Staggering along for the Zombie Run: Confessions of a zombie in training



I suppose the most difficult decision I will have to make as a zombie is really not all that different from the same choice I had to make as a human with a pulse: Who am I?

Perhaps I should start at the beginning. My friend Elissa, a fellow zombie now, told me some months back that there would be a 5K called the Zombie Run, set to happen June 8 at the Atlanta Motor Speedway.

But there is an important distinction to this 5K; there are not just runners, but chasers, and not just any chasers, but undead ones.

The “story” goes this way. It all began when a shipment of C-894 (the well-known zombie-making chemical) made its way to Atlanta and infected the populace. Now, as with any good zombie story, people will be running for their lives to avoid being devoured by the flesh hungry mutants.

The rub of it now is, I’ve been infected and now have no choice but to chase down the delicious humans to satisfy my craving for brains. On June 8, I shall join the mass of my fellow zombies in our attempt to capture the 5K runners before they can complete their race to the finish line and survival.

The issue I now face is to decide what type of zombie to be. I face an identity crisis: am I a slow, stumbling, moaning zombie? Am I a vicious, snarling, sprinting zombie? Only time will tell.

As I went on my run yesterday, I had to reorganize my methods of training. I was a soccer player in my human life and have always been tethered to the idea of pacing myself, keeping a steady rhythm that can be maintained for some time if need be. Running was a somewhat tedious chore.

But now I find myself glancing around my apartment complex and finding new motivation. Where I once simply smiled and nodded at my neighbors as we passed each other by, I now find their beating hearts enticing. I spring toward little children who shriek and run away. I give chase, purely for training purposes, until they lock their doors and threaten to call the police.

I would take heed of their warnings, but an undead heart does not feel and the only thing my undead brain can consider is how the little tykes taste of chicken.

Thus, from the undead ashes, my zombie identity is born and begins to take shape. I still find myself pondering what type of zombie I will grow up to be, but my training brings me one lifeless step closer to that discovery each day.

I will return to tell you more about my transformation into a zombie runner in the coming weeks. Stay safe!

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