[ PI ] You 're the lone survivor of a zombie apocalypse simply because zombies are n't interested in you .

Late with this, but could n't help myself. 
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 You are not claustrophobic. 
 
 Its dark, a thick filter of blacks and grays across your eyes. You can barely make out the people immediately around you, which is saying something, because they ’ re actively bumping into you. Constantly bumping into you. The whole gymnasium is a teeming mass of sweaty, blinded bodies all crowded together and terrified. They churn first one way, then another. You think about mass panic, about people being trampled, about children going missing, floors collapsing. Your knees wobble under you like they want to make those fears a reality. 
 
 You see flashlights waving at the edges of the room. Other people have lights too, cell phones, music players, but so many of you don ’ t, and there are so, so many of you. When alarms blared, you didn ’ t think twice, because there were people with guns and they wanted you and everyone else to move fast. Everyone was streaming into hallways, down stairs, not a moment to grab your backpacks. There wasn ’ t time to grab things out of houses, either, when they first evacuated you. Like water. Like weapons. 
 
 You don ’ t know why the lights went out. You do know that the ground had shaken first, that waves of sound had penetrated underground to find you all, first a pop, then loud rumbles that rattled in your chest. People shouted, mostly in that schoolkid way - lights out, aaaah! Just being obnoxious. But next was the sound of an entire electrical system going out - at least, it sounded that way to you, classical, like what you hear in movies, like someone has flipped a huge switch and you can hear everything just stop all at once. All the fluorescent bulbs high overhead went out with a fitz, glowing a bit before fading to nothing. Thats when people really started screaming. 
 
 You aren ’ t afraid of the dark, either. 
 
 Your ears hurt, though. Someone to the left ( to the right? ) has just the pitch to make your eardrums feel like they ’ re vibrating. They don ’ t sound like they ’ ll stop anytime soon. Nobody is calming down - you think you can see flashlights waving in a vaguely purposeful pattern, but that soon stops. The screaming has been going on too long, like an applause that won ’ t stop even though the next performance is starting up. It feels like you ’ re missing something, important information disintegrating in the noise. There are vague sounds underneath. You can ’ t even catch bits or pieces, just the disjointed, flat sounds that filter through all out of context. 
 
 Then the quality of the screams change. There is a ripple in the crowd, and you don ’ t know what ’ s happening, you ’ re sure nobody near you does, but you can tell somewhere that the fear of the unknown has turned into a real, tangible thing, something present, something coming. There is a surge, and you ’ re being pushed back, squeezed tight between bodies that are stumbling to keep themselves upright. Everyone is made up of knees and heels and elbows, all jabbing you, you ’ ve got your hands bunched in the back of someone ’ s t-shirt, someone is gripping your shoulder, and God please you can ’ t fall down. Abruptly, nobody can move forward anymore, you ’ re all run into the back wall, filled up all the possible space, and there ’ s just nowhere left to go. The screaming is getting worse, and with it there is no denying now that there are people dying. You have never heard so many people screaming in pain and fear and death before. It makes your skin crawl. 
 
 All at once, it dawns on you that you are trapped. Everyone is. 
 
 You are being crushed tighter and tighter against the people around you. The sound of people screaming for their lives is getting closer, except now it ’ s not all screams. There are people sobbing, pleading, you can hear voices cracking and breaking off. A woman is repeating “ help ” over and over, and it ’ s so awful you want to puke. Someone close by is going mad with anticipation, praying frantically, hatefully. It ’ s hard to breathe, your throat and nose are all congested because you ’ ve been crying. The people ahead of you are too. You can ’ t move. 
 
 There is a long, terrible stretch of time where nothing happens to you. There is a growing drone of groans and growls, and you think there are less people screaming, but they ’ re getting closer. The smell of rot is overpowering, filling up your nose and your head until you think you can taste it, until it feels like it ’ s inside you. You are going to die soon. 
 
 Minutes pass. 
 
 Finally, people around you start getting ripped away. They cry for their mothers, for help, for mercy. Someone drags you down, and you ’ re pulled back over bodies, you ’ re stepping on someone ’ s stomach, your knees are on legs and arm, your face is pressed right up against someone ’ s skull. 
 
 You ’ re expecting pain at any moment. You ’ re not quite certain what ’ s happening, you don ’ t think anyone was, but the stories you ’ d heard during the evacuation give you enough of an idea. You ’ re going to be torn apart. You ’ re going to be ripped to pieces before you even have time to die. Any second now. 
 
 Nothing happens. 
 
 That ’ s a lie. What happens is that the sounds of groaning and eating and grunting build to an all-time high, and the human sounds peter out. The last person wails and cries, then gurgles and stops. 
 
 You don ’ t understand. Do they not see you? Are you hidden? You ’ re too terrified to move, and you don ’ t. You don ’ t for a long time. At least an hour passes, maybe more, and you have been cramped and folded over on the ground for too long. Blood and something else - you know what it probably is, you don ’ t want to think about it - has long since pooled and dried along the side of your face and into your clothes. You can still hear shuffling, you know you ’ re not alone, but you have to move. You have to. 
 
 Slowly, you lift your head off the ground. The gymnasium is lit with a soft, eerie glow. Fallen mounds of bodies make the floor appear lumpy, gore giving everything a slick, wet sheen. Silhouettes shuffle around at the edges of the massacre, and a few mounds appear to be moving. Littered between them all are flashlights and cell phones, lighting the area just enough to punch you in the gut and make you sick all over a dead body in front of you. 
 
 When you ’ re done retching, you know you have to get out of there. If you don ’ t, you ’ re going to barf your guts out and serve them up to the undead on a silver platter, no need for biting and clawing. Just a little ways away, a small pocket flashlight shines between someone ’ s fingers. Making as little noise as possible, you try to find spaces between bodies as you navigate over to snatch it up. 
 
 Your sneaker squeaks loudly through a pool of something, and you fall onto your elbows. There are a few sharp moans, and you look up and around quickly. Shadows are moving towards you. 
 
 You launch yourself the last few feet to the flashlight, and with it in hand, you sprint for the door. The front one leads to a lobby, and then out into the front entrance of your old grade-school. You stumble and fall more than once, the choice between slippery entrails or body parts a hard choice, and you don ’ t choose, you just power through, making a straight shot for the door. A few bodies are lurching towards you, but you ’ re too fast. The front double-doors are broken; one is missing entirely, the other is cracked and splintered, hanging just by one hinge. You get through, and there ’ s more light out here, and you can see a couple dozen zombies milling about. 
 
 Your heart is racing, beating harder and faster than you think is safe, but you can ’ t stop, can ’ t go back, and so you plunge forward. Most of them linger around the walls, but you dodge around and you ’ re at the stairs, you fall over the top few and cement tears up your knees and hands, but the doorway is in front of you and you fly through it into the sunlight. 
 
 There are hundreds of them. You don ’ t have an opportunity to backtrack, a few undead have already stumbled into the doorway, moving towards you, and one of them gives a blaring snarl that seems to ring out across the whole crowd. In unison, heads turn. 
 
 You scream. You can ’ t help it. You scream and you make a run for it, but just as you think you ’ ll make it through an opening, it closes, zombies filling up the gaps and coming for you. You turn around, try to go the opposite way, and the same thing happens. There are too many of them. They ’ re a solid wall around you, their disgusting mouth noises are deafening, and this is it, this is really it. 
 
 The first one reaches you. A chunk is missing from the side of it ’ s face. It ’ s eyes are filmy and dilated, and they slide over and away from you. It bumps up into you heavily, and you scream again, flailing and pushing it away. It falls messily to the ground. Five take it ’ s place, and there are hand on you, uncoordinated, palms on your arms and shoulders. Your knees buckle under you, and you go into the fetal position. 
 
 They bump into you. Their legs stumble by and trip against you, and some of them come down and breath nastily in your face and your hair. Then they move away. None of them so much as bare their teeth at you. 
 
 “ What…? ” They flinch at your voice, and shuffle up against you with renewed vigor. You start to sob, in relief, in pain, in surrender. Nothing bites you, nothing scratches you, dead bodies come up to inspect the noise and then they ’ re done, they leave you be, except you ’ re crying hard now, because everything is lost even if you ’ re still alive. They crowd up around you, squeezing you in, blocking out the sky until you can ’ t see even a hint of blue. 
 
 You ’ re not claustrophobic. 
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 Sorry for the length! If you read it, hope you enjoyed!: )
