A. I drive a slightly lowered 1994 Honda Civic Hatchback.
B. We were given three flags. If you ended the race with at least one flag, you were considered a survivor.
C. God gave me poor ankles. Seriously. I was born with one ankle inverted the wrong way. That's right, I was born a monster
There had been a slight drizzle that occurred in the early morning hours that left the dirt loose and slippery. At this point I was still in my car being directed to park in a parking lot that is really just a big dirt field. I don't know why on Earth I would be encouraged to park over mounds of loose dirt. (A.)
My car nearly got stuck in it and when I accelerated to get myself out of a potentially embarrassing situation, the bottom piece of plastic designated to protect my car's insides was ripped off. There it rested in a mound of dirt, never to be seen by me again. Good-bye plastic-protective-piece thing, it was a good 12 years. I was running a bit late and didn't have time to worry about it.
Fast forward to the "race" start. No one warned us that the first half mile or so was a hike up a mountain. We all walked. The Walking Living. After awhile I became curious as to why there weren't any zombies at this point. That's when I heard the screams (and laughter) and suddenly people began checking up and stopping.
It was the beginning of a situation where everyone stopped and watched the zombies as if they were street performers. This group I was with, decided that it was a good idea to count out loud and bum rush the zombies at the count of three. This in fact was a terrible idea.
Much like a pride of lions picking off wildebeests at random, these zombies were taking flags at an incredible rate. Unfortunately I was stuck behind slow people and couldn't get around. I tried to get around a chubby girl, when suddenly I heard the sound of velcro ripping. I had encountered the first group of zombies and was already down to two flags (B.) This wasn't going to end well.
