Xenia Alderidge.
Bachelor of Secondary Education, Major in English. Magna Cum Laude. Dean's Lister for four years. Founder of the Literacy Advocacy Council. Volunteer teacher. Public speaking champion. Amateur calligrapher. Certified Virgo.
The girl with the plan.
And today... was her day.
Cue sunlight, wind-blown graduation gown, and confident heel clicks across the school courtyard. She even coordinated her lipstick shade to match the school colors (maroon and slay).
As names echoed across the loudspeaker, she stepped up onto the stage like Beyoncé entering Coachella. Hair curled. Smile locked. Diploma—pending.
"Thank you," she said smoothly, shaking hands with the guest alumnus. He was a pale, crusty-looking man who smelled like expired beef jerky and hand sanitizer.
But Xenia, ever the professional, ignored the cold sweat on his palm. Focus, Xenia. This photo is going on your LinkedIn.
"One…"
She tilted her certificate for optimal lighting. The man beside her made a sound like a dying blender.
"Two…"
She caught his eye. Dilated pupils. Was he... sniffing her?
"Three—"
CHOMP.
He went full Nosferatu on the woman beside him.
Camera click. Blood splatter. Screaming.
The cameraman shouted, "WE'LL PHOTOSHOP IT, JUST HOLD THE POSE!"
Xenia blinked as a piece of someone's earlobe hit her in the cheek.
Her first thought wasn't run. It was: Oh my God, this is going to stain.
---
Chaos Level: Prom Night After the Punch Bowl Was Spiked.
The man—correction, zombie—chewed like he hadn't had carbs in six years. The woman face-planted into her diploma, which Xenia considered deeply symbolic.
"What the hell is this?! A prank? Performance art?!" she shouted. "Is this part of the college's postmodern theatre class?!"
No answer. Just chaos.
Students screamed. Gowns flapped like wounded pigeons. A boy tried to block a zombie with his plastic medal. It snapped. He cried.
A woman tripped over a decorative balloon arch and got dragged under the bleachers. One guy literally tried to karate-kick a zombie—with Crocs on.
The principal ran offstage yelling "I'm tenured, you can't kill me!"
Everywhere, flesh was being turned into snackables.
Xenia just stood there, clutching her now blood-slick diploma.
The voice inside her screamed: Plan. Think. Adapt. You got a 1.2 in statistics, girl. You can figure this out!
Then her heel snapped.
She faceplanted into the grass like a spilled IKEA bookshelf.
---
Fun Fact: Zombies do not pause to help when you fall.
A cap flew past her face. Someone's phone rang—a lullaby ringtone, of all things.
She crawled toward the gate like a war survivor in a Lifetime movie. Her torn robe caught on the latch, exposing one knee and about three unpaid months of gym membership.
A banner reading "CONGRATULATIONS, GRADUATES!" flapped above her head... dripping blood like it had just finished filming Carrie.
As she reached the top ledge, she peeked over her shoulder.
Below her: a zombie DJ-worthy mosh pit.
Definitely not coming back for the alumni reunion.
---
Then came the girl.
Braid. Mascara streaks. Graduation gown. Limp. Classic zombie starter pack.
"Help me!" the girl sobbed.
Xenia smiled politely, the way you would if someone tried to sit at your table uninvited during lunch. "Uhm... you look a little... chewed."
The girl's ankle was oozing like a microwaved jelly donut. Her eyes started to roll. Her voice cracked. Her neck cracked.
Then she lunged.
And missed.
By this much.
She slammed into the metal rail like a haunted bowling ball. For a moment, her zombie fingers clung to the edge like she was auditioning for American Ninja Warrior: Undead Edition.
Then—squelch. Gravity did its thing.
The body dropped. The head twisted. The mouth still chewed like it was trying to finish a sentence.
Xenia turned around and muttered, "Well. That's one less awkward conversation I'll have to have."
---
She spotted a ladder. Rusty. Probably full of tetanus and regrets.
Perfect.
She sprinted across the rooftop like a girl possessed. At one point she slipped and slapped the ground so hard she gave herself a gravel exfoliation facial.
When she finally reached the ladder and climbed down to the security building, her thighs were shaking, her hair was 40% blood and 60% wind damage, and she had no shoes.
Which meant she was officially every auntie's nightmare: barefoot, messy, and unmarried.
---
The security room was dark and quiet.
On the floor sat a backpack. A flashlight. No blood. No body. No motivational posters saying "We're All In This Together."
She grabbed the bag and slid down against the wall.
Breathing.
Finally.
No cameras. No audience. No checklist.
Her hands were shaking. Her mascara had migrated. Her emergency planner was probably being eaten somewhere by a zombie wearing her shoes.
She stared into the darkness and whispered:
"I survived my thesis defense for this?"
Then she laughed. Just a little.
A quiet, cracked giggle in the dark.
And then—
"I swear, if I die in this building without Wi-Fi, I'm haunting the registrar."
Xenia slumped against the wall, hugging the backpack to her chest, the flashlight's weak beam wobbling as her hand trembled. Dust floated lazily through the air, settling on her robe like sarcastic confetti.
And that's when it hit her.
She didn't get the photo.
Her eyes widened. Her mouth dropped open in horror.
"No," she whispered.
Her voice cracked. "No, no, no, no, no."
A short, choked sob escaped her lips.
"I posed," she whimpered. "I angled the certificate, I practiced the smile... I turned for the light!"
The dam broke. She started crying. Ugly crying. Snot and everything.
"I waited four years for that shot! Four years! Dean's Lister! Magna Cum Laude! Hair curled at 4 a.m.! I did a double setting spray!"
She gasped for air, wiping her nose on the hem of her already blood-stained gown. "All for what? To be splashed in cheek-blood by a corpse and chased by a girl whose ankle was literally detaching like a Thanksgiving turkey?"
She wailed louder now, like a soap opera actress. "And what if—what if that was my last photo opportunity ever? What if I die looking like this? What if the next photo of me is on a Missing Persons flyer, and they crop my face from that cursed blurry ID shot I hate?"
Xenia's overthinking spiral began, full throttle.
Her brain imagined the worst:
—A zombie graduation photo booth where her infected classmates wore flower crowns and chomped on limbs while a camera drone zoomed in for candids.
—A "Class of 2025 (Undead Edition)" yearbook with her photo slot blank, captioned: "Xenia Alderidge: No known image. Presumed eaten."
—Her funeral montage played on a janky slideshow with Comic Sans titles and royalty-free ukulele music, using her awkward 11th grade braces pic because no one found anything better.
"No! They'll remember me as 'that girl who didn't back up her cloud storage!'"
She hugged the backpack tighter.
And then… worse thoughts came.
What if zombies could use social media?
What if one of them posted her last half-smeared graduation moment on Zomblr?
A grainy still frame captioned:
"Girlboss gets bloodboss'd 😭☠️ #CommenceTheCommencement"
Or worse—
What if the zombies graduated?
She imagined it vividly now: zombies lining up for diplomas, caps barely hanging on their bald heads, robes dragging behind them like funeral veils. The announcer calls out:
> "Braaaaaainnn... Johnson! Bachelor of Flesh Consumption!"
And the crowd of the undead claps slowly. Someone plays "Pomp and Circumstance" on a kazoo. Her name is called out next—and a zombie version of her shambles across the stage, stumbles on the stairs, and gives a bloodstained thumbs up.
"I'm losing it," she whispered to no one, sniffling into the inside of her sleeve.
She wiped her tears with the determination of someone preparing for war. "Pull yourself together, Alderidge. You survived four years of unpaid internships, group mates who ghosted, and that one professor who smelled like hotdog water and failed people for breathing wrong. You can survive this."
She blew her nose into a crumpled tissue from the backpack, then glared up at the ceiling dramatically. "But I swear... if someone did get a good angle of me before the biting started, and it shows up on social media and I'm blinking or mid-sneeze—I will haunt the afterlife in heels."
With that, she took a shaky breath, stood up with the grace of a giraffe learning ballet, and staggered toward the door—backpack, flashlight, and all the rage of a girl who survived a zombie outbreak but not a bad camera angle.