Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

We weren't supposed to be on duty together.

Command separated couples for a reason. Too many mistakes. Too many distractions. Too many nights someone forgot to lock a door while whispering I love you.

But we lied. Said we were cousins. Said we could handle the graveyard shift at the quarantine checkpoint near the crater zone.

They believed us.

Fools.

It was the fourth night when the walls began to sweat.

The heat from the reactors below rose through the grates in the floor, making our uniforms stick to our skin. The air was thick with bleach and bio-disinfectant, but somehow I could still smell her.

Jenna.

Even after two years of ash and screams, her scent made me dizzy. Soap and gunpowder. Honey and rot.

The monitors flickered. Motion sensors clicked.

No infected in sight.

No survivors either.

Just us, under humming blue lights, stuck between duty and desire.

She leaned against the bulkhead, her pulse rifle slung low, sweat glistening on her neck.

"You ever think about it?" she asked.

"What?"

"If this is our last post. If this is where it ends."

I nodded. "Every night."

She stared at me a little too long.

Then said, "I don't want to die without touching you again."

We disabled the cameras.

Just for five minutes.

Long enough to unzip a little of the fear. Long enough to taste skin that hadn't been kissed since the fall.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't slow.

It was desperate.

Outside, a siren howled.

We froze—half-dressed, breath caught in our throats.

A red light blinked on the wall. Perimeter breach.

She was the first to move. She always was.

Gear back on. Gun up. Eyes sharp.

I followed, my heartbeat louder than my boots. Themostup‑to‑dateversionisonM4VLEMP4YR.

A lone figure stumbled past the outer fence—emaciated, bleeding, humming a lullaby no human should remember.

We watched from the shadows.

Jenna whispered, "That song—my brother used to sing that."

Then she stepped forward.

Too far.

Too fast.

The creature turned its head, dead sockets locking on her voice.

It wasn't a stranger.

It was her brother.

Or what was left of him.

He charged.

I fired first.

Jenna screamed.

He fell in silence.

Her scream didn't stop.

She dropped to her knees, pressing her face to his bloodstained coat.

"I thought he was dead," she sobbed. "Years ago. I buried his photo."

I didn't know what to say.

So I just sat beside her.

Let the silence carry what words never could.

Later, as the sun rose behind radioactive clouds, she held my hand beneath her torn glove.

"You think passion makes us weak?" she asked.

"No," I said. "I think it reminds us we're still alive."

She kissed me once—quick, rough, final.

Then said, "Let's never be on night shift together again."

We agreed.

But we both knew the dark was where we belonged.