Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

We always said we'd dance on the roof when the world ended.

Back when there were parties and power and champagne on New Year's Eve.

Back when we were just friends who lingered too long after midnight.

Now, the city was a graveyard. And we were standing on a crumbling rooftop ten stories up, one bullet left between us.

The sky burned pink from the distant fires.

It was time.

"Music?" I asked, half-smiling.

She grinned, broken but real. "We'll make our own."

I offered her my hand.

She took it.

We swayed in silence, the wind our orchestra.

Below us, the moaning horde circled the building, jaws open like cracked clocks.

They couldn't reach us—not yet.

Up here, it felt like we were above it all.

Above the hunger. The regret. The loss.

It was just her heartbeat against my chest and her breath in my ear.

For one stupid, beautiful second, we weren't in the apocalypse.

We were just two people too stubborn to say goodbye.

"I dreamed of this," she whispered.

"Before or after?"

"Does it matter?"

"No," I said, holding her tighter. "Only that we made it here."

The first drop of rain fell like a blessing.

Then more followed—soft, warm, almost gentle.

Like the sky was weeping with us.

We didn't stop dancing.

She kissed me then.

Not desperate. Not afraid.

Just… final.

The kind of kiss that closes a story.

But stories don't always end when they're supposed to.

Because a scream broke the moment.

Not from below.

From the rooftop stairwell.

We turned.

The boy couldn't have been more than thirteen. Wild-eyed. Bleeding. Limping.

"Infected behind me," he panted. "They're coming."

We hesitated.

A bullet in the chamber. No other way down. No time.

She looked at me.

Then at the boy.

Then back at me.

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"Go with him," she said softly.

"No."

"Yes."

She stepped back, rain soaking her through. "You said we only had one bullet."

"Then we share it," I said. But my voice cracked.

She smiled. "You always were romantic."

I pulled the boy toward the edge. There was a broken scaffold leading to the next building.

Dangerous. But not impossible.

She covered us, knife in one hand, flare in the other.

As we climbed down, I looked up just once more.

She was dancing again.

Alone.

Slow, defiant.

As the door behind her exploded open.

The gunshot was the last beat of the song.

Then silence.

Then howling.

We made it. The boy and I.

But sometimes at night, I climb a different rooftop.

And I dance alone.

Hoping she's out there.

Still swaying in the rain.

Still keeping the promise.