Graduation Trip: We Were Dumped on a Zombie Island

My name is Marlow Kane. I’m an orphan. I grew up in a lab—daily injections, pills, training—until I escaped and learned how to pass as “normal.”

No one knows what I used to be.

To my classmates, I’m the quiet nobody—the guy you forget is even there.

Then graduation trip hit. The boat went down, and I dragged seven classmates onto a deserted island.

At dawn I scouted the treeline and found a corpse—its wounds looked like someone had chewed the flesh right off.

I warned them not to go inland, not to wander. The school bully laughed in my face, said I was making up ghost stories because I wanted to play leader.

That night no one took watch. Everyone slept shoulder-to-shoulder by the fire—except me.

After midnight, one of us started shivering, shaking uncontrollably… then snapped upright and launched at the person next to her, teeth first.

The bully stumbled back. I was the only one who moved. I rushed in and drove a knife straight into her skull.

Firelight washed over her gray skin and bloodshot eyes. No one laughed anymore.

Blake sat in the sand staring at me, lips trembling, unable to say a word.

————

As I dragged Noah up the beach, my fingers were already dead with fatigue. All I could do was hook the straps of his life jacket and haul him an inch at a time onto the drier sand.

When the wave slid back, the wet sand seemed determined to suck us into the sea again. Every half step forward made my calves cramp and twitch.

I let Noah go. He rolled over hard, sprawled face-down on the shore, and coughed until his face turned purple.

I sank back against a damp rock.

The surf hit again and again, heavy and dull, swallowing people’s shouts so they came and went like they were miles away.

We weren’t the only ones who’d made it.

Not far from me, a few others collapsed one after another, gasping like fish thrown onto land.

One guy doubled over, groaning, his face drained white. Another dropped to his knees and retched, bringing up nothing but seawater. Someone else shook uncontrollably and cursed—at the boat, at the ocean, at everyone.

A girl’s sobbing cut through the roar. She clutched a soaked phone, jabbing the screen with fingers gone pale. “It won’t turn on… how?!” Her voice was raw, like she was shouting on whatever air she had left.

A boy beside her snapped, “Stop pressing it! Even if it turns on there’s no signal, and the battery’s dying!” He was looking around like the beach might cough up a miracle. “Where’s my bag? Where’d it go?”

We’d been on the same boat. Same high school.

Eight of us total—Noah and me included.

The one who usually ran the room was Blake, the basketball guy. He’d recovered a little faster than the rest, sitting on a rock and breathing hard, his eyes sweeping over everyone like he was taking attendance.

Two girls were closest to him. One cried with a hand wrapped around her wrist. The other trembled beside him, still instinctively making space for him to sit.

I put my focus back on Noah, patted his back, and tried to slow his breathing.

He finally stopped coughing. The purple drained to a sick white, and his eyes were full of tears he couldn’t help.

He looked up at me, lips blue. “Marlow… where are we?”

I didn’t answer right away.

Because I wasn’t sure either. I only knew this was an island—not a pier.

My name is Marlow Kane. I’m an orphan. I’ve never liked being the center of attention, and I don’t waste energy on people, so in class I’m easy to overlook. Being the punchline once in a while isn’t unusual.

Noah is the only real friend I have at this school. When something happens, he stands with me. No matter how everyone else laughs, he doesn’t join in.

This was our graduation trip. Two boats, seven or eight students on each. Our chaperone was on the other boat.

And now we’d lost contact with it.

Memories came in like debris pushed up by the tide, piece by piece, slamming into the back of my skull.

When the night cruise started, everything was normal.

Lights in the cabin. Music blasting. Everyone taking photos on deck, yelling over each other, showing off.

Then, close to eleven, the wind picked up fast, and the hull began to shudder in a way that felt wrong.

The first thing to go was comms. The radio spit out a burst of harsh static and then went dead. Someone joked it was just bad reception.

Then the navigation screen went black too. It flickered a few times and shut off, like someone had pinched the power line.

A crewman said it was a minor issue, they’d handle it, everyone should go back inside and rest.

But less than a minute later the engine changed. The steady roar turned into a broken, choking rhythm—and then stopped completely.

The boat lost power all at once, sliding into the dark like something was pushing it.

With comms down, we couldn’t reach the boat our chaperone was on.

Someone shouted to find the crew. I went too, pushing through corridors and doors.

I searched the whole place and didn’t hear a single set of footsteps.

When I reached the stern, the wind drove spray into my face like grit.

The lifeboat davits were empty. Hooks swayed. The securing ropes were gone, leaving wet scrape marks along the metal like they’d been yanked in a hurry. On the rear deck, a puddle of water mixed with oil shimmered under the lights. The footprints were smeared by seawater, but you could still tell someone had run through.

The crew was gone—and so were the lifeboats.

That was when I understood. The problem wasn’t “the equipment broke.”

The problem was “the people left.”

I didn’t waste time going back for explanations.

When I returned to the cabin, the first thing I did was drag out life jackets.

Non-swimmers first. Anyone who’d been drinking too. If someone reached out, I shoved one into their hands.

Blake was still arguing, demanding to know why I was giving orders. I ignored him.

Not long after, the hull jerked hard, like something had slammed into it from the side. A second later came the scream of metal scraping rock, sharp enough to make my teeth ache.

The yacht tilted. The floor slid under our feet. Suitcases, glasses, plates—everything rolled into a chaos of clattering, smashing noise.

Someone screamed. Someone fell. Water surged in through a seam along the side, rising past our ankles in seconds, cold as needles.

I didn’t have time to explain. I wasn’t going to, either.

I grabbed Noah and dragged him up to the deck, shouting for everyone to follow me.

We clung to the railing, went over the side one by one, and hit the black water.

Seawater flooded my ears and nose. The cold made my whole body shake.

I used the wind and the push of the waves to guide us, kept them together, and finally felt the shoreline of this island under my hands.

Back in the present, Noah’s breathing had steadied a little.

He wiped his face, still trembling. “Do you think someone will come looking for us? The teachers… the other boat… maybe they’ll call for help.”

I kept my eyes on the water and forced my voice to stay even. “Catch your breath first. Don’t wander off.”

Blake heard and let out a sharp laugh. “You make it sound simple. Like this is a camping trip. There’s no food, no water, phones don’t work—who even knows where we are?”

He raked wet hair back and turned to a couple of followers. “Everyone start searching. Food, water, anything useful. Don’t just sit here.”

The two fence-sitters moved immediately, jogging in opposite directions along the beach.

The two girls were pushed to their feet as well, shivering as they started combing the tide line.

That’s when a scream tore through the surf—high, sudden, panicked. “Something’s floating in!”

Noah and I looked up at the same time. With the tide pulling back, a mess of dark shapes drifted in: bags, cases, and plastic tubs like the kind used to secure supplies on the yacht.

The waves shoved them onto the sand, then dragged them back a little, over and over, like the ocean was fighting us for them.