A/N: Hey there! Zoe here to introuduce our story. We wanted to create a funny, action packed, zombie rom-com for you, the general public.

Gray: Since zombies are the new vampires :)

Zoe: Enjoy! And please, be a dear and review!

Gray: Zoe, ya sound like my granny. 'Nuff said. Read on!

Zoe: Just being nice. Yeah, review, ok? Make me happy.

Chapter 1- Zoe

My world is melting before my eyes.
I see blackness, all around, turning me inside out. Lips, numb as ice, also burn like a thousand matches at the same time.
The cobblestone street I am crumpled upon is sucking all the strength from me. A strangled cry elapses from my throat. Then I know no more.

Getting turned into a horrific mutation of nature wasn't the first thing on my to do list. Well, quite honestly, it never once came up in my seventeen years of life. With working night hours at Taco Town and tending to every one of my mom's needs, helping to create the first grand zombie invasion would be more than a joke. You see, I've been living in Anytown for my whole life, and that life ended when my father walked out of the house three years ago with all of our money. Don't feel sorry for me, because he was a jerk. But that doesn't change the fact that my entire existence was then turned into a fight to keep my family alive. That job would be a whole lot easier if I didn't have four sisters, two brothers, seven dogs, and a mother all under the same roof.

Journalism. That's a dream of mine. It has been, too, ever since I could remember. Under my pillow, hidden from the world, is my journal. It was a gift from my father. I carry it around everywhere, though virtually no human soul will ever be able to read it. Friends at school call me Ace, because really, I'm an ace reporter. It's in my blood. My brian just knows what to write down, knows exactly what people want to hear. Newspapers and magazine clippings are strewn all over the floor, the important ones plastered over the cracked satin walls. To live in London, to have my own column in the paper, that's the dream of mine. London comes from the fact that the British language is so much better than those of the Americans. Brits have better food, too.

Two weeks ago, that was my life. Then, one Saturday morning, my dream came true. Well, sort of. It was like any other day; the sky was a grayish blue color, the wind had a cold feel to it when it struck against my face. I finished filling the food bowls for the dogs, and was just pouring a cup of orange juice for myself. Chugging it down as if it was the cure to my problems, I quickly wiped my mouth and walked quickly across the still darkened room, heading towards the door. My six year old sister Meradith was curled up against our little couch; I made a special care not to wake her up that early in the morning. The door opened silently as usual, and I slipped through, treading for the mailbox. The newspaper is the first thing my hand grabs. Then I slide open the rusted opening and slide out its contents. I file through the countless bills breezing each one over with my eyes- until something catches my eye. An envelope, much like the others is soon in full view. It has a London return address.

An acceptance letter. The county was going to pay me for a journalism gig. I was to leave in a week, which seemed like a lifetime away. My family rejoiced with me when I told them, though I could see the wariness in my mom's eyes.

The plane ride there was practically uneventful, which is funny because I had never been on a plane before. All I wanted was to get there. To actually be in London, London be in me. To feel the air go through my lungs, to see the sights, to hear the sounds.

I set my hands against the cool glass doors of the British Airways and stared through it for a long, hard second, even though the contents beyond are obscured. Then I gave my hands a push, and I was suddenly in the land of my dreams.

People were everywhere. And that's saying it lightly. I took everything in, suddenly feeling weak like all the energy was sucked out of me. I saw it clearly: Big Ben. It was like a fairytale before my eyes; it was real. I then fished through my left pocket and pulled out the slightly crumpled piece of paper with a printed address on it. Summing my first cab was easier than I thought it would be. I slid into the backseat, and repeated the words to the driver. It seemed like in no time flat we were pulled up at 47 Wells street- destiny was awaiting.

The people "in charge" were really nice to me. They sat me down, handed me a piping cup of tea, and we just talked for a while. Then a couple of them left, and eventually, it was just me and this co-worker of mine. He wasn't that shabby looking either, if you know what I mean.

"I was wondering, Zoe, if you wanted to do dinner tonight," he said, so fluently in his british accent. I nodded slowly, cheeks flushed.

Maybe London really was magical.

Mason takes me to a fancy streakhouse called Tavern Lights. It looks expensive. I've never been anywhere like this before.

"Do, take a seat." He said in a swift voice, trying to fetch a waiter. I obey, and continue to stare permissively into his eyes. I've never seen a color like his. They're a kind of grayish hue.

I blink my eyes, and suddenly, he's sitting down across from me.

"Did I startle you?" Mason asked with a small laugh. I returned it with a smile.

The evening went pretty well, I payed attention to most of the things he said, and he better had been listening to me ramble on and on about British actors and stuff like that. I took a look outside and saw the sky was black with night.

"I probably should be looking for a hotel right about now." I said, giving him an apologetic 'I have to go now' look. Mason nodded, and stood up.
"It was lovely to meet you, Zoe Carlton. And I am happy to be working alongside you."

I smiled. "It's only for a week. I wish it was longer..."

Then something happened. Time seemed to stop. He was leaning in on me. I knew that move. I stop breathing, and seconds pass by as hours. It was almost like a movie. My eyes closed as our lips touched, but they soon reopened with a start. They were cold. His lips were frozen. I wanted to pull away, but hey, if a British guy is kissing me, I'm gonna take it.

I don't knew how long we kissed for. All I knew is that if this were a movie, I would be turned around with a finger pointing to my throat. But that was ok with me.
I finally broke the tension and stared back into his eyes. That's when I noticed the black lines under them. I probably should've noticed that a long time ago, but he was super cute. Mason smiled and backed away mysteriously- I don't even know why. But he was suddenly gone, leaving me standing there outside the restaurant... Alone.

I was just about to utter a scream of COME BACK, I WASN'T DONE WITH YOU YET! But he was long gone.

Something came over me. Thinking it was a wave of nausea, I sat down at a nearby wooden bench, holding my head in my hands. It was like someone poured acid down my throat- it was literally burning. The feeling continued down into my stomach and through the rest of my insides.

I let out a pitiful moaning sound as I slump downward, hitting the ground hard with my face. I'm not really sure what happened after that. I forced myself to stand up, to try calling for help. Everything around me was a slur of white light against the darkness. I thought I saw someone in the distance. It was a surge of hope- someone to help me though.. .Whatever I was dealing with.

"Hello? Can you help me?" I call. I make my way towards the figure, then my feet trip over eachother, and I fall forward onto her. I suddenly have the urge to sneeze...

A/N 'Ello, my name is Gray. I'll be the other narrator of this story, and much more sarcastic than my partner Zoe. Please enjoy this lovely retelling of how I died. Oh, and I don't own that certain boy band, or Harry Styles. The next part is from my POV/

The pain is horrible. There is no other word I can think of to describe it at the moment, as the feeling of one's heart stopping suddenly tends to take up a lot of thought.
"Oww," I moan, trying to curl up, but my limbs won't respond. I reach towards to the figure next me, as the fire in my body reaches my neck, choking off my breathing in a sudden gasp. My hand drops, and the fire reaches behind my eyes, turning everything to black.

My death started with a poster on my social studies classrom wall. "London, 2012. An out of classroom expirience that you will never forget, or regret," it declared in large red letters. It was utterly cheesy, but still caught the attention of a small crowd.
The poster was advertising the annual class trip to London, an event that all girls from Yvonne's School for Young Women looked forward to.

I suppose I was simply the exception. To me, it seemed another way to separate the rich from the poor, and I was one of the girls who parents were paying five thousand dollars for their special little girl to go to London for a week. I found the price ridiculous, but my lovely (yes, that was sarcasm) guardians thought otherwise.

The next step in the road to my death was actually arriving in London, after the seven and a half hour flight in which I was subjected to various girls giggling about "that cute band in London, we might actually see them! Oh my gosh, that would be so cool.." *insert annoying giggle here.*

A bus quickly transported us to a large university dorm that had been rented out, and I was one of the lucky people with no roommate. Just as well, I had no friends (insert emo-ish look here) and didn't like any of my peers.

The room was well lit, and had two beds on either side of the room. A window with deep red drapes rested on the wall above one of the beds, and I dropped my small bag onto the cream-colored comforter.

The room felt slightly creepy all alone, so I quickly walked to the other wall, exploring.

There was a small bathroom, with a walk-in shower and golden faucet on the sink. It screamed money. I looked up into the oval mirror hanging above the sink, taking in my slightly jet-lagged features.

The short, layered light brown hair that just brushed my shoulders I got from my mom, but the gray-blue eyes were from dear old Dad. I stood, and still stand 5"6', so I suppose I have stopped growing. My outfit was the knee-length skirt and white blouse, Yvonne's school uniform. I wore navy blue converse, my favorite color and choice of footwear.

A knock on the door woke me out of my thoughts, and I jumped slightly, then stepped out of the bathroom, opening the door.

"Dinner's in ten minutes down in the cafeteria," a tall blonde informed me, unsmilingly, before flouncing away to the next door.

She may have seemed abrupt, but I probably deserved it. I've blown off so many friendly people, it's impossible to count.

The dinner was gourmet, and I felt full after a few bites of wagyu steak (which costs around two thousand dollars).

Soon, I was in my soft cow PJs, and laying in bed looking up out the window, since I had pushed the drapes apart slightly.

I felt content, and slowly settled into the thick blankets. I might have spent longer looking at the setting sun, if I had known it was the last one I'd ever seen with a beating heart.

My assigned sightseeing group consisted about five giggling girls, wearing the shortest skirt Yvonne's school uniform had to offer, which was a scrap of fabric about five inches long. They were all looking around, probably for the boy-band I'd heard about on the plane. We all gathered on the sidewalk, with buildings, cars, and trees surrounding us.

Our guide stopped us at a large statue of a man on a horse.

"This is a statue of Arthur Wellesley, the first duke of Wellington. He..."

I ignored the rest, looking in an interested manner at the pigeon poo that covered the first Duke of Wellington's head. I was trying to read the plaque beneath the statue, but the rest of my group wouldn't shut up. Finally, I furiously turned back around and yelled something like, "OMG It's Harry Styles!," while pointing at some figure down the road and suddenly they all vanished like smoke. If I peered, I could see them in the distance mauling a poor schoolboy with curly brown hair that looked nothing like the famous singer.

If anyone on Jame's St., at 10:25 am got run over by a bunch of fangirls, I apologize. I cannot stop the fans.

After reading the short paragraph engraved on the bronze plaque, I turned to the tour guide, but found that she had run after the rest of my group. I was all alone on a busy London street in the morning.

I felt a chill on my back, and it wasn't from the crisp morning chill. I peered down the street, and that's when I saw her.

A stumbling figure, with long black hair that was messy, and obscured her face. The wind gently blew it back, and her hazel eyes locked on mine.

"Hello? Can you help me?" she called, and I shivered.

I wanted to turn away, and run down the street to my tour group, but I didn't want to turn my back on her. She was creepy...

"I don't feel good.." she said again, only a few feet from me. Her skin was pale, and sweat shone on her forehead. She fell forward, crashing into me.

"G- Get off!" I yelled, rather rudely, but in my defense I was surprised and creeped out.

Then she sneezed on me.

SNEEZED. ON. ME. Need I describe how gross that was?"

"Blegh," I coughed, feeling cold spit and... oh, ew, mucus, all over my face.

Something was wrong, though. Something was different. There was a fire starting in my chest, and my heart started pounding faster. I fell backwards onto the hard sidewalk, the black haired girl falling with me. She didn't move after hitting the ground. I tried to reach out to her, but my heart stopped. I felt it stop, felt it just seem to give up beating my blood around my body.

Which brings me to the current situation, the one where I'm lying on the sidewalk, dead.


Zoe: Real nice Gray. But please? *pathetic sad pouty face*