In my hand I held a wadded ball of socks. It was the size of a softball—almost as dense.

Across it in black marker, I’d written a name.

BIG BERTHA

Beneath the words, thirty-two tally marks disappeared into the fabric.

For a week our campus had belonged to Humans vs. Zombies.

It had started with one zombie hiding in the bushes.

Now there were hundreds.

Only a handful of us remained, my girlfriend included.

If a zombie touched us, we joined them. Socks were our only defense, and they were set to stun.

The missions had grown stranger each day.

Skip to the helicopter pad.

Escort civilians who liked to get stuck on trees or walk into danger.

Deliver supplies while students who dressed and acted like zombies poured out from behind buildings.

They were so fast, their stun times so small.

Now the game had narrowed to the library steps.

The zombies gathered below.

The other survivors carried grocery bags and backpacks stuffed with socks, throwing them as fast as they could reload.

I had one. I gripped it tight.

I threw the Big Bertha.

It struck the pavement.

I sprinted after it, scooped it up, turned, and threw again.

Again.

Again.

A shout.

Dani had been tagged.

She laughed, stepped toward the crowd, and before she crossed over I kissed her once.

“I love you,” I said.

Then I picked up the Big Bertha and threw it one more time.

Thirty-three.