Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The infection had eaten through the world, through cities and stories, through flesh and faith. But one thing it couldn't touch—was us.

Not because we were untouched. We weren't.

We were torn, bruised, bitten, broken.

But something deeper stayed.

I met her before the fall.

Lena.

She used to laugh with her whole body, like the joy couldn't be contained in just her mouth.

We weren't lovers at first. Just survivors.

Then we were fighters. Then friends. Then more.

But in the end, there were no labels that held.

Only what remained.

The final weeks blurred into scavenged days and sleepless nights.

We ran through the bloodied veins of cities, hid in collapsed churches, kissed under shattered stained-glass.

Once, we danced to a record player powered by a car battery.

She wore a gas mask and a torn wedding veil.

I wore a bloody suit jacket from a corpse.

It was absurd. It was perfect.

Then she was bitten.

It wasn't dramatic. No scream.

Just a quiet "Oh."

She lifted her shirt, and we both saw it. A half-moon of torn skin, just beneath her ribs.

We had two choices: The latest chapters are uploaded first on M|V|LE3MPYR.

The shot in the head.

Or wait.

We waited.

The final cabin was miles from any road.

Snow covered the bodies outside.

The world was gone. But inside, she was still Lena.

For a while.

She wrote her memories down on the walls with charcoal.

Every room—our first kiss, the names of people we lost, the songs we hummed, the jokes we told when we were too tired to cry.

And then she wrote the last thing.

In her final moment, as her breath came slow and shallow, she turned to me.

Her eyes were still hers. Still bright. Still human.

"I won't be me," she said. "But you will remember who I was. That's what love is. That's what stays."

I held her.

Until she stopped shivering.

Until her grip went slack.

And then I waited.

One hour. Two. Five.

She twitched.

Her eyes opened.

And they weren't hers anymore.

But she didn't attack.

She stared.

Tilted her head.

Touched my face like she almost… remembered.

So I didn't run.

Didn't shoot.

I sat down across from her, lit the last candle, and whispered stories into the cold silence.

That was weeks ago.

She still hasn't hurt me.

She doesn't speak.

But she sits beside me when I read.

Sometimes, I feel her forehead press gently to mine when I sleep.

Maybe she's still in there.

Maybe love is the one infection the dead can't shake.

The world ended.

But what we had?

That stayed.