Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

She blinked too slowly.

That's how I knew.

Not the cold sweat, not the erratic breathing, not even the bruising veins webbing under her jaw.

It was the blink—heavy, delayed, unsure—like her body wasn't sure it needed eyelids anymore.

We had made it through hell together.

Five cities. Twelve hideouts. Too many graves.

And now, in this dusty church with boarded windows and a single flickering candle, I was losing her.

I pressed my forehead to hers.

"Tell me you're still in there, Myra."

Her lips moved, but no sound came.

We'd found the priest's old office in the back. Dust and wine bottles and faded wedding invitations. A beautiful place to die.

She lay on the desk, curled in her coat, trembling. I held her hand even as it tensed, even as her fingers began to twitch like claws.

"I love you," I whispered.

And then—

She tried to bite me.

Her mouth snapped open, jaw wider than it should've gone. For a smoother reading experience, visit MV&LEMPYR.

Teeth gnashing, eyes wide and blank.

She lunged from the table like a ragdoll full of fire.

But I didn't run.

I didn't even flinch.

I caught her shoulders, wrestled her back down, tears streaming down my face.

"I know you're still in there!"

I tied her to the desk with a torn priest's robe, her body thrashing like a storm.

"I'm not leaving you," I said, even as she snarled.

Night fell.

She thrashed until she couldn't anymore.

Then she cried.

Real tears.

"I almost hurt you," she whispered.

Myra was back.

For a moment.

Just a moment.

Her voice was broken glass, her breath shallow.

"I remember trying," she said.

"I saw your face, and I wanted it. Wanted to chew it. But something stopped me."

"What?"

"You," she said. "You didn't scream."

I fed her water drop by drop.

Her fever was rising again.

I knew what was coming.

The last stage.

No more blinking. No more pain.

Only hunger.

So I wrote her a letter.

While she slept.

Or pretended to.

I told her everything.

How she'd saved me in that elevator shaft.

How she'd danced once in an abandoned ballroom with no music.

How her laugh haunted me—in the good way.

And how I was going to stay, no matter what.

But she was gone when I woke.

The ropes were cut.

My gun was gone.

The door open.

Only the letter remained—unread.

She'd spared me.

From her.

From the choice.

From the final bite.

I searched for weeks.

No sign.

No sightings.

But sometimes, when I pass through ruined chapels, I see fresh knots tied on doors, or tiny bites taken from canned peaches, or half-burned candles left like prayers.

Myra signs.

Maybe she's out there still.

Trying not to bite anyone else.

Trying to stay human.