Girls Save the World in This One - Ash Parsons Page 0,17

duty stammers apologies as Cliff runs down to the boy (fortunately only winged by the bullet).

Cliff puts pressure on the wound, murmuring, “It’s okay, son. I’m here.”

And omg, my heart.

The next clip is Clay and Sugar, his short-lived love interest. I mean that literally. She was a zombie by the end of her second episode.

Tragedy follows Clay Clarke, I’m telling you.

Clay and Sugar kiss tentatively over heartbreaking music. Then it cuts to him crying, whispering, “I love you,” to her dead, post-dead, post-zombie-transformation-and-now-dead-dead body.

It’s the zombie apocalypse. Falling in love is the most ridiculous thing you can do.

After the scene with Sugar, it’s a kick-ass compilation of Clay’s zombie kills, or his big moments when he had to step up, to become a leader, even when he’s just a kid, and nobody thinks he can do anything. But he does, he proves himself again and again. There’s the clip where he breaks into the veterinary office to get the antibiotics, then as a zombie is coming at him, Clay just whirls and stabs it in the eye, straight up. Crunch.

He’s so cool.

Then it’s a scene where Clay’s running, sliding under a parked eighteen-wheeler, and moments later there’s shuffling zombie feet all around him and it’s intense. It’s so intense, but you can’t always fight.

The lights come up, and Michaela Robinson walks out onstage. The bright blue of her dress pops under the stage lights and against the dark brown of her skin. Her signature long dreadlocks are pulled into a low ponytail.

Michaela’s the host of the post-show that airs every week right after Human Wasteland. She’s perhaps the biggest fan out of all of us, completely freaking out over every surprise story development, and talking fan-theories at length with the cast or show writers she has on every week.

We all scream in excitement and welcome.

“Hello, Senoybia!” Michaela yells into the walk-around mic. “You lucky town! How many locals are here?”

We scream, and it’s a vocal, super-excited minority. Most people are from neighboring towns, or even Atlanta.

“Yeah! I see you! I think the whole town is here today!”

We cheer again, and I spot Blair, sitting front and center in the third row, the VIP reserved section.

Ugh.

But once I see her it’s hard not to. So I reflexively look to see who’s sitting next to her. On one side it’s an older guy I don’t recognize, and on the other side it’s a lady.

Huh.

I wonder where Scott—

Nope. Nope. No.

I’m about to see Hunter Sterling. I am not thinking about Blair and Scott.

“You’ve just seen the highlights of one of my favorite characters, and he must be yours, too, because here you are! And so without further ado—let’s just bring him out. Ladies and gentlemen, and others . . .” She winks out at us, and since we got such good seats we can see it, but even the people in the back can see it, too, because there’s a camera stand in the middle of the ballroom, broadcasting a simulcast close-up onto the huge screen hanging over the stage.

“Please give a wake-the-dead welcome to HUNTER! STERLING!” Michaela yells.

Rock music plays, heavy guitars and snapping percussion, and he walks out, and oh my lord, he’s so gorgeous. I mean it. How is it legal for anyone to be that good-looking? It shouldn’t be possible.

Unconsciously, I sigh, an actual cooing, silly damn sigh, but I can’t help it and honestly? There’s kinda a quiet whooshing sound, and I don’t think I imagined it, so we’re all doing it. All sighing, or catching our breath, or just gasping maybe.

We’re thirsty. For oxygen.

Hunter is impossibly gorgeous. His skin is white and his hair and eyebrows are nearly jet black. His eyelashes are so thick it’s practically indecent. He’s got a lanky slouch, and he moves with this amazing, boyish looseness. The kind of movement that is spontaneous but looks like a pose for a magazine shoot.

Hunter stops a few times as he crosses the stage, holding up a hand