Booo and the Zombie Dojo

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The moon hung like a cracked white plate over the old dojo. Inside, Booo stood perfectly still. His white gi was crisp. His orange belt was tied in a firm, tight knot. His ears were flat and ready. “Forty-seven,” he whispered, counting the shadows moving outside the paper walls. They were coming. They were always coming. And tonight, Booo had decided he was not going to run.

The first zombie crashed through the door like a wet sack of leaves. Booo didn't flinch. He exhaled slowly, dropped into his fighting stance, and waited for exactly the right moment. Then — kiyaa! — he leapt, spun, and kicked the zombie clean off its shuffling feet. “One,” he said, already turning for the next. The thing about zombies, Booo had learned, was that they were slow. But there were always so very many of them.

He ran along the wall, jumped off the wooden post, and flipped over three zombies at once. His feet hit the ground and he was already moving — quick hands, quick feet, think before they do. “Come on then,” he growled, bouncing on his toes. “Who's next?” The zombies groaned and lurched forward in a sluggish green wave. Booo grinned. This was the part he loved most: the moment before everything exploded into chaos.