A/N: Hey, everyone! For those of you who haven't read my fanfictions yet, welcome to my world, and to those of you who have, hello again! I haven't been active for a some time (gasp, six days) but whatever.

Enjoy!

I glared out at the vast, watery expanses. Typical of my luck, I thought sourly as I stared out at the sea.

Picking up a pebble, I threw it as far away as I could, where it landed with a pitiful splash. This only incensed my temper, and I chucked more and more rocks until, fury quenched, I sat down on a rock.

Dad had gotten a better job offer. We'd moved to California. Simple as that.

And I hated every part of what had happened.

I'd been forced to leave behind not only all my friends in Ohio but also my carefully crafted plans to survive the zombie apocalypse. All for nothing...

Well, I'll just have to remake the survival plans it took me TWO YEARS to make here in Pervert Beach, California. No shit, Peter, it won't be that easy.

I doubted I'd make many friends in Pebble Beach, especially since I'd taken to calling it Pervert Beach after I'd witnessed three boys in a row walking into the girls' bathroom. That had not earned me many friends, and people avoided me now, ignoring the fact that it was true.

And I couldn't do anything about it.

Worst yet, I was gradually coming to accept that maybe, just maybe, zombies wouldn't attack after all...

No. Don't think like that, Peter, or you'll never survive if they come.

If they come. There I was, doing it again.

I pictured the silvery sword in my room. I'd ordered it for three hundred dollars from . Its official name was the Zakasushi, which was apparently Japanese for 'fuck you,' although I'd looked it up on Google Translate and it was actually nonsense. I cared about as much about that as I had that you had to be eighteen or older to order a blade. If they'd found out and tried to take me, I would've told them what they apparently thought the translation of their blade's name was and gone on the run.

Crazy sixteen-year-old with a sword. Eek, help, save us all.

It had been a bugger to get it over here and not get found out, and I had almost been caught once: at the gas station when the gas guy saw it through the window, a shimmer of steel glittering from under where I'd hid it.

But apparently he decided it was none of his business and went back to filling up the tank.

Now, though, I had to admit our house in Pervert Beach was a little better than at home. I'd already fortified my room as necessary, and was pleased that I both had a ladder to my room instead of stairs and my own private bathroom. My parents assumed I had it for the private bathroom (my older brother Alex, the nardmango, tended to hog the shower in Ohio) but in actuality I'd done it for zombie-proofing reasons. The ladder could be removed and hidden, stopping zombies from getting up, the bathtub I could fill for water, it had an arched window with an aesthetic flourish on the windowsill that happened to be perfect for resting a gun on, and the previous owners had left a footlocker in the closet, where I hid the sword, my zombie research tools, and my knives and other survival equipment. I'd bought an $3 lock for it, which I'd set on the unintelligible password of "GNXB." My parents would never find it, and Alex was not only a nardmango but also had dried cantaloupe for brains.

My zombie obsession had started when I was ten. At the school book fair, I'd seen a copy of the Zombie Survival Guide by Max Brooks and been curious. Something told me my parents wouldn't want me to own that book, so I burned the receipt and hid the book under a loose floorboard. I'd studied it and began to change my habits, slowly but subtly. Now, I never drank soda, only ate products with processed sugar when my parents insisted I eat some, and had a daily, vigorous exercise routine. I hated the exercising at first but over time it became habit, as part of me as my eyes and hands were. If zombies never came, at least I'd still be fit as an adult.

But it looked like zombies would never come. Sighing, I narrowed my eyes at the sinking sun as it tinged my face blood-red.

A/N: Aw, I feel so bad for him! Peter is (sort of) based on me, although I'm not as OCD about the apocalypse as he is.