It all started on an ordinary day, Stiles waking up to find himself in the same position as he went to sleep- head on a mass of papers. He had been looking into a recent murder. It seemed like one of the creepy-crawlies was fond of children, well their spleens anyways. He had resolved to take care of it himself; no need to trouble the pack and all. Sure, he spoke to them every day, but c'mon since when did he need help?
Looking at the time, he became frantic to get to his next class, Advanced Forensics. It mattered little that he only got one and a half hours of sleep, in fact, that was more than the last few nights combined.
Stiles would have liked to claim he noticed the signs of something terrible approaching, but he was no werewolf, and thus he had no superhuman ability to hear the couple getting it on three blocks away being ripped to shreds and partially devoured. So he continued on down the hallway, bag in hand. He was lacking the needed text for this class. Please, he had memorized that book ages ago. Sometimes his eidetic memory could be a bitch, sure, but classes were a breeze.
The whisky eyed boy was embarrassed to say he felt nothing out of the norm, at least until the zombie tried to rip off his face and eat all the squishy insides that is. Stiles backed up quickly, almost stumbling over a chair. He grabbed the closest object, which happened to be a table, and bash the undead creature over the head with said table. The monster was momentarily stunned, and Stiles took this opportunity to run the fuck away, thank you very much.
Passing no one, living or otherwise, in the hallways the Stilinski rapidly made his way up to his dorm room. He dashed inside, fastening the deadbolt and pushing the huge ass oak desk of his in front of it. Feeling his heart hammer in his chest he made his way to his bag, throw across the floor in his haste. Stiles picked it up and called Scott. It only rang once before it connected.
"Stiles! Good you called, I'm having some trouble with Allison, and I need your help. Should I get red roses or white?" The werewolf paused "No, you're right, I should just get both. I have to go, bye." Stiles stared at the phone in his hand with disgust. Had Scott always been that bad of a friend, or was it just a new development?
Groaning, Stiles pressed another contact in his phone. Derek Hale. The alpha answered on the third ring
"What do you want Stiles." It seemed as though the werewolf was incapable of asking questions. Everything always turned out as a vaguely annoyed statement.
"Well, Sourwolf" Derek let out a small huff at that, "I was wondering if zombies exist" Stiles very subtly articulated.
"No Stiles, Zombies don't exist." You could hear the exasperation in hie eyebrows from here.
"Aha, well, you see, you're wrong about that one. i'm on campus, and it turns out that the undead enjoy feasting on slightly hyperactive and extremely fergalicious guys, so any input you or Creepy Uncle Peter may have on the whole flesh-eating-walking-corpses, would be greatly appreciated." By this point Stiles was ranting, talking faster and faster as the sentence progresses.
"Zombies Stiles, really. This is your worst one yet." The click of the receiver sounded, and with it went Stiles's heart.
Trying another number, Stiles was unable to connect, due to "an overuse of telephone servers at the moment, we are sorry for any inconvenience" or some bullshit like that. Yes it was inconvenient, he was about to die, and his friends were too shitty to help. Putting on his big boy pants, Stiles counted his fingers.
1
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10
Stiles breathed in deeply through his nose. Time to get to work.