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Description
The Coach's office was not air-conditioned and covered with boxes of files and sports equipment. On his desk was a football signed with signatures that Zack-Peter could not read, all with loops and little letters that looked more like squiggly lines to him, and even more papers and an old laptop computer. The setting sun was casting the room in a strange orange glow that Zack-Peter enjoyed very much. He liked the color orange, though not as much as pink or green, but it was a warm color-beyond that it was his father's favorite color. His mother was sitting in the only visitor chair offered and he was standing near the doorway, his light blue sweater over his torso, hands in his pockets, with a pair of brown-black skinny jeans on.

The coach looked sort of irritated and his mother looked very angry. At first, Peter thought he had done something wrong, but as the conference progressed, that was clearly not the case. "I'm sorry Ms, Edminstein, but your son cannot try out for track, or any sport, because of his, uh, mental disorder. The school doesn't want to face charges and the games, well, they can get a bit rowdy."

Zack-Peter felt the air suddenly thicken. His skin dripped sweat and he was forced to take off his sweatshirt. He smiled at the irony. As he pulled it off, his blonde hair got frazzled and his shirt was twisted around his torso; when he struggled to correct the uncomfortable change, his mother went straight to talking. "What on earth do you mean by those words? My son can compete in any he wants to and just because he is not like every other snot nosed brat in this joint, doesn't mean he's got a 'mental disorder'." She said, quite seriously and Zack-Peter had to make sure that it was his mother who was speaking.

Usually his parents were always happy and joking around. They made school fun after he joined the public school system after being home schooled for most of his life; his father was the strongest man he's ever known. He was a 'free-runner' and he thought his son almost everything he knew. Of course, it helped that Zack-Peter loved to run. Words could not describe it, though he tried to describe it to anyone who'd listen. Flying, walking on water, freedom, and a tranquil state of mind usually came out of his mouth when such topics were brought up. His mother was the creative one of the family. She liked making jewelry and she had her own business. Their little apartment was above it. It was like a retro thrift shop. He loved helping her out with the shop a lot.

When his parents heard about the track tryouts, they encouraged him to sign up. When he did the coach asked him if he could talk with his mother about the issue. That's why they were even there. Zack-Peter didn't want to be expelled for his mother's persistence, but he wouldn't mind being on the team. Running for school? That was the best idea he's heard in a long time, besides roasting marshmallows on the front burner with his dad on the fourth of July last year and adding homemade caramel.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but there's nothing I can do. The other children's parents are uneasy about him being on the team-"

"Yes, I understand now. I'll be talking to the principal tomorrow. I don't think this school has enough abnormal things about it for my son. Normals." She snapped, standing, "Let's go Peter," She said, leaving the tiny, oven-like office. Zack-Peter followed without a word. It was strange atmosphere around his mom right now, and he didn't want to send her into a boiling point. So they walked in silence, across the gym floor and out in the dimming day. They marched right across the lawns, ignoring the plain sidewalks and approached a small, plain, dented, scratched corvette. The blonde woman paused there as she fished in her purse for something. Zack-Peter stood, his eyes studying anything interesting. Finally his mother found what she was looking for. She pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, "Run to the store, Peter, as fast as you can, and get what you want." She smiled.

Zack-Peter stared at the money before taking it slowly, studying before smiling as he decided what he wanted before even getting to the store, "Okay Mama. Thanks." He murmured hugging her. As she got into her car he bolted for downtown, knowing exactly which store he wanted to go to.

The city was alive with action; women and men dating, teenagers smoking in the alleyways and cars passing with furious speed on the street. Zack-Peter scaled walls and fences, climbing fire escapes and jumping trashcans. Flying, walking on water, freedom filled his veins, but he was far from tranquil. His thoughts of the store were exciting. He couldn't wait to get to it, to buy what he had so longed for close to weeks. He paused at a corner, his tied sweatshirt slipping slightly; with the money in his jean pockets, he retied his jacket. As he waited for the cars to pass other kids from his school came from the convenience store on the corner. They were laughing loudly before they spotted him. "Hey! Look, it's the retard!" A boy yelled. Zack-Peter flinched at the sound of the voice. He only had a few second ranges to run. He had wasted his time flinching.

One tackled him as he tried to run and pushed his face into the concrete. Another poured what seemed to be fresh slushies down his white shirt, pushing the crushed ice into his spine while two others kicked his head brutally. Zack-Peter cried out as the one that had been sitting on him stood and stomping on his hand. The others continued to kick him in the head, back and stomach until they were happy with their beatings. The girls stood by and giggled happily. As the large group left, Zack-Peter pushed himself up, glancing around as he wiped blood from his busted lip. An old man from the convenience store had watched the entire ordeal before he turned back to his work. Zack-Peter warily stood, silent tears rolling down his bruised and bloodied face, his back cracking as he stood. 'The bright side, you have to look on the bright side.' He thought to himself.

'At least my nose didn't get broken.' He thought, though it didn't help his mood at all. He pulled on his jacket to hide his new bruises. With his spirit for running lost for the moment, he limped to the music store, his original destination. The streets were unusually quiet now. It was eerie and he just wanted to get home. So he quickly bought a new CD he's been wanting for a while and left, heading straight home. He had money left over and he passed a hardware store. He stopped and saw bright pink duck tape on the shelves. Without thinking he went in bought it. Outside he found a bench and happily taped his sleeves; his father once told him that if you could reduce surface area, you'd get speed; also, baggy jackets tend to slow him down. Getting rid of the jacket fat, as his mother called it, he created more speed.

To get away…

Maybe…

After he finished, he put the duck tape in his jacket pocket and walked towards his house, taking detours and short cuts. The store was closed, but he had the key. Opening the door, he saw all the twinkling glass things, along with the shadowed lumps of wooden carvings, and more things they had for sale. He closed the door and locked it, double-checking it was locked before going into the back where they stored extra merchandise. There were stairs to their apartment. He climbed them with struggle; his stomach and back killing him. He just wanted to shower and then sleep it off for days. He saw that the door to the living room was cracked. For a second he was worried, but he figured that his mother had to have a reason for that. But he was wary. He nudged it open with his toe and peeked inside. His father was lying on the floor; over him was a disgusting woman. She had dirty, dead gray skin and her eyes were a creepy, milky white. She was eating from his father's stomach. He jumped in surprise and horror, tears bursting at his eyes. Then he was grabbed from behind and something bit his neck. He screamed and pushed the thing away.

It was a man, glaring at him. He was like the woman, dead and…hungry. The man lunged for him again and he ducked under his arm and ran down the stairs, his key already in hand. He struggled to unlock the door in his hysteria, but the zombie was still on the stairs. He got the lock and flew from the store, one foot before the other. He saw a narrow alleyway and took it, hoping that the zombie couldn't navigate within enclosed places. There was a rather high wall separating someone's yard from the alley and Peter's head went into overdrive. With his nervous and anxious mood, he was off. He jumped a bit too late. His already bruised stomach hit a two nails in the wood, digging into his stomach. He cried out and tears pour from his eyes. He pushed his body away from the wooden wall before pulling himself over. Rust dusted his jacket and he pulled his jacket and shirt up to examine the wounds when a hand grabbed his wrist and another wrapped around mouth, blocking the would be hysteric scream that was muffled.

"Hello, pretty boy," an oily voice said in his ear. Zack-Peter froze up suddenly before he started fighting. But it was useless. The older, stronger man had already gotten a grip on him. He was just wasting energy. Peter was slammed against the wall and he lost consciousness against the wood. He woke to pain along his back more then before. His neck was stiff and his arms were…tied. He opened his eyes. Pink duck tape was wrapped around his wrists. He was completely naked on a dirty mattress; sunlight filtered passed dirty curtains. He was in apartment of someplace. There was gurgling and grunting in the other room.

And he freaked.

He sat up, gnawing like an animal at the duck tape. Once he freed his wrists, he found his cloths shattered around the room, coated in blood. He pulled them on, his body shaking. He felt disgusted with himself, and very alone. His father was dead, ripped apart by a monster. Peter sat down and cried until his sleeves were wet and his nose was running profoundly. It had been several hours since he first woke up. The gurgling was still outside. He opened the bedroom door to find the zombie woman who had been eating his father now eating his attacker. He felt very frightened, but angry. So angry that he picked up the nearest thing to him, a digital clock and threw it at her. She whirled around and lunged. Before he could fight back, his head slammed against the corner of the bedside table and he was knocked out again.

The next moment the boy remembers is his mother's hopeless cries for her son. Squeaky wheels woke him further. They were pushing his portable bed to a different room. He couldn't understand slurs of words that people were shouting. Did they have to be so loud? His muscles twitched in agony of being still for so long. He felt paralyzed and he wanted to move. To just jump and run and fly over the pavement. He tried to sit up but found that he was strapped to the bed. A strong hand pushed him back down and a soft toned word came to his ears. His eyes blinked as they tried to clear themselves of post sleep fog. Paramedics were wheeling him into a white room. They stopped the bed against the wall and he noticed this room had no windows. The straps were cut and the men left the room and closed the door. There was hissing of air that told him that the door was closed and locked airtight. He sat up and leapt from the bed and landed in a crouched pose. His mother was trying to break into the room. Her fists were beating against the door.

Her mouth was saying something but he heard nothing but silence. He focused on her lips. Give him back to me…I'm his mother! He read after she repeated it several times. The silence suddenly got to him. Peter felt scared and he lunged at the wall, slamming himself against. There was no rational thinking in this. He screamed an echoing, violent, frightening scream. He jumped again, landing on the bed. His mother had stopped beating against the wall, staring at her son in horror. Without thinking he launched himself at the door. He crumpled against it and blacked out once again.

The new world was different. He felt alone, but not like before like there was other people who ignored him…no he felt like there was no one around. He was alone. The silence pressed against his ribs and he screamed, sitting up in a crouched position. Peter absent-mindedly scratched at his neck at a sore that itched like mad and his nails cut into his flesh. Cold blood leaked from the wound and he glanced at his nails. They were sharp and long. Since when did he have long, sharp nails? They weren't nails, he realized, they were claws. He was revolted at this new discovery and glanced around the room. It was torn apart and he sat in semi-darkness, lit only by a light in the hallway. His bed was blood soaked and there was a coughing and a screaming. He sat there for a few moments before he heard a voice.

"I think I heard a hunter in there."

He froze as two men turned the corner. Both looked dangerous with shotguns. One was elderly with a white beard and an army cap with a cigarette between his lips; the other was tall with black tattoos up and down his arms. "There you are, you sweatshirt wearin' wussy." The tattooed one growled, pointing its gun at Peter and he freaked. He screamed and tackled the tattooed one and clawed at his face before jumping away and through a hole in the roof. "That bastard!"

"Hold on Francis, let me patch you up." The other spoke with a slight humor in its voice. Peter swore he would never go near those things. He turned around and saw something looking at him. It had a hood on too, with duck tape as well. He felt almost like he was looking at mirror.

"Are you my son?" The things asked and the strangest thing was that it was in a series of growls and snarls…and Peter understood everything.

"I don't know…" he responded.

"Well, now you are!" The other spoke, clinging to him and wiping away the blood on his nails. Zack-Peter felt insecure at first but then he realized that he wasn't alone anymore.

Finally.

Description
The Coach's office was not air-conditioned and covered with boxes of files and sports equipment. On his desk was a football signed with signatures that Zack-Peter could not read, all with loops and little letters that looked more like squiggly lines to him, and even more papers and an old laptop computer. The setting sun was casting the room in a strange orange glow that Zack-Peter enjoyed very much. He liked the color orange, though not as much as pink or green, but it was a warm color-beyond that it was his father's favorite color. His mother was sitting in the only visitor chair offered and he was standing near the doorway, his light blue sweater over his torso, hands in his pockets, with a pair of brown-black skinny jeans on.

The coach looked sort of irritated and his mother looked very angry. At first, Peter thought he had done something wrong, but as the conference progressed, that was clearly not the case. "I'm sorry Ms, Edminstein, but your son cannot try out for track, or any sport, because of his, uh, mental disorder. The school doesn't want to face charges and the games, well, they can get a bit rowdy."

Zack-Peter felt the air suddenly thicken. His skin dripped sweat and he was forced to take off his sweatshirt. He smiled at the irony. As he pulled it off, his blonde hair got frazzled and his shirt was twisted around his torso; when he struggled to correct the uncomfortable change, his mother went straight to talking. "What on earth do you mean by those words? My son can compete in any he wants to and just because he is not like every other snot nosed brat in this joint, doesn't mean he's got a 'mental disorder'." She said, quite seriously and Zack-Peter had to make sure that it was his mother who was speaking.

Usually his parents were always happy and joking around. They made school fun after he joined the public school system after being home schooled for most of his life; his father was the strongest man he's ever known. He was a 'free-runner' and he thought his son almost everything he knew. Of course, it helped that Zack-Peter loved to run. Words could not describe it, though he tried to describe it to anyone who'd listen. Flying, walking on water, freedom, and a tranquil state of mind usually came out of his mouth when such topics were brought up. His mother was the creative one of the family. She liked making jewelry and she had her own business. Their little apartment was above it. It was like a retro thrift shop. He loved helping her out with the shop a lot.

When his parents heard about the track tryouts, they encouraged him to sign up. When he did the coach asked him if he could talk with his mother about the issue. That's why they were even there. Zack-Peter didn't want to be expelled for his mother's persistence, but he wouldn't mind being on the team. Running for school? That was the best idea he's heard in a long time, besides roasting marshmallows on the front burner with his dad on the fourth of July last year and adding homemade caramel.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but there's nothing I can do. The other children's parents are uneasy about him being on the team-"

"Yes, I understand now. I'll be talking to the principal tomorrow. I don't think this school has enough abnormal things about it for my son. Normals." She snapped, standing, "Let's go Peter," She said, leaving the tiny, oven-like office. Zack-Peter followed without a word. It was strange atmosphere around his mom right now, and he didn't want to send her into a boiling point. So they walked in silence, across the gym floor and out in the dimming day. They marched right across the lawns, ignoring the plain sidewalks and approached a small, plain, dented, scratched corvette. The blonde woman paused there as she fished in her purse for something. Zack-Peter stood, his eyes studying anything interesting. Finally his mother found what she was looking for. She pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, "Run to the store, Peter, as fast as you can, and get what you want." She smiled.

Zack-Peter stared at the money before taking it slowly, studying before smiling as he decided what he wanted before even getting to the store, "Okay Mama. Thanks." He murmured hugging her. As she got into her car he bolted for downtown, knowing exactly which store he wanted to go to.

The city was alive with action; women and men dating, teenagers smoking in the alleyways and cars passing with furious speed on the street. Zack-Peter scaled walls and fences, climbing fire escapes and jumping trashcans. Flying, walking on water, freedom filled his veins, but he was far from tranquil. His thoughts of the store were exciting. He couldn't wait to get to it, to buy what he had so longed for close to weeks. He paused at a corner, his tied sweatshirt slipping slightly; with the money in his jean pockets, he retied his jacket. As he waited for the cars to pass other kids from his school came from the convenience store on the corner. They were laughing loudly before they spotted him. "Hey! Look, it's the retard!" A boy yelled. Zack-Peter flinched at the sound of the voice. He only had a few second ranges to run. He had wasted his time flinching.

One tackled him as he tried to run and pushed his face into the concrete. Another poured what seemed to be fresh slushies down his white shirt, pushing the crushed ice into his spine while two others kicked his head brutally. Zack-Peter cried out as the one that had been sitting on him stood and stomping on his hand. The others continued to kick him in the head, back and stomach until they were happy with their beatings. The girls stood by and giggled happily. As the large group left, Zack-Peter pushed himself up, glancing around as he wiped blood from his busted lip. An old man from the convenience store had watched the entire ordeal before he turned back to his work. Zack-Peter warily stood, silent tears rolling down his bruised and bloodied face, his back cracking as he stood. 'The bright side, you have to look on the bright side.' He thought to himself.

'At least my nose didn't get broken.' He thought, though it didn't help his mood at all. He pulled on his jacket to hide his new bruises. With his spirit for running lost for the moment, he limped to the music store, his original destination. The streets were unusually quiet now. It was eerie and he just wanted to get home. So he quickly bought a new CD he's been wanting for a while and left, heading straight home. He had money left over and he passed a hardware store. He stopped and saw bright pink duck tape on the shelves. Without thinking he went in bought it. Outside he found a bench and happily taped his sleeves; his father once told him that if you could reduce surface area, you'd get speed; also, baggy jackets tend to slow him down. Getting rid of the jacket fat, as his mother called it, he created more speed.

To get away…

Maybe…

After he finished, he put the duck tape in his jacket pocket and walked towards his house, taking detours and short cuts. The store was closed, but he had the key. Opening the door, he saw all the twinkling glass things, along with the shadowed lumps of wooden carvings, and more things they had for sale. He closed the door and locked it, double-checking it was locked before going into the back where they stored extra merchandise. There were stairs to their apartment. He climbed them with struggle; his stomach and back killing him. He just wanted to shower and then sleep it off for days. He saw that the door to the living room was cracked. For a second he was worried, but he figured that his mother had to have a reason for that. But he was wary. He nudged it open with his toe and peeked inside. His father was lying on the floor; over him was a disgusting woman. She had dirty, dead gray skin and her eyes were a creepy, milky white. She was eating from his father's stomach. He jumped in surprise and horror, tears bursting at his eyes. Then he was grabbed from behind and something bit his neck. He screamed and pushed the thing away.

It was a man, glaring at him. He was like the woman, dead and…hungry. The man lunged for him again and he ducked under his arm and ran down the stairs, his key already in hand. He struggled to unlock the door in his hysteria, but the zombie was still on the stairs. He got the lock and flew from the store, one foot before the other. He saw a narrow alleyway and took it, hoping that the zombie couldn't navigate within enclosed places. There was a rather high wall separating someone's yard from the alley and Peter's head went into overdrive. With his nervous and anxious mood, he was off. He jumped a bit too late. His already bruised stomach hit a two nails in the wood, digging into his stomach. He cried out and tears pour from his eyes. He pushed his body away from the wooden wall before pulling himself over. Rust dusted his jacket and he pulled his jacket and shirt up to examine the wounds when a hand grabbed his wrist and another wrapped around mouth, blocking the would be hysteric scream that was muffled.

"Hello, pretty boy," an oily voice said in his ear. Zack-Peter froze up suddenly before he started fighting. But it was useless. The older, stronger man had already gotten a grip on him. He was just wasting energy. Peter was slammed against the wall and he lost consciousness against the wood. He woke to pain along his back more then before. His neck was stiff and his arms were…tied. He opened his eyes. Pink duck tape was wrapped around his wrists. He was completely naked on a dirty mattress; sunlight filtered passed dirty curtains. He was in apartment of someplace. There was gurgling and grunting in the other room.

And he freaked.

He sat up, gnawing like an animal at the duck tape. Once he freed his wrists, he found his cloths shattered around the room, coated in blood. He pulled them on, his body shaking. He felt disgusted with himself, and very alone. His father was dead, ripped apart by a monster. Peter sat down and cried until his sleeves were wet and his nose was running profoundly. It had been several hours since he first woke up. The gurgling was still outside. He opened the bedroom door to find the zombie woman who had been eating his father now eating his attacker. He felt very frightened, but angry. So angry that he picked up the nearest thing to him, a digital clock and threw it at her. She whirled around and lunged. Before he could fight back, his head slammed against the corner of the bedside table and he was knocked out again.

The next moment the boy remembers is his mother's hopeless cries for her son. Squeaky wheels woke him further. They were pushing his portable bed to a different room. He couldn't understand slurs of words that people were shouting. Did they have to be so loud? His muscles twitched in agony of being still for so long. He felt paralyzed and he wanted to move. To just jump and run and fly over the pavement. He tried to sit up but found that he was strapped to the bed. A strong hand pushed him back down and a soft toned word came to his ears. His eyes blinked as they tried to clear themselves of post sleep fog. Paramedics were wheeling him into a white room. They stopped the bed against the wall and he noticed this room had no windows. The straps were cut and the men left the room and closed the door. There was hissing of air that told him that the door was closed and locked airtight. He sat up and leapt from the bed and landed in a crouched pose. His mother was trying to break into the room. Her fists were beating against the door.

Her mouth was saying something but he heard nothing but silence. He focused on her lips. Give him back to me…I'm his mother! He read after she repeated it several times. The silence suddenly got to him. Peter felt scared and he lunged at the wall, slamming himself against. There was no rational thinking in this. He screamed an echoing, violent, frightening scream. He jumped again, landing on the bed. His mother had stopped beating against the wall, staring at her son in horror. Without thinking he launched himself at the door. He crumpled against it and blacked out once again.

The new world was different. He felt alone, but not like before like there was other people who ignored him…no he felt like there was no one around. He was alone. The silence pressed against his ribs and he screamed, sitting up in a crouched position. Peter absent-mindedly scratched at his neck at a sore that itched like mad and his nails cut into his flesh. Cold blood leaked from the wound and he glanced at his nails. They were sharp and long. Since when did he have long, sharp nails? They weren't nails, he realized, they were claws. He was revolted at this new discovery and glanced around the room. It was torn apart and he sat in semi-darkness, lit only by a light in the hallway. His bed was blood soaked and there was a coughing and a screaming. He sat there for a few moments before he heard a voice.

"I think I heard a hunter in there."

He froze as two men turned the corner. Both looked dangerous with shotguns. One was elderly with a white beard and an army cap with a cigarette between his lips; the other was tall with black tattoos up and down his arms. "There you are, you sweatshirt wearin' wussy." The tattooed one growled, pointing its gun at Peter and he freaked. He screamed and tackled the tattooed one and clawed at his face before jumping away and through a hole in the roof. "That bastard!"

"Hold on Francis, let me patch you up." The other spoke with a slight humor in its voice. Peter swore he would never go near those things. He turned around and saw something looking at him. It had a hood on too, with duck tape as well. He felt almost like he was looking at mirror.

"Are you my son?" The things asked and the strangest thing was that it was in a series of growls and snarls…and Peter understood everything.

"I don't know…" he responded.

"Well, now you are!" The other spoke, clinging to him and wiping away the blood on his nails. Zack-Peter felt insecure at first but then he realized that he wasn't alone anymore.

Finally.