Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The chopper left me in a field of rusted cars and wind-whipped silence.

No one greeted me.

No celebration for surviving.

Just dirt. Sky. A horizon without her.

I hadn't turned.

Not yet.

But I was still breathing Mara in.

Her scent was on my collar—leather, smoke, and faint peppermint.

I should've washed it off.

But I didn't.

I couldn't.

Each night I pressed that worn fabric to my face, pretending she was still beside me, whispering bad jokes and battle plans, fingers always tracing her bitten arm.

I tried to blend in with the camp.

They gave me a cot, a ration card, and a list of chores.

But no one saw the infection I carried—not in blood, but in memory.

They thought I was lucky. Find the translation on MV&LEMPYR.

I knew I was cursed.

I didn't tell anyone about her.

Didn't say her name.

Didn't explain why I woke up gasping like I'd been underwater.

Some nights I swore I felt her body curled behind mine.

Other nights, I heard her whisper:

"You let me go."

There was a greenhouse just outside the fence—half-shattered, vines reclaiming broken glass.

I started going there at dusk.

The guards didn't stop me.

Maybe they knew grief needs its space.

Inside, it smelled like earth, rot, and forgotten flowers.

But if I closed my eyes…

Peppermint.

I found a plant that reminded me of her—sharp-leaved, blood-red blossoms, refusing to die.

I talked to it.

I told it how she kissed me in the elevator shaft.

How she said "One of us needs to make it."

How I never saw her fall.

Was that mercy?

Or was I just a coward who turned away before the end?

One night, I heard breathing again.

Not mine.

Not a growl either.

Just… breathing.

From behind the plastic curtain near the east wall.

I didn't run.

I stood still and whispered,

"Mara?"

No answer.

Just silence.

I walked home with the scent of peppermint stuck in my sinuses.

The next morning, the plant was gone.

Pulled from the soil.

Clean. No mess. No blood.

Just a small piece of fabric tied to the support beam.

It was hers.

From the sleeve she tore off when she showed me the bite.

I pressed it to my face.

Still warm.

Still hers.

I never saw her body.

I never saw her turn.

So part of me still believes—

She's out there.

Watching.

Maybe still breathing me in.

I've stopped going to the greenhouse.

But I carry the fabric in my jacket pocket.

When I feel like I'm forgetting her voice, I hold it.

And when I breathe in…

She's back.

Not as a ghost.

Not as a memory.

But as a choice I keep making.

To remember her.

To keep her alive.

One breath at a time.