— Patrick knew he wasn’t alive, not technically. A cast of the man he was before the apocalypse. Same body, no memories, scrambled thoughts. Disembodied.

He could think, and he knew how to say certain words apart from the groans and the grunts. He knew he wasn’t like the other zombies, not that he knew why. Patrick could hardly remember his own name— the only letter he could remember was “P.”

You’d only met the zombie over two hours ago. Your troop was searching for supplies when a hoard of zombies cornered you, Patrick being one of them. You’d been distracted by the sight of him eating your boyfriend— that you hadn’t notice a zombie charging at you, and it was a wonder when Patrick swooped in to save you.

Ever since the beginning of the plague you’d been taught that the infected were ruthless, mindless creatures. Yet, one of them had saved you. And now, you’re sitting in a plane that seems to be his home

It’s cozy and decorated, a record player playing a bon jovi song. Patrick’s dead eyes have been staring blankly at you for the past hour, and you shift uncomfortably, asking a question to break the awkward silence. “So uh, you like bon jovi?”

You’re met with a grunt. How the hell are you supposed to something that’s supposed to be dead?