The Amazing Procrastinator

    TRIGGER WARNING: MILDLY GRAPHIC VIOLENCE, ZOMBIES, AND DISMEMBERED LIMBS

    “Whatever, we can just do it later, right?” I shrug, "we've got plenty of time!"

     Kit looks at me as if I had just brutally murdered six-thousand people directly in front of her. 

     “Garrett, this is the end of the world we’re talking about,” she sputters, “we can’t just ‘do it later’!” 

     “Sure we can,” I yawn, “we waited a long time before we stopped the end of the world last week!”

     “Yeah, and what happened to your hand then?” Kit asks, eyebrow raised. 

     “Okay, sure my hand was melted in a pool of sycrolic acid, but I have a prosthetic now, right?” I laugh nervously.

     I show off my shiny, brand new metallic hand of titanium. I got it shortly after The Undefeatable (who, ironically, I defeated) chopped off my hand with a very large pickaxe of the undead, and I watched my old hand fall off and dissolve into a pit full of clear liquid that smelled an awful lot like nail polish. That was painful, awesome, depressing, and disgusting. 

    Okay, so I should probably explain why my life is like this. At birth, me and Kit were randomly selected as protectors of human society, meaning we’re there twenty-four-seven to make sure the world doesn’t spontaneously combust, and no one knows about us because then we would have to destroy them. Of course, we didn’t know that we were saviors until the Flayed killed the last two chosen ones last year, but you know? Life’s been pretty good since then. I’m basically a superhero now. Humans are allowed to see us in black and red masks and stupid tights), I haven’t actually died yet, and I haven’t had to cause anyone to “cease to exist” or any of that jazz. Plus, I’m basically free to do whatever I want at thirteen years old! 

     I’ve known Kit since daycare, and our moms are best friends so we’ve always been forced to hang out with each other no matter what. Sometimes she’s my best friend, other times I wish I were allowed to just throw her off the Earth like I did to that stalker guy in second grade. As far as I know, he is still falling to this day. But of course I’m not allowed to do this to Kit because she’s special or whatever and it would be “wrong” to attempt murder on my partner. Sometimes the wrong just sounds so right, though. She's such a know-it-all.

     Kit shoves my head.

     “Your prosthetic would not have happened if the blade would have chopped off your head and not your hand,” she points out, “you’re going to get yourself killed one of these days, einstein.”

     “Okay, okay, I understand,” I roll my eyes, “but we fight bad guys all the time. We can just wait a couple of days, right?”

     She blabbers on and on about people turning into zombies and the world becoming a big old eternal flame, red waves bobbing from side to side along with her soft, deep blue eyes. I pretend to keep listening while pulling out my phone below my knee and scrolling through Instagram. I see a picture of Kendell Jenner in a shiny gold bikini, her perfect hourglass figure in a model pose.

     “Hot,” I mutter. 

     “Well, duh, it’s literal fire,” Kit huffs.

     “Mmm hmm,” I falter.

     I can feel her staring at me straight into my forehead just before she snatches the phone from my hands. With her mind. 

     “Wh…” I start to protest.

     “Garrett B Matthews,” she chastises, “are you even listening to me? Did you hear anything that I just said?”

     I hesitate, contemplating whether I should tell her that I was listening the whole time, or tell the truth. Well, my mom always told me honesty’s all that matters.

     “Not a word,” I vacillate, pressing my lips together. 

     She groans.

     “They just had to make me your partner,” she whines, “of all people! You’re the one helping me save the world!” 

     “Yes I am,” I say cockily, “now learn to live with it, kitty cat!” 

     “Don’t call me that or I’ll call you by your middle name, Bailey,” she warns.

     I gasp.

     “You wouldn’t dare,” I chide. 

     “Watch me,” she dares.

     The two of us continue to bicker, not taking any notice of the green, distorted zombie stomping it’s heavy feet everywhere outside, decapitating a screaming librarian.

     “Oh my gosh, did you hear about the new Call of Destiny game?” I change the subject, spotting the billboard behind the library. 

     “Oh my goodness, no,” she beams, “we need to order it as soon as possible!”

     “Noted,” I bubble, “why don’t you go pop some popcorn while I download it?” 

     “Sounds gnarly,” she says, gushing over her use of 80s slang.

      I guess both of us are procrastinating now.

Meanwhile at Apoca-Chic’s Laboratory in San Diego, CA…

     Cecilia stares in amazement at her computer screen, monitoring wherever the people she had transformed into killers would travel. Her plan is so far successful, and no one would be there to stop her, not even Captain G and Big Red. 

     “It’s working,” she cries victoriously, “it’s finally working! I’m winning! As of today, there are 3,000 zombies, some of them headed to the superbabies’ mansion, and 7,000 deaths! They will pay for what they did to me. All of them must either die or suffer!”

      “That’s great, mistress,” Worker Number 27 yawns, his eyes swollen from being forced to work on the computer for eight months straight with no sleep.

     “Great work you guys,” she smirks mischievously, “your work here is done. Now you may all leave now. Take a breath of the fresh air, run around, go to the diner, sleep… whatever you want.”

     Relieved, they all stand up in unison to walk groggily up the stairs and out the front door, where afterwards nearly five hundred screams can be heard. The death count goes up by 280, and the number of zombies increases by 220. 

     “Goodbye boys,” she sneers happily, stroking the fluffy white cat, Mr Whiskers, next to her. 

     The young woman scrolls down to the bottom of the page on her computer, noticing that the zombies are on their way to the home of the president: The White House. She knows exactly where she’s going next. Mr Whiskers meows impatiently, nudging Cecilia to scratch his head some more. She listens to his firm request, pleasing him.

     “Time for me to go to the whitehouse and take over whatever’s left of the country,” she twinkles evilly, “just need to make sure little miss Katherine and her little boyfriend Garrett don’t get in my way.”

     Her nails punctuate the air playfully just before she clicks the red button on her computer screen, watching green flames begin to ignite everywhere outside. Quickly afterwards, she throws on some green armor to protect her from her own monstrous creations, and keeps her furry friends -the cats- locked in a force fielded chamber so that neither the zombies nor the fire could harm them. This was only meant for human society. The society that wiped out her whole family like they were dust on the window. She knew they had voted for it because their supernatural powers didn’t fit their personal standards of “normal”, not because they had committed a crime.

     Cecilia only lived because she was pretty, and powerful enough to get away. Well, little did they know what a pretty little thing like her could scheme. Apoca-Chic would be the name she would be known as, as the one and only starter of such chaos. She’s going to be the killer and ruler of all living things -well, besides cats- and she’s going to look smoking hot doing it. 

    She looks in the mirror, pulling her long, dark hair into a neat Ariana-Grande-style ponytail, and touching up her makeup after lack of sleep. Her long, dark lashes look even darker and more luxurious with her Falsies Lash Lift mascara, and her pink lips are delectable and glossy with her strawberry gloss. She gives herself a look of intensity with dark shadows on her lids and black cat-eye liner on her water line. Her eyes are emeralds, shining brighter with every flame lit on the outside. She doesn’t care who she may hurt today, just as long as a few hearts are left to shatter. 

     She looks at her appearance in the mirror, and gives herself an overconfident, lustful grin.

     “It’s showtime,” she purrs.      

     I sigh sheepishly, watching as Kit beats me for the thousandth time at World on Fire: Zombies. This game is getting boring, but she seems to love it so we’ll keep playing one more round. I dig my hand into the popcorn, and wolf down every piece like nothing. 

     “That’s forty two for me, still three for you,” she smirks with pride. 

     She turns around to face me, taking a quick double take at my bowl of popcorn.

     “Dang, how much popcorn can one man eat?” she marvels, amused.

     “I love popcorn,” I say, muffled by the handful of popcorn I have in my mouth. 

     “This is your third bowl, G,” she chortels, “at least save some for me!”

     “You’ve got your own bowl,” I argue, “you don’t have to share with me all the time!”

     She looks at me like she’s a know-it-all: arms crossed, brow raised and everything. 

    “You ate my whole bowl,” she enunciates.

    “Oh, right,” I remember.

    I hear a roar and a shatter coming from inside the house. 

    “Dang, this game is getting crazy realistic,” I croon.

    “It’s not… not the game,” stutters Kit, “and we’re practically unarmed. At least from non-human beings.”

    Kit stares horrified at the window, a slender finger pointed shakily behind me. I curse and jump after I follow her finger. A horrific monster in torn up clothes and limbs towers over me, blood dripping off his chin onto the ground in between my legs. Glass is scattered across the ground.

    “Run,” I command her. 

    She does just as I say, the monster leaping after us as we take off. It grabs ahold of my arm, holding me back. I scream, and Kit looks behind and watches in horror as the zombie takes a very large and painful bite out of my arm. Blood seeps out in a circle, and now a big chunk of skin is missing. 

     “No, Garett!” Kit screams in horror. 

     Desperately wanting me to live, she comes back to kick the zombie straight in between the legs causing him to drop me. We book it out of the room, closing the door to hold him off. I could turn into one of them at any minute, as my head already feels like literal fire.

     “But what about my bite?” I object. 

     “It’s alright, I’ve got anti-zombie ointment in my room,” she confides. 

     This is one of the moments when I love this girl.

     We run into our rooms to get ready for combat. I’m in a black and red suit with heavy boots and an awesome advanced biker mask with a shield over my head, weapons and gidgets decorating my lower body. I don’t have any time to look better than this. The fate of the world rests in my hands.

     I run out of the room, waiting for Kit to come out in her red uniform. She usually takes longer to get ready, no matter what. My arm throbs like a needle in the heart, and my brain feels like it’s going to explode at any minute. As soon as I’m lead to believe that my only option is to run and let my best friend kill me later, she comes out with a glass jar full of a Crisco-like substance. 

     “Hold still, this is going to sting,” she instructs me, “we thankfully only need to apply it once though.”

     I set my arm out straight, holding out my arm. The color is draining from my skin and seems to be turning green, though the missing chunk remains just as red and gory. She applies the glossy substance to the gore, and I try not to cry. She wasn’t kidding. It really, really stings. Like a thousand bees with knives stinging a missing chunk of my arm. 

    The white substance turns to a cold, vapor-like steam surrounding my whole body. All I see is mist for a while, and then the pain is gone. My skin is it’s normal suntanned color, and the chunk of skin is skill missing, but it’s no longer gory or marked with any injuries. 

     “Thank you,” I state with gratitude.

     “Let’s go save the world from zombies now, ‘kay?” she requests.

     I nod. 

     We run outside fast and quickly stop in our tracks. The world has turned to horror. Streets are flooded with dismembered, bloody bodies of people I once knew and loved. Crying and screaming is everywhere, giving me anxiety. Children are alone, crying for their parents. Zombies chase groups of people, slaughtering them. 

     “Oh. My. Gosh,” Kit gasps.

     “We’re never going to make it,” I bleat.

     Hey guysss! I know I never officially said I'm taking a break, but I did to clear my mind a bit, and I'm back now! I missed you all so much, and I hope you enjoy the story:) remember to like and give feedback. Comment if you think this needs a part two. Love you all!-Zoey