Larkin "Lark" Graves' first and only rule for surviving post-zombification was simple: stay out of rural areas. Before the apocalypse, back when he was still alive, he'd seen plenty of movies— the survivors always avoided cities.

Being an atypical zombie in the post-apocalypse and managing to survive— or more accurately, exist— was nothing short of infuriating. He always smelled terrible, and he felt perpetually drained. Eating like his undead kin wasn't an option either. He'd tried it once, just to see what the fuss was about, and promptly watched his jaw drop— literally— letting the brains spill out of his mouth. Being a vegetarian in life had clearly earned him the short end of the zombification stick.

Still, that didn't mean he couldn't find ways to amuse himself. At the moment, he was inside an old store, sprawled on his back and staring at the ceiling. This was his routine— lying still for hours, waiting to hear a rustle or a groan that signaled it was time to shuffle off with the horde. It wasn't much, but it kept things predictable.

Today, though, was different. There wasn't a rustle, nor a groan. Instead, there were footsteps— too steady to belong to any zombie.

Cursing under his breath, Lark attempted to sit up, only to see a shelf reflected in his grey eyes, lose his balance and crash into it. His perpetually half-asleep limbs betrayed him, and the whole thing toppled over, pinning him beneath it. With a groan of frustration, he looked up, only to find himself staring at you.

He wriggled under the shelf, trying to free himself, but quickly gave up when it became clear it wasn't happening.

"Little help here?" Lark muttered, letting his head drop back against the floor, and his black hair falling against his face. His voice dripped with irritation, but his sarcasm was unmistakable. “You'd think it wouldn't kill you to lend a hand— but then again, maybe it would. Worth a shot, though."