Zombie Dancer

The crunch of old asphalt under his boots was the only sound for miles, aside from the wet shuffle of decaying feet behind him. The horde was slow, but steady, like a bad joke that kept getting worse. Eight of them now, maybe nine—he didn’t bother counting anymore. He didn’t need to. Once you’ve seen one rotting corpse with an insatiable appetite for human flesh, you’ve seen them all. They were his pets, in a way, always there, loyal in their tireless pursuit of his warm, living body.

He snorted. “At least someone still finds me attractive.”

The late afternoon sun had dipped low, casting long shadows over the cracked, crumbling I-35. The highway stretched out like an endless scar across the desolate Texas landscape, littered with broken-down cars, shattered glass, and bones. Lots of bones. The world had died, but no one bothered cleaning it up. No one left to do it.

Each step was calculated, just fast enough to stay out of reach of his shambling followers but slow enough to keep them interested. He glanced back to see one of the zombies—an older one, judging by the way its skin barely clung to its bones—trip over its own foot. It went down hard, face-first, and he chuckled darkly.

“Walk it off, buddy.”

The others didn’t even notice, too focused on their one and only purpose: him. He had a plan, though. Same plan he always had. Let them grow, let them fester into a nice little cluster, then deal with them all at once. Why waste the energy when they were so eager to do most of the work for him?

After about an hour, he decided they were ripe. He planted the stake, jamming it deep into the earth, tugging the rope to test the tension. It held. Good. He tied the other end to his waist and began walking in a wide, lazy circle. The zombies didn’t get it—never did. They followed, mindlessly stumbling over the rope as it slowly wrapped around their ankles, torsos, and necks.

“Come on, guys, play along. It’s like the world’s worst game of limbo.”

Around and around he went, the tension in the rope increasing with every pass. They started to trip, one by one, collapsing into each other like a grotesque, slow-motion train wreck. Arms tangled, legs tangled, jaws snapping at air. By the time they realized they were screwed, it was too late. The rope had done its job, binding them into a hopelessly tangled mass of gnashing teeth and flailing limbs.

“Now, wasn’t that fun?” he muttered, pulling the bat from his pack.

The bat was well-worn, stained with dried blood and bits of… he didn’t want to think too much about that. He approached the writhing pile of undead with a casual stride, twirling the bat once before gripping it tight. First one to go was the old man, the one who’d fallen earlier. He wasn’t putting much of a fight anyway. One solid crack, and his skull caved in like an overripe melon.

He wrinkled his nose. “You smell like someone left a meatloaf in the sun.”

Another swing. Another corpse down. The rest went quickly after that, skulls splitting open with satisfying cracks, like piñatas full of brain matter. He worked with the precision of someone who’d done this too many times to count. By the end of it, he was covered in blood—again—but the horde was no more. Just a pile of broken bodies, twitching in their final moments.

“Thanks for the cardio, boys,” he muttered, wiping a bit of gore from his face. “Same time tomorrow?”

He yanked the rope free, coiled it up, and stuffed it back into his pack. The road stretched on in front of him, a wasteland of ruin and dust. Somewhere up ahead, an island waited, or so he hoped. For now, it was just him and the road, and the occasional idiot who thought slow was still good enough to catch him.

As he resumed his walk, the sun dipped lower, and for the first time in hours, he saw something different: lights, faint in the distance.

He squinted into the distance, the faint glow of lights calling him like a moth to a flame. Whatever was up ahead had to be better than sticking around for the next wave of zombies. More would come. They always did. His legs ached, but that was normal now, just a constant hum of fatigue that never quite faded.

As he crested the next hill, he stopped in his tracks.

Below, in a cracked parking lot surrounded by rusted-out cars, was a group of kids. Teenagers, maybe younger. At first glance, they looked like they were playing. Hell, they were playing. One kid, a scrawny boy in ragged clothes, was running circles around a zombie, laughing and yelling as the undead creature staggered after him with sluggish swipes. The other kids stood on the sidelines, whooping and jeering, like this was some kind of twisted sport.

“What the…” he muttered under his breath, watching the scene unfold.

The kid playing tag darted behind the zombie, flicking it in the back of the head before sprinting away. The zombie groaned, its movements jerky and uncoordinated, arms outstretched as it tried to grab him. But the kid was fast, too fast for the zombie’s rotting brain to keep up. He laughed, weaving in and out like a kid on a schoolyard, completely unbothered by the fact that he was being chased by something that wanted to eat him alive.

The man narrowed his eyes, scanning the scene more carefully. That’s when he noticed something odd—the zombie wasn’t trying to bite. In fact, it couldn’t. Its mouth was sealed shut, wrapped in a mess of duct tape that circled its head, leaving it to groan and snap its teeth uselessly.

He blinked. “Huh. That’s one way to house-train a dead guy.”

Just as he was starting to piece it all together, the zombie tripped over its own feet and went down hard, face-first into the asphalt. The kid pounced, quick as a fox, hog-tying the zombie’s limbs with some rope and slapping its head to the ground. The duct tape held firm, and within seconds, the creature was rendered completely helpless, just a writhing mass of frustration.

The kids cheered.

“Got him!” the boy shouted, throwing his arms in the air.

The man shook his head, half in disbelief, half impressed. The apocalypse wasn’t supposed to be a playground, but these kids had turned it into one. Dark times, darker games. But maybe that was how you survived out here—by making it all seem like a joke.

He walked down the hill, his footsteps slow and deliberate, and as he approached, the kids finally noticed him. One of them, a girl with a shaved head and an oversized jacket, cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “Hey, Nomad! What’s your name?”

He stopped a few feet away, blinking. What’s your name? It had been a long time since anyone had asked. He hadn’t needed it, not out here, not with only zombies and silence to keep him company. He searched his mind, trying to remember something that felt a little too distant.

After a pause, he muttered, “Brick. I think.”

The girl grinned, hopping down from her perch on the hood of a wrecked car. “Nice to meet you, I Think. What brings you to our little slice of the wasteland?”

“Lights,” he said, nodding toward the makeshift camp in the distance. “Figured it beat hanging out with the dead.”

One of the boys chuckled. “Yeah, you look like you could use some company that isn’t falling apart.” He gestured toward the hog-tied zombie, its eyes rolling as it tried to figure out why its limbs weren’t working.

Brick raised an eyebrow. “Nice trick. Where’d you pick that up?”

“Trial and error,” the kid who’d been playing tag said with a grin, coming over to join them. “It’s not like there’s a manual for this kinda thing.”

“Seems to work,” Brick said, glancing at the zombie. “You mind if I borrow that sometime?”

“Be our guest,” the girl said, shrugging. “We’ve got plenty more where that came from.”

They didn’t seem scared. Not like most people he’d met out here. They weren’t hardened survivors, not exactly, but they weren’t hopeless either. He didn’t know whether to admire that or find it concerning. Maybe both.

“Come on,” the girl said, nodding toward the zombie. “We’ve gotta get this guy back to camp. You wanna give us a hand?”

Brick hesitated for only a second before sighing. “Sure, why not.”

They handed him a length of rope attached to a makeshift sled—just some old plastic sheets and wooden planks tied together with more duct tape. It looked flimsy, but as they dragged the zombie onto it, the thing held together. Together, they started the slow trek back toward the encampment, the sled scraping along the road as the sun dipped lower in the sky.

“So,” the girl said, breaking the silence, “you been on the road long, Nomad?”

Brick smirked, gripping the rope tighter. “Long enough to know it doesn’t end.”

The kids laughed, a sound that felt oddly out of place in the wasteland, like they hadn’t forgotten how to be kids in a world that had forgotten everything else.

The sled scraped along the broken asphalt, the hog-tied zombie barely twitching as the group trudged back toward the camp. Brick kept his grip on the rope steady, but his curiosity was already gnawing at him.

“So,” he began, glancing over at the kid who had been playing tag, “what’s really going on with this zombie? You all out here playing some apocalypse version of rodeo, or is there more to it?”

The kid grinned, his teeth a flash of white against the dirt-smudged skin. “We’re a new dancer squad in training.”

Brick blinked. “Dancer squad? You’re telling me all this is some kind of… apocalypse ballet?”

The boy laughed, shaking his head. “Nah, nothing like that. The adults—they’re the real crews—they tape zombies for us so we can practice. If we screw up, at least we don’t turn, you know?”

The girl with the shaved head nodded. “Yeah, we track ‘em, take ‘em down, and bring ‘em back. Training wheels for the end of the world.”

Brick snorted, wiping some sweat from his forehead. “Sounds like the world’s weirdest internship.”

“You could say that,” the boy said. “I’m Slash, and I’m the Dancer—means I’m the one that tags ‘em and keeps ‘em busy.”

Brick raised an eyebrow. “You mean you’re the bait.”

“Eh, call it what you want,” Slash said, shrugging. “It works.”

Brick glanced at the others. “And what about the rest of you? You all got fancy names too?”

The girl smirked. “I’m Vee. Tracker. I’m the one who finds ‘em, keeps an eye on ‘em. Make sure Slash here doesn’t get himself killed.”

“Not much of a team without someone who knows where the hell to look,” Brick muttered. “Okay, makes sense. What about you?” He nodded toward a smaller kid, one who’d been quietly trailing behind the group.

The kid looked up shyly. “I’m Ghost. Logistics. I keep things running smooth.”

“Ah, I get it. You’re the brains, the one making sure nobody forgets the duct tape, right?”

Ghost gave a small nod, clearly not much for conversation.

Brick turned to the last two kids. One of them, a tall, wiry boy with a mess of dark curls, stepped up. “I’m Wrench, Fixer. You know, for when things break. Or when people break.”

“Sounds like you’re pretty handy,” Brick said. “Useful in a place like this.”

Wrench grinned. “Yeah, you could say that.”

Finally, Brick’s eyes landed on the last kid, a girl who was clearly a little older than the rest, with sharp eyes that didn’t miss much. She hadn’t said a word yet, just watching Brick with a guarded expression.

“And I’m guessing you’re in charge?” Brick asked.

The girl nodded once. “They call me Blade. I’m Lead. Keeps the rest of them in line.”

Brick chuckled. “Sounds like a full production team. All you need now is a camera crew and a soundtrack, and you could sell tickets.”

Blade’s lips twitched into a smile. “We’ll show you what we really do once we’re past the moat.”

Brick raised an eyebrow. “Moat? You’re not serious.”

“Oh, we’re serious,” Vee chimed in. “Moat, walls, the whole deal. You think we’d survive this long out here without something to keep the dead out?”

“I figured you were just good at the zombie rodeo thing.”

Blade rolled her eyes. “Come on, old man. You’ll see soon enough.”

They continued walking, the evening air thick with the smell of decay and the faint rustle of the undead somewhere in the distance. The kids chatted about their latest catches—how they’d been perfecting their technique, tweaking the way they wrapped the duct tape, or how long they let the zombies chase them before pulling the rope trick.

Brick listened, taking it all in. It was almost surreal, watching these kids talk about zombie hunting like it was some kind of sport, but he had to admit—they were handling things better than most adults would in this wasteland.

“So, this dancer thing,” Brick said, after a moment. “Is it really just about messing with the zombies, or is there more to it?”

Slash grinned. “Way more. But you’ll have to wait ‘til we’re past the moat to see. It’s a whole… performance.”

“Of course it is,” Brick muttered. “Everything’s a performance these days. Even the end of the world.”

Blade shot him a sideways glance. “You got something better to do than tag along, Nomad?”

Brick gave her a crooked smile. “At this point? Not really.”

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the broken highway. Somewhere up ahead, past the lights and whatever kind of fortifications they had, Brick could make out the faint outlines of walls.

“And here I thought today was just gonna be about smashing skulls,” Brick said, more to himself than anyone.

Vee smirked. “Welcome to the future, old man.”

As they approached the camp, the faint outline of a fortified wall became clearer—jagged metal sheets, piles of tires, and whatever scraps of civilization the kids had managed to cobble together into something resembling safety. A narrow moat ran around the perimeter, deep enough to slow down any zombies that got too close. Brick figured they probably fished them out when they got stuck, maybe with a hook and line.

As the group passed through the gate, an adult strode up, wiping grease off his hands onto a dirty rag. His hair was tied back in a loose knot, and he looked like someone who’d been busy making the end of the world slightly less inconvenient.

“Oh, nice,” the man said, nodding at the kids. “You found another Nomad. Good haul today.” He glanced at the sled where the duct-taped zombie was half-conscious, then back at Brick. “Hey, man, can you take care of that zombie?”

Brick raised an eyebrow, glancing down at the hog-tied undead. “How do you want me to do that?”

The man’s face lit up. “Nice! Another Fixer!”

“What?”

The adult laughed, tossing the rag over his shoulder. “Oh, that’s our little sorting hat activity. We ask each newcomer to deal with the zombie. How you answer tells us a lot about how you think and how you can fit into our dancer squads.”

Brick folded his arms. “How is that?”

“Proven twice!” the man said proudly. “When you ask, ‘How,’ it means diagnosing problems and solutions is in the forefront of your mind. You probably come up with creative solutions, and you understand systems.”

Brick smirked. “Or maybe I just don’t want to get my hands dirty without a plan.”

“Exactly!” the man said, pointing at him like he’d just won a prize. “Fixers are all about figuring things out. We’ve had a couple of good ones come through recently. You’ll fit right in.”

Brick glanced around at the kids. Slash and the others seemed to be enjoying this little ritual a lot more than he was. “So, what if I’d asked something else?”

The man nodded, leaning against the gate. “Good question. If you’d asked ‘Who,’ well, you’d be a Dancer. Dancers are thinking about people—good at making a scene, drawing attention, taking the spotlight.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t sound like me,” Brick said, scratching his chin.

“‘Where’ are the Trackers, naturally. They’re always looking at the lay of the land, figuring out where things are, where they’ve been, and where they’re headed. Makes sense, right?”

Brick nodded, glancing at Vee. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“And then there’s the ‘When’ crowd. Those are the Logistics folks. They’re always timing things out, figuring out when things need to happen, keeping everything on schedule.”

“Not bad, so far,” Brick said, though he was still a bit skeptical. “And the ‘What’ people?”

The man grinned. “Leads. They prioritize. They’re always thinking about what needs to happen next. What’s the most important thing, what should be done. Big picture thinkers.”

Brick raised an eyebrow. “That’s interesting… but what about the ‘Why’s?’”

The man burst out laughing. “Oh, man, the ‘Why’s. Yeah, we make them the managers. They’re the ones who get shoved back into the closed-off buildings to have meetings and brainstorm what to do next. ‘Why’ isn’t actionable, you know? Neither are the managers. We just try to keep them out from underfoot.”

Brick snorted, shaking his head. “Sounds about right. So why five people per squad?”

“Diversity of approach,” the man said, his tone now more serious. “We want every squad to have all the angles covered—systems, people, location, timing, priorities. Plus, five’s the sweet spot. Big enough to handle the work but small enough that no one gets forgotten or left behind.”

Brick considered that, looking back at the kids. Each of them seemed to fit their role perfectly, like pieces in a strange, grim puzzle. “So, it’s all about balance.”

“Exactly,” the man said, giving a sharp nod. “Out here, balance is everything.”

Brick glanced down at the hog-tied zombie again. “And what happens to this guy?”

The man waved a hand. “Oh, we’ll use him for practice later. But you—sounds like you’re one of us now. Welcome to the show.”

Brick couldn’t help but chuckle. “Hell of a show you’ve got running.”