The gates groaned shut behind them with the finality of a coffin lid.
Beyond the rusted archway, the abandoned amusement park stretched into the distance — twisted roller coasters, shattered mirrors, faded cotton candy signs that flapped in the wind like warning flags.
The production crew lined the contestants up for orientation.
A dozen drones hovered overhead, blinking red lights like lazy fireflies.
"Alright, survivors!" boomed the host's voice from the loudspeakers. "You are now officially live to an audience of twelve million viewers!"
A collective gasp rippled through the contestants.
"Wait—live live?" someone asked.
"As in, right now?"
"Of course!" the host laughed. "Welcome to the apocalypse — broadcast edition!"
Aria's lips twitched. Perfect.
A live feed meant real-time observation. Real-time intel. Real-time chaos.
Beside her, Bianca was already posing for the nearest drone, adjusting her collar for the camera.
"Do I have to sign something to protect my image rights?" Bianca asked.
The host beamed. "Too late for that, sweetheart. Your image belongs to the internet now."
The crowd laughed nervously.
Aria didn't. Her eyes flicked from drone to drone, mentally mapping their paths.
Twenty cameras in total. Two blind spots — north gate and the old carousel. She filed that away.
"Miss Lane!" the host called suddenly. "You've become quite the fan favorite recently! Any words for the livestream audience?"
The mic swung toward her like a weapon.
Aria looked up, calm and faintly amused. "Hi again. Still not dead."
The comment feed exploded instantly.
> 💬 "Fried Chicken Queen RETURNS!!"
💬 "She's literally unkillable."
💬 "Imagine being a zombie actor and having to 'attack' her 💀"
Bianca muttered under her breath, "Ugh, they eat up everything you say."
Aria smiled. "They're not the only ones who like eating."
---
Once filming started, the contestants were divided into teams of four.
Naturally, Aria got assigned the "leftover" group — two nervous influencers and a trainee singer who couldn't stop vlogging mid-sentence.
"Okay guys!" the singer chirped, aiming her phone at their faces. "Say hi to my followers!"
Aria waved absently, scanning the nearby buildings. "Hi, followers. Goodbye, sense of security."
The livestream audience loved it.
> 💬 "Her sarcasm feeds my soul."
💬 "Protect her at all costs."
💬 "Wait, she's actually checking corners — why?"
The group's first mission was simple: reach the Funhouse and collect a fake "antidote vial" before sunset.
"Simple" was production-speak for "good luck surviving."
They moved cautiously through cracked walkways. Aria took point, ignoring the camera drone buzzing like a persistent fly.
The air was heavy — too heavy for a stage set.
"Relax," said one influencer. "They're just actors in makeup."
Aria didn't answer. She heard it before she saw it — the faint shuffle of movement behind the broken merry-go-round.
Too slow. Too heavy. Not the rhythm of trained crew.
She raised a hand, signaling silence. Her teammates froze — or at least stopped talking long enough for her to listen.
The sound came again — dragging feet, labored breath.
Aria's muscles coiled.
The "zombie" stumbled into view — tall, makeup perfect, eyes milky white. Convincing.
But its gait was wrong.
Every zombie actor she'd seen during prep rehearsals had distinct safety padding, limited movement range. This one didn't.
When it lunged, it didn't aim for the chest — it went straight for her throat.
Aria sidestepped in a blur, grabbed its arm, twisted, and dropped it to the ground with a move too smooth for an "actress."
The camera drone caught everything.
The livestream went feral.
> 💬 "SHE DID A FULL COMBAT ROLL???"
💬 "THAT WAS NOT STAGED."
💬 "Did she just break that zombie's arm???"
The "zombie" groaned, unmoving.
Her teammates screamed, bolted toward the carousel.
Aria crouched beside the man, checking his pulse. Still alive — but his neck bore something strange: a small metal patch, pulsing faintly under the skin.
Not makeup.
A tracker. Or worse — an implant.
She looked up at the nearest drone. "Hey, director," she said quietly, voice low enough to sound like a joke on mic. "You might want to check your cast."
The drone hovered closer, as if listening.
Then, abruptly, it retreated.
Her teammates reappeared, faces pale. "What the hell was that?! Was that supposed to happen?"
Aria smiled faintly, straightening up. "Probably. Just… not to me."
The host's voice crackled over the intercom.
"Great work, Team Nine! Amazing realism from our zombie actors, right?"
Aria's eyes narrowed.
Realism, huh?
She brushed dust off her sleeve, glancing at the drone's retreating silhouette.
Someone in production had lied.
And whoever was watching her right now — whether old enemies or new — had just made a critical mistake.
They'd reminded a soldier how to hunt.
---
That night, the show's highlight reel dominated every social feed.
> #ZombieBrokenByAria
#SheDodgedDeathLikeABoss
#ApocalypseQueen
The clip was replayed millions of times: her movement, her calm expression, that dangerous smirk when she looked straight into the camera.
Kelly texted her mid-broadcast:
> [Kelly]: WHAT DID YOU DO?!
[Aria]: My job.
She stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror of the funhouse, half-shadowed by flickering neon lights.
Somewhere, faint static buzzed from the earpiece she'd stolen from the "zombie."
And beneath that static — one familiar voice, distorted but unmistakable:
> "A-01. You shouldn't be here."
Her smile was cold and sharp. "Then you definitely shouldn't have come."