Wesley Robinson woke up on Friday morning not knowing he was going to die.
Sure, he knew it was going to be a bad day. School sports day. Wesley, being possibly the least athletic kid in his year, was always subjected to torture from the "cool" kids - the runners, the jumpers, the throwers. This year would be no different. He had the appearance of the stereotypical "nerd" - small and skinny, with curly red hair and pianist hands. The only thing missing was a pair of glasses - Wesley had replaced them with contact lenses a few weeks ago, in an effort to be less geeky-looking. It was a small comfort. He didn't have to look geeky to be a geek.
It rained all day. At first, Wesley had hoped it would convince the referees to cancel, or postpone at the very least. No such luck. All it meant was he had to sprint on mud instead of grass. Wesley only competed in running events; he was slightly less awful at running than everything else. Specifically running away.
After two hours of humiliation, including at least three faceplants in the mud, Wesley staggered to the bench. His events were all over. He sat next to James Flynn, his best - or really only - friend at his school.
"Ugh." Wesley did his best to wipe the mud from his hands. "It had to rain today."
"Did you see me wipe out on the long jump?"
Wesley shook his head.
"You should have seen it," James said, blowing out his cheeks. "Sand everywhere. I think I still have some in my shoes. Remind me to stick with discus from now on."
Wesley managed a smile. "I forgot my watch. What's the time?"
"Good news," said James, glancing at his watch. "The end of the day is ten minutes closer than it was ten minutes ago."
Wesley rolled his eyes.
"Quarter to three."
The end of the day couldn't come fast enough. Wesley was the first to leave the school grounds. He headed where he always went after school - the Museum of London. There was not much he loved more than the past - except maybe for poetry. Wesley hoped to become a professional poet. He had a notebook filled with poetry of every kind - haikus, acrostics, limericks, even the odd epic - all his own creation.
Wesley walked inside the museum. What would he look at today? He studied the floor plan. The Bronze age, he thought. He hadn't visited that for a while. He strode down the hall, unaware that he was being watched.
Wesley was looking at a collection of spears and spearheads when he felt it. It felt like he was being watched - no, it was more than a feeling. He knew he was being watched. He turned. There, standing in the doorway, was an old man.
He was wrapped in a cloak that covered him almost entirely. His head was lowered, so Wesley couldn't see his face. He shuffled slowly, wheezing with every step.
"Are you Wesley Dixon-Cleveland?"
"Uh… yeah." Wesley backed up a little. Something about this guy creeped him out.
The old man's voice sharpened. "You must not be allowed to fulfill your destiny." He raised a hand to point at Wesley, who held back a gasp. The old man's hand was emaciated and blistered, and shrivelled like a prune. Wesley was instantly reminded of the walking dead. This old guy could have been a zombie.
"You have to die. I will kill you."
Wesley screamed as the man pulled back his hood. He was a zombie. His face was that of a corpse - a long-dead body someone had brought back to life. The zombie had glowing red eyes - they were the only thing that made the zombie seem alive.
The zombie drew a sword from the folds of its cloak and stabbed at Wesley. Wesley jumped aside just in time, coming out of the attack with only a small gash in his side. Glass shattered. Wesley realised the zombie had destroyed the exhibit's protective glass layer. Alarms sounded all over the building.
It hit Wesley that the zombie would not stop until one of them was dead. He knew it couldn't be him. Not if he could help it. He grabbed the nearest item from the spear exhibit. His hand found a spearhead - a fifteen-centimetre point, like a dagger. He plunged it into the undead warrior's chest.
The zombie didn't seem bothered. Its sword bit into Wesley's shoulder. Wesley screamed in pain, but managed to withdraw the spearhead and stab the zombie again, this time in the neck.
This time, the creature stumbled, long enough for Wesley to crawl away. He made his way to the door, but the zombie was on him. Wesley stabbed twice more, in the hand, then the stomach. The monster dropped its sword and grasped Wesley by the neck, lifting him up so that his feet couldn't touch the ground. Wesley wasn't finished yet. He slashed with the spearhead, trying desperately to slow the zombie down.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone else enter the room. I'm hallucinating, he thought. Surely the glowing armoured girl flying in with a spear made of light was a figment of his imagination.
The clammy fingers tightened around his neck, and Wesley knew beyond all doubt that this was the end. Oh well, he thought. I may as well go down fighting. He stabbed the zombie one last time, in the face. At exactly the same time, the fingers tightened around his throat, the glowing girl swooped down on him, and everything went black.