Zombie 5K

5k One-Shot

I think it’s time we got written proof that I ran in my lifetime. Not a marathon or even a half marathon—don’t get crazy. I ran 3/25ths of a marathon. Fine, I ran a 5K. But not just any 5K. Do you seriously think I’d get out of bed for a regular one? Nope. This was a zombie-themed 5K, complete with professional makeup artists transforming participants into zombies. At least, I hope they were just people in makeup and not real zombies. What a time for a zombie apocalypse to start, huh? Everyone’s already in zombie makeup, and you think it’s some guy over-acting. Give me a break, buddy. Bites you.

Anyway, the zombies chased you and tried to grab your flag-football flags. You started with three, attached to a belt. Lose them all, and you became a zombie buffet.

The tickets came with a free beer. Naturally, I prioritized the beer first—just enough to forget I had to run but not so much that I mistook fake zombies for real ones. A couple approached us, offering their tickets. Yes, please! My wife didn’t need another, but me? A third beer sounded essential. I had just enough buzz to make running seem like a good idea, though still not enough to physically outpace any zombie.

At the corral, humans were categorized as breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Dinner was up last —fitting, really.

The starting gun (or maybe just someone yelling) signaled the start. I immediately tripped, fell, and started bleeding. Classic me. I pulled off a combat roll (nope) to recover. The guy next to me apologized for knocking me down. That’s cute, but I didn’t even know he was there. I just assumed it was my fault. “Same team,” I said, brushing it off. My wife chimed in with, “You’re already covered in mud. That always makes it more fun.” So, naturally, I bumped her into a mud puddle. Turns out, it had rocks, and now she has a knee scar to remember me by. She’s fine! I apologized.

This 5K had obstacles. Zombies weren’t content just chasing us; they waited to ambush us at the obstacles. Oh, and some obstacles included live electricity. Because running wasn’t already bad enough. Crawling through a warehouse with hanging cables was one such treat. I didn’t get zapped, but I did save a stranger from standing up too soon. Just as they were about to meet the cable forehead-first, I stopped them. They tried to thank me, but there was no time. I was just doing my humanly duty.

My strategy for evading zombies was simple: sprint directly at one, stop suddenly, and let mutual confusion buy me time. My wife’s strategy was smarter—wait for everyone to chase me, then sneak down the side.

Then came the rocky riverbed, an inch of water disguising weaponized stones. River stones are supposed to be smooth, right? Not these. Someone lost a flag, and I heroically grabbed it from the current. Did I try to return it? Absolutely not. Survival first. Since I already had all three flags (toot toot), I gave it to my wife. Provider status: confirmed.

She lost another flag at the next obstacle. Enter: The Flash. This zombie, wearing a Flash shirt, was standing in front of something we needed to get around. We passed him easily, but then he started following my wife—after the obstacle, in what was clearly supposed to be a safe zone. No other zombie had done this. He walked up behind her and yanked a flag while she was casually walking. Oh, it was on.

Round two with The Flash happened near a pool of dyed red water (at least, I hope it was dye). The final showdown began. I metaphorically pointed him out. We locked eyes. A crow cawed in the distance. No tumbleweeds—too muddy. I juked him so hard he fell. I stopped to laugh, which was a mistake. He got up, but I managed to escape, diving into the ice-cold blood water. I emerged slowly, imagining a Godzilla moment, though I probably looked more like the girl from The Ring.

Then came the actual final boss: a giant biker zombie guarding a hay tower with flags. My wife, down to one flag, grabbed another from the tower. I wasn’t allowed to take a fourth (toot toot). The biker zombie swatted me like a volleyball as I tried to pass, snagging a flag mid-air. At another point, I got lost and asked for directions—only to be deliberately sent into a trap. Betrayal! They cornered me and grabbed another flag. Down to my last, I sprinted toward the finish line: a fence with dug-out crawl spaces.

As I approached, a horde of zombies appeared. I slid under the fence Pete Rose-style, stopped immediately by sharp rocks. Did they partner with a rock-sharpening nonprofit? Bleeding and barely conscious, I made it. A woman held up two medals: one for surviving and one for participation. I turned my belt to reveal my butt flag was still intact—secret of the pros. Survivor medal, please. My wife strolled through moments later, also with a flag. Two survivor medals! Then we took our bloodiest, muddiest picture ever.