling. He knew they were insulting him, or laughing at some past insult. Monsters, all of them.
He dreamed about packing a Zombie Survival Kit and bringing it to class. What if the high schoolers zombified all of a sudden? There were too many of them. He’d have no chance, unless he came prepared. He thought about the ways he could use a shotgun or machete or a chainsaw–only if the students were zombies, of course.
Jesse Fisher asked to go to the bathroom for the third time that period. What was he doing? Smoking? Selling drugs? Maybe drugs that had an unstable chemical agent in them…
Shotgunning through hallways with a sawed-off, slicing off heads with a machete. Rushing for the gym, which had locks for emergencies. Building a fortress. Barricading the walls with gym equipment. Holding out till the cavalry could arrive, weapons breaking, ammo running out, smashing invading zombies with baseball bats and chucking footballs at their brittle, squishy bodies from atop the auditorium.
“I don’t know, said Mr. Cheek, “can you go to the bathroom, Mr. Fisher?”
Day 195’s three random writing prompt categories were, “Living zombies,” “Torn apart,” and, “A pack of high schoolers.”
We all know what teachers think about.