not so ancient.

Kelly knew she wasn't the best or the brightest (at least when it came to things not involved with KICKING ASS AND TAKING NAMES). She knew that in ten years, if she wasn't teaching plebes to shoot on some army base in the godforsaken Arab desert, she'd probably be just like Coach Wallace--middle-aged, fat, and yelling at kids to run laps. All right, so maybe she'd never be fat, and 34 wasn't really middle-aged, but that was besides the point. At least now she knew that among all the other mushy beloved daughter and step-sister bullshit on her headstone, they would be able to inscribe,
KELLY FRIEDAN-NORRIS
KING OF THE WILD THINGS

Or queen. Whatever.

She'd made a bunch of stops after their impromptu wild rumpus and game of throwing debris at zombies from a rooftop: her brother's job, where they had barred themselves against the flesh-eating hordes; her mother and stepfather's apartment, though they had left town as soon as the chaos started; the school, which was blissfully empty in an impromptu zombies-are-attacking-so-school-is-cancelled day. The wild things had crushed the swingset; whoops. Now it was off to Wren's: if there was anyone who needed to get a little wild, it was that girl. Her information was in the school's files; all Kelly had to do was wait outside the window and tell her things to howl.

[open to wren!]