It was the most exhilarating night in all of history. October 29th, two days before Halloween—our last football game. Students poured into the stadium, anxious to see Sonora absolutely cream our pitiful, puny rivals, La Habra. Even several teachers came, eager to witness our easy win. 

   As twilight approached, I noticed ominous, inky clouds approaching from the distance. They seemed to swirl with a sense of malevolence that made my stomach churn with unease. The storm was peculiar—almost supernatural. I could have sworn I heard the sky rumble, but it was drowned out by a roaring cheer from the students around me. The scoreboard flashed as it changed to Sonora: 6, La Habra: 0. 

   The referee blew the whistle to continue playing, but suddenly, a wicked flash of lightning struck the field exactly where the La Habra football players had gotten into formation. They all staggered for an infinite moment, then simultaneously crumpled to the ground with a sickening crunch.

    The silence was deafening. Everyone around me had their mouths agape, frozen with shock. That’s when it happened: a scene so eldritch, that it triggered the revolting sound of several students vomiting the contents of their dinner. The La Habra players—they slowly pulled themselves up, their mutilated, scorched limbs dangling—but they were completely unfazed. They glowered at the Sonora team with a sinister, red glint in their eyes. Then—they moved. I watched each and every one of them simultaneously take a monstrous step forward, approaching our players. But there was something different. The step looked like it was weighed down, as if they had just woken from a long, permanent sleep. As if they were dead. Zombies. 

   Somebody screamed—the stadium erupted.

   Students poured down the bleachers, but they were halted by the nightmarish dangers that lurked on the field. The La Habra team started towards the Sonora team, their mouths foaming with anticipation to get their revenge. Nobody knew what to do. Suddenly, Mrs. Tushla let out a loud cry: “Our great nation of America is not going down tonight! I will do as our founding fathers would have done!”

   She took a flying leap, and rammed into a zombie that had just latched onto a sophomore, ready to feast on their scrumptious brains. The zombie tumbled onto the floor, unconscious with shock. I spun around to see Mr. Takk behind me—he had an odd smile of euphoria on his face.
 

   “Finally, I can go out there and show these boys how to tackle the right way.”

   I narrowly jumped out of the way as he flew past me, and rammed straight into a wall of zombies, each one of them tumbling over like bowling pins. The Sonora football team looked up at Mr. Takk with a look of awe, but it was the freshmen who followed in his footsteps first. Packs of them let out an irking, ear-splitting screech and bolted straight towards the zombies (although, I did notice they targeted only the seniors… vengeance is sweet, huh freshies?).

   I heard a desperate voice to my right, and turned to see Mr. Eaves pleading with the students around him.

​

    “If the zombies run at approximately 8 miles an hour, and you are 50 yards away running at a pace of 5 miles an hour, then how long will it take them to outrun you? C'mon guys! This can save your life!”

   Students were screaming, but I wasn’t sure if it was because the zombies were coming closer, or if it was just at the thought of doing math. 

   I did notice that there appeared to be less zombies than I had seen before. In the distance, I saw why: Ms. Blevins had a group of zombies huddled around her, as she talked to them in soothing, therapeutic tones. I could have sworn I saw a zombie wipe a tear from its eye, and another started bawling as it leaned over to accept her hug.

   I whirled around to see where the other teachers had gone. Mr. Perez was languidly plucking the strings of his guitar—a few zombies had stopped in their tracks to listen, swaying to the pleasant melodies. I saw Mr. Smith chatting with a few zombies. Initially, I thought they were shaking with rage—ready to gouge out his brains—but then I realized it was with laughter. He was cracking jokes with them. Of course. 

   There was a cry of glee to my left. Mrs. Bawaney was bent down, carefully inspecting—no, dissecting the contents of a zombie’s brain. I was appalled, but she seemed thrilled at what she had discovered.

   “That’s just what I thought! Their brains are completely fried—blackened. That’s why they’re incapable of feeling, and why they crave others’ brains! They don’t have any of their own. Although the pink seems to be coming back… how weird.”

   But I knew why...

    I spun around to see an insane mass of chaos around the stadium—tackling, crying, laughing, screaming, dancing—but all of this madness was slowly restoring the zombies’ humanities. They appeared to be returning back to their normal, human forms, no longer emotionless. I knew that inside, their tiny, microscopic brains were slowly being restored back to it’s natural pink pigment, all because of our vitality. Our animated spirit. Our oomph. Our pizzazz. All of which rubbed off on them. A true night of horror, obliterated Sonora-style. 

    And yes, we finally beat La Habra, 6-0; humans: 1, zombies: 0.