The halls were packed. A wave of congruent bodies, all pushing, all yelling, all crushed and angry. In the middle of this whirlpool of flesh, music, and name-brand clothing was the new teacher, a certain Mr. Donald Branson. A relatively non-descript man, Branson felt dwarfed by the sea of minors, some of whom were entrusted in his care on the long journey of learning.
Of course, learning seemed less of a journey when compared to the flooded halls Branson was pushed through. All he could do was go with the flow, since he could hardly work his way toward the banks of the hallway. Rooms flew by like stalled ships, filled with teachers watching poor Branson with pity. He seemed like he was drowning in the midst of these people, each knocking him down unknowingly with the turbulence of their lives and their unmarked aggressions. Branson would have flailed had it not been for the briefcase in his hands.
The flood slackened as the individuals went their own ways: new halls, new philosophies, leaving Branson in a creek of his own sweat and thoughts. His allotted room was on the right, and he was finally able to hop ashore.
As Branson crossed the threshold, a wind wrapped around him and tugged at his nostrils with a crispness usually associated with autumn. Branson noticed a lack of something, something important, as he took a sweeping glance around the room. For once, the lack made Branson feel like a happy man. He was all alone.
The briefcase was dropped gently on the wooden desk, the leather taking in the texture and feel of its new living space. Branson sat, leaning back in the chair, his eyes closed. He felt like he was flying. The sky took him in and wrapped him up, then let him go. The free-fall was the sweetest feeling of all. And as he hit ground, Branson sat up with a start.
The room had suddenly filled with bodies; somber, dull-eyed zombie bodies, all in various stages of educational decay. As Branson looked out over the classroom, the eyes protruding from those vacant faces seemed dead, lifeless; he felt choked, unable to speak, so all Branson could do was stare.
He felt overwhelmed, as he did back in the hall. The main difference was, the angry sea seemed abated, though his terror stayed. The terror stayed and kept him from moving, as if he were being held down and battered by those eyes.
A cough. The only sound heard was a cough, though no one moved. Branson's eyes flicked back and forth across the placid faces, his mind running through a million lines to say to get things moving. But nothing came. No one moved, either. They just stared. Everyone.
Branson began to sweat. The beads rolled down his warm cheeks to the corners of his thin lips; out of nervousness he licked the drops off his lips and frowned at the bitter taste. He stood slowly, making his way to the center of the space between the students and the chalkboard. He paced, his profile to them,  scowling. But no one took it in. No one noticed, and he knew that.
That was why he stopped. Branson stood stock-still, facing the barely functioning humanoids he was sharing airspace with. Slowly he walked to his desk, pulling his massively large textbook out of his briefcase, carrying it back to where he was standing with a bit of a grunt. Branson noticed, in his analytical way, that still, no one moved except for their eyes.
Looking out onto the class before him, Branson's voice carried expertly, like a drama major. "This," Branson said, holding the book up, weighing it between his two hands, "is a test." With all his might, with all his fear and will and desire, Donald Branson hurled that textbook across the room, above the heads of the zombies. The book soared until it thumped against the wall and fell to the floor with a slam.
The sound resonated as Branson again looked around the room, surveying the effect, and had gotten the one he expected. No one had moved, or even blinked. He cleared his throat, placed his hands in his pockets, and began to walk to the door. Removing his right hand from his pocket, he